I came in sight of Gettysburg at sunrise.
Gettysburg!—name instinct with so many tears, with so much mourning, with those sobs which tear their way from the human heart as the lava makes its way from the womb of the volcano!
There are words in the world’s history whose very sound is like a sigh or a groan; places which are branded “accursed” by the moaning lips of mothers, wives, sisters, and orphans. Shadowy figures, gigantic and draped in mourning, seem to hover above these spots: skeleton arms with bony fingers point to the soil beneath, crowded with graves: from the eyes, dim and hollow, glare unutterable things: and the grin of the fleshless lips is the gibbering mirth of the corpse torn from its cerements, and erect, as though the last trump had sounded, and the dead had arisen. No fresh flowers bloom in these dreary spots; no merry birds twitter there; no streamlets lapse sweetly with musical murmurs beneath the waterflags or the drooping boughs of trees. See! the blighted and withered plants are like the deadly nightshade—true flowers of war, blooming, or trying to bloom, on graves! Hear the voices of the few birds—they are sad and discordant! See the trees—they are gnarled, spectral, and torn by cannon-balls. Listen! The stream yonder is not limpid and mirthful like other streams. You would say that it is sighing as it steals away, soiled and ashamed. The images it has mirrored arouse its horror and make it sad. The serene surface has not given back the bright forms of children, laughing and gathering the summer flowers on its banks. As it sneaks like a culprit through the scarred fields of battle, it washes bare the bones of the dead in crumbling uniforms—bringing, stark and staring, to the upper air once more, the blanched skeleton and the grinning skull.
Names of woe, at whose utterance the heart shudders, the blood curdles! Accursed localities where the traveller draws back, turning away in horror! All the world is dotted with them; everywhere they make the sunlight black. Among them, none is gloomier, or instinct with a more nameless horror, than the once insignificant village of Gettysburg.
I reached it on the morning of July 2, 1863.
The immense drama was in full progress. The adversaries had clashed together. Riding across the extensive fields north of the town, I saw the traces of the combat of the preceding day—and among the dying I remember still a poor Federal soldier, who looked at me with his stony and half-glazed eye as I passed; he was an enemy, but he was dying and I pitied him.
A few words will describe the situation of affairs at that moment.
Lee had pressed on northward through the valley of the Cumberland, when news came that General Meade, who had succeeded Hooker, was advancing to deliver battle to the invaders.
At that intelligence Lee arrested his march. Meade menaced his communications, and it was necessary to check him. Hill’s corps was, therefore, sent across the South Mountain, toward Gettysburg; Ewell, who had reached York, was ordered back; and Lee made his preparations to fight his adversary as soon as he appeared.
The columns encountered each other in the neighborhood of Gettysburg—a great centre toward which a number of roads converge, like the spokes of a wheel toward the hub.
The head of Hill’s column struck the head of Reynolds’s—then the thunder began.
The day and scene were lovely. On the waving wheat-fields and the forests in full foliage, the light of a summer sun fell in flashing splendor. A slight rain had fallen; the wind was gently blowing; and the leaves and golden grain were covered with drops which the sunshine changed to diamonds. Over the exquisite landscape drooped a beautiful rainbow.
Soon blood had replaced the raindrops, and the bright bow spanning the sky was hidden by lurid smoke, streaming aloft from burning buildings, set on fire by shell.
I give but a few words to this first struggle, which I did not witness.
The Federal forces rushed forward, exclaiming:—-
“We have come to stay!”
“And a very large portion of them,” said one of their officers, General Doubleday, “never left that ground!”
Alas! many thousands in gray, too, “came to stay.”
Hill was hard pressed and sent for assistance. Suddenly it appeared from the woods on his left, where Ewell’s bayonets were seen, coming back from the Susquehanna.
Rodes, the head of Ewell’s corps, formed line and threw himself into the action.
Early came up on the left; Rodes charged and broke through the Federal centre. Gordon, commanding a brigade then, closed in on their right flank, and the battle was decided.
The great blue crescent was shattered, and gave way. The Confederates pressed on, and the Federal army became a rabble. They retreated pellmell through Gettysburg, toward Cemetery Hill, leaving their battle-flags and five thousand prisoners in our hands.
Such was the first day’s fight at Gettysburg. Lee’s head of column had struck Meade’s; each had rapidly been reinforced; the affair became a battle, and the Federal forces were completely defeated.
That was the turning point of the campaign. If this success had only been followed up—if we could only have seized upon and occupied Cemetery Hill!
Then General Meade would have been compelled to retire upon Westminster and Washington. He would doubtless have fought somewhere, but it is a terrible thing to have an army flushed with victory “after” you!
Cemetery Range was not seized that night. When the sun rose the next morning, the golden moment had passed. General Meade was ready.
From right to left, as far as the eye could reach, the heights bristled with blue infantry and artillery. From every point on the ridge waved the enemy’s battle flags. From the muzzles of his bronze war-dogs, Meade sent his defiant challenge to his adversary to attack him.
“Come on!” the Federal artillery seemed to mutter fiercely.
And Lee’s guns from the ridge opposite thundered grimly in reply,
“We are coming!”
Alas!—
That is the word which rises to the lips of every Southerner, above all to every Virginian, who attempts to describe this terrible battle of Gettysburg.
The cheeks flush, the voice falters, and something like a fiery mist blinds the eyes. What comes back to the memory of the old soldiers who saw that fight is a great picture of heroic assaults, ending in frightful carnage only,—of charges such as the world has rarely seen, made in vain,—of furious onslaughts, the only result of which was to strew those fatal fields with the dead bodies of the flower of the Southern race.
And we were so near succeeding! Twice the enemy staggered; and one more blow—only one more! promised the South a complete victory!
When Longstreet attacked Round Top Hill, driving the enemy back to their inner line, victory seemed within our very grasp—but we could not snatch it. The enemy acknowledge that, and it is one of their own poets who declares that
“The century reeled When Longstreet paused on the slope of the hill.”
Pickett stormed Cemetery Heights, and wanted only support. Five thousand men at his back would have given him victory.
There is a name for the battle of Gettysburg which exactly suits it—“The Great Graze!”
You must go to the histories, reader, for a detailed account of this battle. I have not the heart to write it, and aim to give you a few scenes only. In my hasty memoirs I can touch only upon the salient points, and make the general picture.
The ground on which the battle was fought, is familiar to many thousands. A few words will describe it. Cemetery Ridge, where General Meade had taken up his position, is a range of hills running northward toward Gettysburg, within a mile of which place it bends off to the right, terminating in a lofty and rock-bound crest.
This crest was Meade’s right. His line stretched away southward then, and ended at Round Top Hill, the southern extremity of the range, about four miles distant. From one end to the other of the extensive range, bayonets glistened, and the muzzles of cannon grinned defiance.
Opposite the Cemetery Range was a lower line of hills, called Seminary Range. Upon this Lee was posted, Ewell holding his left, A. P. Hill his centre, and Longstreet his right.
Between the two armies stretched a valley, waving with grain and dotted with fruit-trees, through which ran the Emmettsburg road, on the western side of a small stream. The golden grain waved gently; the limpid water lapsed away beneath grass and flowers; the birds were singing; the sun was shining—it was the strangest of all scenes for a bloody conflict.
I rode along the line of battle, and curiously scanned the features of the landscape. There is a frightful interest connected with ground which is soon going to become the arena of a great combat. A glance told me that the enemy’s position was much the stronger of the two. Would Lee attack it?
From the landscape I turned to look at the army. Never had I seen them so joyous. It would be impossible to convey any idea of the afflatus which buoyed them up. Every man’s veins seemed to run with quicksilver, instead of blood. Every cheek was glowing. Every eye flashed with superb joy and defiance. You would have supposed, indeed, that the troops were under the effect of champagne or laughing gas. “I never even imagined such courage,” said a Federal officer afterward; “your men seemed to be drunk with victory when they charged us!”
That was scarce an exaggeration. Already on the morning of battle they presented this appearance. Lying down in line of battle, they laughed, jested, sang, and resembled children enjoying a holiday. On the faces of bearded veterans and boy-soldiers alike was a splendid pride. The victories of Fredericksburg, and Chancellorsville had electrified the troops. They thought little of a foe who could be so easily driven; they looked forward to victory as a foregone conclusion—alas! they did not remember that they held the heights at Fredericksburg; and that Meade on Cemetery Hill was an adversary very different from Hooker in the Spottsylvania Wilderness!
Such was the spectacle which I witnessed, when after delivering my message to General Lee, I rode along the Southern line. I think the great commander shared in some measure the sentiment of his troops. His bearing was collected; in his eye you could read no trace of excitement; the lips covered by the gray mustache were firm and composed; and he greeted me with quiet courtesy:—but in the cheeks of the great soldier a ruddy glow seemed to betray anticipated victory.
I confess I shared the general sentiment. That strange intoxication was contagious, and I was drunk like the rest with the thought of triumph. That triumph would open to us the gates of Washington and bring peace. The North scarcely denied that then—though they may deny it to-day. The whole country was completely weary of the war. There seemed to be no hope of compelling the South to return to the Union. A victory over Meade, opening the whole North to Lee, promised a treaty of peace. The day had arrived, apparently when the army of Northern Virginia, musket in hand, was about to dictate the terms of that document.
“Lee has only to slip the leash,” I thought, as I gazed at the army, “and these war-dogs will tear down their prey!”
Alas! they tore it, but were torn too! they did all at Gettysburg that any troops could do.
What was impossible, was beyond even their strength.
From the morning of the second of July to the evening of the third, the fields south of Gettysburg were one great scene of smoke, dust, uproar, blood; of columns advancing and returning; cannon thundering; men shouting, yelling, cheering, and dying; blue mingled with gray in savage and unrelenting battle.
In that smoke-cloud, with the ears deafened, you saw or heard little distinctly. But above the confused struggle rose two great incidents, which on successive days decided every thing.
The first of them was Longstreet’s assault on the enemy’s left wing, in front of Round Top Hill.
Lee had displayed excellent soldiership in determining upon this movement, and it will be seen that it came within an inch of success. Standing upon Seminary Range, near his centre, he had reconnoitered General Meade’s position through his field-glass, with great attention; and this examination revealed the fact that the Federal line was projected forward in a salient in front of Round Top Hill, a jagged and almost inaccessible peak, near which rested General Meade’s extreme left.
If this weak point could be carried, “it appeared” said Lee, “that its possession would give facilities for assailing and carrying the more elevated ground and crest beyond.”
As to the importance of that crest—namely Round Top Hill—hear General Meade:—
“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.”
Lee determined to attack the salient, making at the same time a heavy demonstration—or a real assault—upon the Federal right, opposite Ewell.
All his preparations were not made until the afternoon. Then suddenly, Longstreet’s artillery opened its thunders.
At that moment the spectacle was grand. The heights, the slopes, the fields, and the rugged crest opposite, were enveloped in smoke and fire from the bursting shell. The sombre roar ascended like the bellowing of a thousand bulls, leaped back from the rocks, and rolled away, in wild echoes through the hills. All the furies seemed let loose, and yet this was only the preface.
At four in the evening the thunder dropped to silence, and along the lines of Hood and McLaws, which formed the charging column, ran a wild cheer, which must have reached the ears of the enemy opposite.
That cheer told both sides that the moment had come. The word was given, and Longstreet hurled his column at the blue line occupying a peach-orchard in his front.
The blow was aimed straight at the salient in the Federal line, and in spite of a brave resistance it was swept away; McLaws advancing rapidly toward the high ground in its rear. At one blow the whole left wing of General Meade’s army seemed thrown into irretrievable confusion, and Hood pressing forward on McLaws’s right, hastened to seize upon the famous Round Top, from which he would be able to hurl his thunder upon the flank and rear of the Federal line of battle.
The scene, like the conflict which now took place, was wild and singular. The crest of Round Top Hill was a mass of rock, which rose abruptly from the rough and jagged slope. It was unoccupied—for the sudden overthrow of the force in front of it had not been anticipated—and one headlong rush on the part of Hood alone seemed necessary to give him possession of the real key of the whole position.
Hood saw that at a glance, and dashed up the slope at the head of his men. It was scarcely an order of battle which his troops presented at this moment. But one thought burned in every heart. The men swarmed up the hill-side; the woods gave back the rolling thunder of their cheers; already the Southern battle-flags carried by the foremost were fluttering on the crest.
The mass rushed toward the red flags; for an instant the gray figures were seen erect upon the summit—then a sudden crash of musketry resounded—and a mad struggle began with a Federal brigade which had hastened to the spot.
This force, it is said, was hurried up by General Warren, who finding the Federal signal-officers about to retire, ordered them, to remain and continue waving their flags to the last; and then, seizing on the first brigade he could find, rushed them up the slope to the crest.
They arrived just in time. Hood’s men were swarming on the crest. A loud cheer arose, but all at once they found themselves face to face with a line of bayonets, while beyond were seen confused and struggling masses, dragging up cannon.
What followed was a savage grapple rather than an ordinary conflict. Only a small part of Hood’s force had reached the summit, and this was assailed by a whole brigade. The fight was indescribable. All that the eye could make out for some moments in the dust and smoke, was a confused mass of men clutching each other, dealing blows with the butt-ends of muskets, or fencing with bayonets—men in blue and gray, wrestling, cursing, falling, and dying, in the midst of the crash of small-arms, and the thunder of cannon, which clothed the crest in flame.
When the smoke drifted, it was seen that the Confederates had been repulsed, and driven from the hill. Hood was falling back slowly, like a wounded tiger, who glares at the huntsman and defies him to the last. The slope was strewed with some of his bravest. The Federal cannon roaring on Round Top Hill, seemed to be laughing hoarsely.
McLaws, too, had fallen back after nearly seizing upon the crest in his front. The enemy had quickly re-enforced their left, with brigades, divisions, and corps, and the Confederates had been hotly assailed in their turn. As night descended, the whole Southern line fell back. The pallid moonlight shone on the upturned faces of the innumerable dead.
Longstreet sat on a fence, cutting a stick with his penknife, when an English officer near him exclaimed:—
“I would not have missed this for any thing?”
Longstreet, laughed grimly.
“I would like to have missed it very much!”{1} he said.
{Footnote 1: His words.}
Lee’s great blow at the enemy’s left had failed. He had thrown his entire right wing, under Longstreet, against it. The enemy had been driven; victory seemed achieved;—but suddenly the blue lines had rallied, they had returned to the struggle, their huge masses had rolled forward, thrown Longstreet back in turn, and now the pale moon looked down on the battlefield where some of the bravest souls of the South had poured out their blood in vain.
Lee had accomplished nothing, and one of his great corps was panting and bleeding. It was not shattered or even shaken. The iron fibre would stand any thing almost. But the sombre result remained—Longstreet had attacked and had been repulsed.
What course would Lee now pursue? Would he retire?
Retire? The army of Northern Virginia lose heart at a mere rebuff? Lee’s veteran army give up the great invasion, after a mere repulse? Troops and commander alike shrunk from the very thought. One more trial of arms—something—an attack somewhere—nota retreat!
That was the spirit of the army on the night of the second of July.
A flanking movement to draw the enemy out of their works, or a second attack remained.
Lee determined to attack.
Longstreet and Ewell had accomplished nothing by assailing the right and left of the enemy. Lee resolved now to throw a column against its centre—to split the stubborn obstacle, and pour into the gap with the whole army, when all would be over.
That was hazardous, you will say perhaps to-day, reader. And you have this immense argument to advance, that it failed. Ah! these argumentsafter the event! they are so fatal, and so very easy.
Right or wrong, Lee resolved to make the attack; and on the third of July he carried out his resolution.
If the writer of the South shrinks from describing the bloody repulse of Longstreet, much more gloomy is the task of painting that last charge at Gettysburg. It is one of those scenes which Lee’s old soldiers approach with repugnance. That thunder of the guns which comes back to memory seems to issue, hollow and lugubrious, from a thousand tombs.
Let us pass over that tragedy rapidly. It must be touched on in these memoirs—but I leave it soon.
It is the third of July, 1863. Lee’s line of battle, stretching along the crest of Seminary Ridge, awaits the signal for a new conflict with a carelessness as great as on the preceding day. The infantry are laughing, jesting, cooking their rations, and smoking their pipes. The ragged cannoneers, with flashing eyes, smiling lips, and faces blackened with powder, are standing in groups, or lying down around the pieces of artillery. Near the centre of the line a gray-headed officer, in plain uniform, and entirely unattended, has dismounted, and is reconnoitring the Federal position through a pair of field-glasses.
It is Lee, and he is looking toward Cemetery Heights, the Mount St. Jean of the new Waterloo—on whose slopes the immense conflict is going to be decided.
Lee gazes for some moments through his glasses at the long range bristling with bayonets. Not a muscle moves; he resembles a statue. Then he lowers the glasses, closes them thoughtfully, and his calm glance passes along the lines of his army. You would say that this glance penetrates the forest; that he sees his old soldiers, gay, unshrinking, unmoved by the reverses of Longstreet, and believing in themselves and in him! The blood of the soldier responds to that thought. The face of the great commander suddenly flushes. He summons a staff officer and utters a few words in calm and measured tones. The order is given. The grand assault is about to begin.
That assault is going to be one of the most desperate in all history. Longstreet’s has been fierce—this will be mad and full of headlong fury. At Round Top blood flowed—here the earth is going to be soaked with it. Gettysburg is to witness a charge recalling that of the six hundred horsemen at Balaklava. Each soldier will feel that the fate of the South depends on him, perhaps. If the wedge splits the tough grain, cracking it from end to end, the axe will enter after it—the work will be finished—the red flag of the South will float in triumph over a last and decisive field.
Pickett’s division of Virginia troops has been selected for the hazardous venture, and they prepare for the ordeal in the midst of a profound silence. Since the morning scarce a gunshot has been heard. Now and then only, a single cannon, like a signal-gun, sends its growl through the hills.
Those two tigers, the army of Northern Virginia and the army of the Potomac, are crouching, and about to spring.
At one o’clock the moment seems to have arrived. Along the whole front of Hill and Longstreet, the Southern artillery all at once bursts forth. One hundred and forty-five cannon send their threatening thunder across the peaceful valley. From Cemetery Heights eighty pieces reply to them; and for more than an hour these two hundred and twenty-five cannon tear the air with their harsh roar, hurled back in crash after crash from the rocky ramparts. That thunder is the most terrible yet heard in the war. It stirs the coolest veterans. General Hancock, the composed and unexcitable soldier, is going to say of it, “Their artillery fire 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 equalled.”
For nearly two hours Lee continues this “terrific” fire. The Federal guns reply—shot and shell crossing each other; racing across the blue sky; battering the rocks; or bursting in showers of iron fragments.
Suddenly the Federal fire slackens, and then ceases. Their ammunition has run low,{1} or they are silenced by the Southern fire. Lee’s guns also cease firing. The hour has come.
{Footnote: This was the real reason.}
The Virginians, under Pickett, form in double line in the edge of the woods, where Lee’s centre is posted. These men are ragged and travel-worn, but their bayonets and gun-barrels shine like silver. From the steel hedge, as the men move, dart lightnings.
From the Cemetery Heights the enemy watch that ominous apparition—the gray line of Virginians drawn up for the charge.
At the word, they move out, shoulder to shoulder, at common time. Descending the slope, they enter on the valley, and move steadily toward the heights.
The advance of the column, with its battle-flags floating proudly, and its ranks closed up and dressed with the precision of troops on parade, is a magnificent spectacle. Old soldiers, hardened in the fires of battle, and not given to emotion, lean forward watching the advance of the Virginians with fiery eyes. You would say, from the fierce clutch of the gaunt hands on the muskets, that they wish to follow; and many wish that.
The column is midway the valley, and beginning to move more rapidly, when suddenly the Federal artillery opens. The ranks are swept by round shot, shell, and canister. Bloody gaps appear, but the line closes up, and continues to advance. The fire of the Federal artillery redoubles. All the demons of the pit seem howling, roaring, yelling, and screaming. The assaulting column is torn by a whirlwind of canister, before which men fall in heaps mangled, streaming with blood, their bosoms torn to pieces, their hands clutching the grass, their teeth biting the earth. The ranks, however, close up as before, and the Virginians continue to advance.
From common time, they have passed to quick time—now they march at the double-quick. That is to say, they run. They have reached the slope; the enemy’s breastworks are right before them; and they dash at them with wild cheers.
They are still three hundred yards from the Federal works, when the real conflict commences, to which the cannonade was but child’s play. Artillery has thundered, but something more deadly succeeds it—the sudden crash of musketry. From behind a stone wall the Federal infantry rise up and pour a galling fire into the charging column. It has been accompanied to this moment by a body of other troops, but those troops now disappear, like dry leaves swept off by the wind. The Virginians still advance.
Amid a concentrated fire of infantry and artillery, in their front and on both flanks, they pass over the ground between themselves and the enemy; ascend the slope; rush headlong at the breastworks; storm them; strike their bayonets into the enemy, who recoil before them, and a wild cheer rises, making the blood leap in the veins of a hundred thousand men.
The Federal works are carried, and the troops are wild with enthusiasm. With a thunder of cheers they press upon the flying enemy toward the crest.
Alas! as the smoke drifts, they see what is enough to dishearten the bravest. They have stormed the first line of works only! Beyond, is another and a stronger line still. Behind it swarm the heavy reserves of the enemy, ready for the death-struggle. But the column can not pause. It is “do or die.” In their faces are thrust the muzzles of muskets spouting flame. Whole ranks go down in the fire. The survivors close up, utter a fierce cheer, and rush straight at the second tier of works.
Then is seen a spectacle which will long be remembered with a throb of the heart by many. The thinned ranks of the Virginians are advancing, unmoved, into the very jaws of death. They go forward—and are annihilated. At every step death meets them. The furious fire of the enemy, on both flanks and in their front, hurls them back, mangled and dying. The brave Garnett is killed while leading on his men. Kemper is lying on the earth maimed for life. Armistead is mortally wounded at the moment when he leaps upon the breastworks:—he waves his hat on the point of his sword, and staggers, and falls. Of fifteen field officers, fourteen have fallen. Three-fourths of the men are dead, wounded, or prisoners. The Federal infantry has closed in on the flanks and rear of the Virginians—whole corps assault the handful—the little band is enveloped, and cut off from succor—they turn and face the enemy, bayonet to bayonet, and die.
When the smoke drifts away, all is seen to be over. It is a panting, staggering, bleeding remnant only of the brave division that is coming back so slowly yonder. They are swept from the fatal hill—pursued by yells, cheers, cannon-shot, musket-balls, and canister. As they doggedly retire before the howling hurricane, the wounded are seen to stagger and fall. Over the dead and dying sweeps the canister. Amid volleys of musketry and the roar of cannon, all but a handful of Pickett’s Virginians pass into eternity.
I was gazing gloomily at the field covered with detachments limping back amid a great whirlwind of shell, when a mounted officer rode out of the smoke. In his right hand he carried his drawn sword—his left arm was thrown around a wounded boy whom he supported on the pommel of his saddle.
In the cavalier I recognized General Davenant, whom I had seen near the village of Paris, and who was now personally known to me. In the boy I recognized the urchin, Charley, with the braided jacket and jaunty cap.
I spurred toward him.
“Your son—!” I said, and I pointed to the boy.
“He is dying I think, colonel!” was the reply in a hoarse voice. The gray mustache trembled, and the eye of the father rested, moist but fiery, on the boy.
“Such a child!” I said. “Couldhehave gone into the charge?”
“I could not prevent him!” came, in a groan, almost from the old cavalier. “I forbade him, but he got a musket somewhere, and went over the breastworks with the rest. I saw him then for the first time, and heard him laugh and cheer. A moment afterward he was shot—I caught and raised him up, and I have ridden back through the fire, trying to shield him—but he is dying! Look! his wound is mortal, I think—and so young—a mere child—never was any one braver than my poor child—!”
A groan followed the words: and bending down the old cavalier kissed the pale cheek of the boy.
I made no reply; something seemed to choke me.
Suddenly a grave voice uttered some words within a few paces of us, and I turned quickly. It was General Lee—riding calmly amid the smoke, and re-forming the stragglers. Never have I seen a human being more composed.
General Davenant wheeled and saluted.
“We are cut to pieces, general!” he said, with something like a fiery tear in his eye. “We did our best, and we drove them!—but were not supported. My brigade—my brave old brigade is gone! This is my boy—I brought him out—but he is dying too!”
The hoarse tones and fiery tears of the old cavalier made my heart beat. I could see a quick flush rise to the face of General Lee. He looked at the pale face of the boy, over which the disordered curls fell, with a glance of inexpressible sympathy and sweetness. Then stretching out his hand, he pressed the hand of General Davenant, and said in his deep grave voice:—
“This has been a sad day for us, general—a sad day, but we cannot expect always to gain victories. Never mind—all this has beenmyfault. It isIwho have lost this fight, and you must help me out of it in the best way you can."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
As he uttered these measured words, General Lee saluted and disappeared in the smoke.
General Davenant followed, bearing the wounded boy still upon his saddle.
Ten minutes afterward, I was riding to find General Stuart, who had sent me with a message just before the charge.
I had gloomy news for him. The battle of Gettysburg was lost.
The sun was sinking red and baleful, when I reached Stuart, beyond the left wing of the army.
From the afternoon of the second to this night of the third of July, the cavalry had met that of the enemy in stubborn conflict. The columns had hurled together. General Hampton had been severely wounded in a hand-to-hand encounter with sabres, while leading his men. Stuart had narrowly escaped death or capture in the mêlée; and Fitz Lee had fought hilt to hilt with the Federal horsemen, repulsing them, and coming back laughing, as was his wont.
All these scenes I have passed over, however. The greater drama absorbed me. The gray horsemen were fighting heroically; but what was that encounter of sabres, when the fate of Gettysburg was being decided at Cemetery Hill?
So I pass over all that, and hasten on now to the sequel. Memory finds few scenes to attract it in the days that followed Gettysburg.
But I beg the reader to observe that I should have no scenes of a humiliating character to draw. Never was army less “whipped” than that of Lee after this fight! Do you doubt that statement, reader? Do you think that the Southerners were a disordered rabble, flying before the Federal bayonets? a flock of panic-stricken sheep, hurrying back to the Potomac, with the bay of the Federal war-dogs in their ears?
That idea—entertained by a number of our Northern friends—is entirely fanciful.
Lee’s army was not even shaken. It was fagged, hungry, out of ammunition, and it retired,—but not until it had remained for twenty-four hours in line of battle in front of the enemy, perfectly careless of, even inviting, attack.
“I should have liked nothing better than to have been attacked,” said Longstreet, “and have no doubt I should have given those who tried, as bad a reception as Pickett received."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
It may be said that this is the boast of the defeated side. But General Meade, when interrogated before the war committee, stated the exact facts.
“My opinion is now,” said Meade “that General 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 a force would be sent to Harper’s Ferry to cut off his communications.... That was what caused him to retire.”
“Did you discover,” asked one of the committee, “after the battle of Gettysburg, any symptoms of demoralization in Lee’s army?”
“No, sir,” was General Meade’s reply, “I saw nothing of that kind."{1}
{Footnote 1: General Meade’s testimony may be found in the Report on the Conduct of the War. Part I., p. 337.}
That statement was just, and General Meade was too much of a gentleman and soldier to withhold it. He knew that his great adversary was still unshaken and dangerous—that the laurels snatched on Round Top and Cemetery Heights might turn to cypress, if the wounded lion were assailed in his own position.
After the repulse of Pickett’s column on the third of July, Lee had the choice of two courses—to either attack again or retire. Meade was evidently determined to remain on the defensive. To engage him, Lee must once more charge the Cemetery Heights. But a third failure might be ruinous; the Confederate ammunition was nearly exhausted; the communications with the Potomac were threatened,—and Lee determined to retire.
That is the true history of the matter.
The force which fell back before Meade was an army of veterans, with unshaken nerves. It required only a glance to see that these men were still dangerous. They were ready to fight again, and many raged at the retreat. Like Lee’s “old war horse,” they were anxious to try another struggle, to have the enemy return the compliment, and come over to chargethem!
Then commenced that singular retreat.
The trains retired in a long line stretching over many miles, by the Chambersburg road, while the army marched by the shorter route, between the trains and the enemy, ready to turn and tear the blue huntsmen if they attempted to pursue.
So the famous army of Northern Virginia—great in defeat as in victory—took its slow way back toward the soil of Virginia. Never was spectacle stranger than that retreat from Gettysburg. The badly wounded had been sent with the army trains; but many insisted upon keeping their places in the ranks. There was something grim and terrible in these bandaged arms, and faces, and forms of Lee’s old soldiers—but you did not think of that as you looked into their pale faces. What struck you in those eyes and lips was the fire, and the smile of an unconquerable courage. Never had I witnessed resolution more splendid and invincible. In the ragged foot soldiers of the old army I could see plainly the evidences of a nerve which no peril could shake. Was it race—or the cause—or confidence, through all, in Lee? I know not, but it was there. These men were utterly careless whether the enemy followed them or not. They were retreating unsubdued. The terrible scenes through which they had passed, the sights of horror, the ghastly wounds, the blood, agony, death of the last few days had passed away from their memories; and they went along with supreme indifference, ready to fight at any moment, and certain that they could whip any enemy who assailed them.
General Meade did not attempt that. He kept Lee at arm’s-length, and followed so slowly that the civilians were in enormous wrath, and looked*de haut en bason him—on this timid soldier who had not cut Lee to pieces.
{Illustration: MEETING OF GENERALS LEE AND DAVENANT.}
Between Meade, however, and the bold civilians, there was this enormous difference. The soldier knew the mettle of the man and the army retiring from Gettysburg. The civilians did not. Meade retained the fruits of his victory over Lee. The civilians would have lost them.
At Williamsport, Lee halted and drew up his army in line of battle. The Potomac, swollen by rains, presented an impassable obstacle.
Meade, following slowly, was met at every step by Stuart’s cavalry; but finally faced his adversary.
Every thing presaged a great battle, and Lee’s cannon from the hills south of Hagerstown laughed,
“Come on!”
But General Meade did not come. Lee, standing at bay with the army of Northern Virginia, was a formidable adversary, and the Federal commander had little desire to charge the Confederates as they had charged him at Gettysburg—in position.
Day after day the adversaries remained in line of battle facing each other.
Lee neither invited nor declined battle.
At last the Potomac subsided: Lee put his army in motion, and crossing on a pontoon at Falling Waters took up his position on the south bank of the river.
Stuart followed, bringing up the rear with his cavalry column; and the whole army was once more on the soil of Virginia.
They had come back after a great march and a great battle.
The march carried their flags to the south bank of the Susquehanna; the battle resulted in their retreat to the south bank of the Potomac. Thus nothing had been gained, and nothing lost. But alas! the South had counted on a great and decisive victory. When Lee failed to snatch that from the bloody heights of Gettysburg—when, for want of ammunition, and to guard his communications, he returned to the Potomac—then the people began to lose heart, and say that, since the death of Jackson, the cause was lost.
Gettysburg in fact is the turning point of the struggle. From that day dated the decadence of the Southern arms.
At Chancellorsville, the ascending steps of victory culminated—and stopped.
At Gettysburg, the steps began to descend into the valley of defeat, and the shadow of death.
What I shall show the reader in this final series of my memoirs, is Lee and his paladins—officers and privates of the old army of Northern Virginia—fighting on to the end, true in defeat as in victory, in the dark days as in the bright—closing up the thin ranks, and standing by the colors to the last.
That picture may be gloomy—but it will be sublime, too.