Pickett's Charge

We have lain in the tree line since morning, sweat soaking our wool jackets. The fields ahead are quiet and very wide. Somewhere across them are the Yankees — fifty thousand, the men say.

Morning of July 3, 1863 — Confederate infantry wait in the tree line west of the open ground.

At one o'clock our artillery opens — a hundred and fifty guns at once, a roar so total men clap their hands over their ears. Then silence. And General Pickett says the word: Forward.

~1:00–3:00 p.m. — a ~150-gun barrage that largely overshot the ridge; then, in the silence, the order to advance.

We step into the sun and the whole world opens — a mile of Pennsylvania farmland, and beyond it the long dark line of Cemetery Ridge. Twelve thousand men dress their lines. Then the Union guns begin again.

~12,500 Confederate infantry step off across roughly three-quarters of a mile of open ground toward Cemetery Ridge.

The solid shot comes first — iron balls skipping through the ranks like stones across water. A man three files to my left simply ceases to exist, in a red mist. We are taught not to look, and to keep moving.

Union artillery fired solid shot, then shell, then finally canister as the range closed — each round tore gaps in the advancing lines.

The Emmitsburg Road. To cross the fences we must stop and climb — and this is where the canister finds us, a cannon turned into a giant shotgun. We lose hundreds in seconds. The men who reach the far side run.

The Emmitsburg Road fences forced the attackers to stop and climb — under devastating canister fire from Union artillery at close range.

Now the wall itself is breathing fire — low Pennsylvania fieldstone, Union infantry pouring volleys into us. I am shouting the Rebel yell, though I could not say what. The wall is still two hundred yards away.

Union infantry behind the stone wall on Cemetery Ridge delivered sustained musket fire as the Confederates crossed the final stretch.

Armistead is just ahead, his hat on his sword tip so we can find him in the smoke. He clears the wall — one of the very few — and for a moment we stand on the Union side. The farthest we will ever get.

Brig. Gen. Lewis Armistead led a small breach at 'the Angle' in the stone wall — the deepest Confederate penetration of the Union line.

It lasts perhaps a minute. Union reserves flood in from three sides; Armistead goes down beside a cannon he will never live to see taken. The men around me break. The wall belongs to the Union, as it always did.

The breach at the Angle lasted only minutes. Union reserves counterattacked from three sides; Armistead was mortally wounded beside a Union cannon.

The walk back is worse than the advance. We are no longer an army — just men, bleeding across the same ground that tore us apart an hour ago. Lee rides out to meet us, very straight in the saddle, his face a mask.

The shattered force retreated; Lee met the survivors, reportedly saying 'It is all my fault.' Estimated Confederate casualties: more than 6,000 of ~12,500 engaged.

The next day, Vicksburg falls to Grant. Lee will never invade the North again. I am alive — I do not yet know what that means. I only know the copse of trees still stands on Cemetery Ridge, and we do not.

July 4, 1863: Vicksburg surrendered to Grant. Together, Gettysburg and Vicksburg mark the decisive turning point of the American Civil War. 3 July 1863 was 163 years ago — within about two long lifetimes of now.