The Battle of Gettysburg

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Please note that this is an excerpt
from a full length biography in
verse of Robert E. Lee, and that,
therefore, some of the names may
not be familiar to those of you who
are not students of
The War Between the States.

There is an excellent National Park Service map
not far from the beginning of the poem..
Because the map is a large graphic, it takes a
minute or so to load. Be patient; it's worth it!

The Battle of Gettysburg

Photo borrowed from
www.nps.gov

On July first, eighteen sixty-three,
In the early afternoon hours,
Southeast toward the village rode Robert E. Lee
Amid intermittent showers --

To meet with a fate he didn't foresee
Over Yankee hills and flowers.

When what to his ear should suddenly sound
As he rode out of a sylvan bower,
But artillery near the town!

Out of the west rode A.P. Hill
Along the Chambersburg Pike,
With fire in his breast and battle-honed will,
A death-laden blow to strike!

The Yankees massed on that highway to meet him
In orderly ranks, with muskets to greet him!

The Rebels charged, every banner a'wave,
Fully prepared to smite and defeat them
And send Reynolds to a general's grave.

Those Rebels spread in a butternut arc
From the turnpike to south of the town;

Every ball went true to its mark
As Confederate musketry started to bark,
And the Yankees were giving ground!

Out of the west relentlessly pressed
A.P. and his band of renown;

Hard to the ground Reynolds went down,
A bullet piercing his breast.

To the north of the pike was a railway cut
Where those gallants fought hand to hand.

Bayonet to throat! Saber to gut!
Heads smashed by wooden rifle butt!
The valor of both sides was grand.

There in that cut, that narrow divide,
Where a thousand or more in agony died,
The blood in the mud overran the rut
And flowed in a crimson tide!

Map borrowed from
www.gettysburg.com

Twenty -year-old Jennie Wade
Was in the kitchen kneading dough,
When a ball from out of a battle brigade
Through two wooden doors did go
With a thunking and splintering crash!

She stood for an instant by the window sash,
As onto the dough in a scarlet splash
Her blood began to flow;
'Til she died of that mortal gash!

Both sides reacted with sore appall
To such misdirected musketball
As that which killed poor Jennie Wade.

The Rebels had a coffin made --
An officer's coffin at that
Which they delivered to her for an habitat.
The Yankees buried with an accolade
The mortal remains of Jennie Wade,
Civilian victim of that combat.

As Hill stormed out of the west,
From the north charged Ewell's best.

The yanks were hit on the front and the right,
And just as they wished to flee that fight,
Jubal Early tore into their rear!

What glory to Lee's eye appeared,
As the day was turning to night!

Ten thousand Yankees turned to dust
Before that awesome Confederate thrust.

Then at eve, first day of the fight,
Amid gathering shades of night,

Those bluecoat boys retreated,
Whom the butternut lads defeated
Under the guns of Ewell and Hill.

The village was thereby quickly conceded
As the blue lines swiftly receded
Through the streets toward Cemetery Hill,
Where they proceeded with a singular will.

And now, thought Lee, if I might infringe
Upon Ewell that hill to impinge,
We might strike them a blow
And cause them to go
Totally off of their hinge!

But "Old Baldy" felt a bit of a twinge
Of uncertainty o'er what he should do.

And there to anxiety was added a rue,
Of which the General felt more than a tinge.

For despite the incessant superior goads
Of Pender and Hood and Early and Rodes,
Ewell wasn't one who quickly decided --
No matter what the gods provided --
Upon a course that might've ended in doubt,
Or even one that began with a rout,
Lest his commander he might disgrace.

Thus, the Yanks, though slower, had taken the race,
And now strengthened their sturdy redoubt.

There the struggle should've ended for good
With accompanying refrains of brotherhood,
But deep in the nearby smoke-stained wood
The General knelt down to pray:

Thou knowest, dear God, how even today
The victory might've been ours.

But Thou, who measurest the minutes and hours,
And our breath who giveth each day,
Hast seen and observed our inferior powers
To gain aught in the darkening day!

And though we might follow in every fray
That One who lighteth our way,
We must gladly submit to what Thou hast wrought,
Be it defeat or victory long sought.

Lead us according to Thine holy will
As tomorrow we seek to recover that hill.
And succor Thy children, Ewell and Hill --

And Longstreet, who doth not as he ought!

And the General knelt, and the General prayed
As into morning the evening decayed.

And there in the glow of his candle-lit tent,
Before God he confirmed his bloody intent,
And sought such assistance as might be provided
By the hand of the God who faithfully guided
His child-like obedients.

And when the horizon did redden and glow,
The General arose to go.

There, in the morning's dew-fallen damp,
Robert E. Lee strolled through the camp
And met with his lieutenants.

Ewell wore a face of penitence
And Longstreet was obdurate,
While that warrior-soldier A.P. Hill,
Was pale and stricken quite ill.

But why was Longstreet obdurate?
Over why or where or when or what?

For before that fateful march began
Old Pete Longstreet fostered a plan --
Contrary by a country mile
To that of Marse Robert's style --
Which, even now, he wanted to play.

And Oh, what bloody calamity
Rode the wings of Old Pete's vanity
As he brought such a delay
That the Yanks might've taken the day.

Lee had commanded a morning attack,
In the earliest hours of light.

But Longstreet held the whole army back
By delaying his part in the fight.

Meade was entrenching his men on the height
Of Cemetery Ridge and its hill,

And there he waited with patience until
Old Pete would reluctantly fight,
In the slanting afternoon light!

At four o'clock the volley was rolling
From hilltop to sylvan dell;

Off in the distance a church bell was tolling,

As if in macabre coded polling
Of visitors from surreal hell,
Who across the valley were wildly rolling
And shrieking that eerie yell
In the face of a furious fire,
Beneath its glorious spire!

Hood attacked from the Confederate right
The Yankees at Devil's Den;

The slaughter was great, as great as the might
Of those gray and butternut men!

Ere long those Yankees could no longer shoot,
And retreated with the Rebs in wild pursuit
To the top of that little round hill.

There, reinforcements were added until
Gray blood flowed off of that hill!

Hood's men were beaten, were badly defaced,
But, though beaten, were hardly disgraced.

Fiercely they fought that bloody repulse
As wave after wave of Yankees convulsed
And poured down at a maddening pace,

Before which the Rebels did yield
The ground from which they were chased,
Until their gray ranks congealed
In that infamous Yank wheatfield.

And there came a blistering cannonade
As the sun was burning and beaming
In rays that went slantily streaming
Through the smoke to McLaw's brigade!

And there General Hood's battered division
Sought to effect the final revision
Of the battle the Yanks were waging.

And even as the heat of that battle was raging,
The corps of A.P. Hill was engaging
The Yanks who were holding the heights!

Ponderous and black the smoke cloud hanging
O'er butternut boys wildly haranguing
And assaulting superior heights!

And across the way artillery was banging
From off of Seminary Ridge
To across the valley where the fates were hanging
In the clutches of Cemetery Ridge,
Where sabers were clashing and clanging!

The Yanks were pressed from orchard and field
As before those Rebs they were forced to yield
To Longstreet's superior guns!

Lee rode Traveller beneath the guns,
Studying the fray and the field,
As out of the north the rumbling pealed
Announcing Old Baldy's guns!

All down from the town to Little Round Top
The firing seemed never to stop.

At Trostle Farm General Barksdale fought,
His white hair streaming behind him;
And there it was that he mortally caught
The ball that was sent to find him!

Dead Yankees were cluttering orchard and field
And the wounded were dying in droves!

Dead Rebels were lying in ditches and groves,
In puddles of blood that slowly congealed
O'er the ghastliest faces blood ever concealed!

All this in the space of a three hour fight,
But the battle was not over yet!

For then, in the fading, shimmering light,
Ewell struck the Federal right
With musket and bayonet!

They charged into cannon, double-loaded with grape,
That reddened the verdant landscape!

They stormed the banks of Cemetery Hill,
And broke the ranks on Culp's Hill!

The fight was bloody -- hand to grim hand;
Thousands of bodies littered the land
And the cry of the Reaper was shrill!

And Oh, what horrors would their dreams fulfill
As night overcame them, silent and still,
And the agonies of wounded echoed afar
As the generals held councils of war.

The morning broke clear, sunny and bright,
Though the smoky haze was yet thick.
And there before them was a ghastlier sight
Than would've made the hardest man sick;

The field was so strewn with wounded and dead
That there was barely enough room for a fight!

But the General looked about him and nodded his head,
Gathered his artillery in the morning light
And assembled them on Seminary's height.

On that day the Confederacy would soar,
To an accompanying artillery roar;
In the end it would plummet to the depth of despair
As the General perceived on the odoriferous air
That somehow he had fatally erred!

But that would be then, and this would be now,
And here is the tale of the when and the how
Of that tragically fated affair
Which that battle did there endow!

The General assembled his cannon and men
On Seminary Ridge to the west,
And from that ridge did heavily send
Those Union troopers his best!

The artillery battle was hotly engaged;

The cannon roared, belched smoked and raged,
And just as the fury was so deep and so large
As to strike fear in the hardiest breast,
General Pickett made his charge!

With a single division and six brigades,
Under a torrent of shells from those cannonades
That thundered all over the valley,

General Pickett let Armistead rally
Those Rebs to that narrow objective
Defined in the General's directive!

Below the ridge, a copse of trees
Drew a stone wall's linear perspective
To an angle of shallow degrees!

And that was the point, the focal point
Upon which the gray lines converged,

Where the spectre of Death finally emerged
With a sickle and a counterpoint!

And Oh, what a heart-rending cannonade
Came off that ridgetop crashing,
As into the ranks poured a fusillade
Of grape from opposing enfilade,
Through bone and sinew smashing!

But Oh, those hardys did not retreat,
Though impaled on a bloody defeat!

Behind Armistead's hat-tipped sword came charging
Those butternut ranks, their valor enlarging
The more as more of them fell!

To Lee upon Traveller came a vision of hell,
And the spectre of grim defeat!

Engraved on his heart, as on a burial vault,
Were those words: This is all my fault!

Seventy-five hundred in a singular charge
Booked passage on the Stygian barge!

From there to the smoking maw of hell
Those bleeding belligerents fell,
Still mouthing the Rebel yell!

And there at the head was old Armistead,
Still leading those ranks of the dead!
Still defiantly leading the charge
From off the funereal barge!

Come, General Pickett, said General Lee,
The blame shall devolve on me!
You have carried the name of Virginia high --
There now, Wilcox, now don't you cry --
My shoulders can bear the blame!

And long was the list, and many the name
On that grisly honor roll;
And the longer the list, the greater the fame
That paid the heavier toll!

Then away from that butcherous field of slaughter
Turned the General to his tent headquarter.

And sore was the day, and Oh, so sad
That the General loudly lamented,
Too bad! Too bad! Oh, too bad!
In a voice that was sore discontented.

Then he tipped his hat to his cavalry
And saluted his noble infantry
Ere himself he somberly tented.

And there in the tent, now ashen and gray,
Knelt again the General to pray:

Dear God, my Father, in heaven above,
Who loveth with a merciful love,
Forgive us this day our grievous trespass
'Gainst Thine holiest of all holy name!

For today did we seek to enlarge and surpass
The Confederacy's fleeting fame
By scorching Thine earth with a violent flame
That burned our poor gallants instead!

Dear God, my Father, accept this token --

This sword so bloodied and badly broken
In the charge of old Armistead,
Who surged with a noble and violent urge
Into a funereal dirge,

Whose offense Thou did'st mercifully purge;
And whom Thou greeted with outstretched arms
And saved from eternal harms!

From suffering, dear Father, now grant us reprieve;
Relieve this terrible sorrow!

Lift up the hearts of those who believe;
Lift up; grant merciful leave
That we may gather our ranks tomorrow
Together and quietly leave!

Oh, God in heaven, what horrible pain
In such broken men who grieve!

Oh, God! It's starting to rain!

If rain is Thy will, then, Father, it must
Into mud turn that blood-stained dust.

And, merciful Father, if Thou wilt allow
Thy rain to cool the feverish brow
Of the wounded still out in the field,

Then all of my sorrow shall be lifted and healed
And I shall gladly bear all of the shame,

Giving glory to Thine holier name
Lest by any it should suffer defame!

And rain it did, and heavy that night,
And through the succeeding day;
It washed the smoke from the scene of the fight,
And it rinsed the bloodstains away!

But out in that field, that shell-pocked field,
The bodies were beginning to swell;

The burial details' bellies congealed
When they saw what the morning revealed
In that anteroom of hell!

It was all they could do in the mire and the goo
To give the poor wounded a lift;
The dead were so thick in the mud and the grue
That, of these, they made the poor Yankees a gift!

They left them there to bloat in the rain,
To rot in the broken grain.

Over the field did blossom and bloom
A sense of impending doom,
O'er-shadowing the tragic gloom.

The wounded were loaded on wagon and cart,
With no springs to soften the road;

Then toward Virginia did painfully start
A caravan that tugged at the General's heart
As at the head of the column he rode.

There in the mud and the torrential rain,
Amid the thrashings of wounded, screaming in pain,
And the caisson's clank and artillery's clatter,
And the puddles that splashed and the faces they splattered,
Came a distant and ominous refrain!

For Meade and his blue-coated army in rank
Were pursuing the butternut army again
Through the deepening dark and dank!

But the General's courage didn't waver or fail
As he marched his wounded through an onslaught of hail
On the road to the river again;

If Meade thought it wise to attack or assail,
He'd meet a fury he couldn't restrain!

Then over the mountain and down to the river --
Oh, what a river! What a flowing life-giver
To mountain and pasture and plain!

Oh, if the General could only deliver
Through the mud and the slop of the rain
His men to the banks of that murky brown river
They'd be safe in Virginia again!

But teardrops would mingle with droplets of rain
Ere the wounded he'd safely deliver.

For days they tramped, till the wagons were bogged
In the mud where they wearily slogged.

Then they lifted the hub and pushed at the wheel,
And pulled till their muscles revealed
Them unfit for such toil for so long;

Then, renewing their effort, to muscle revealed
That muscle had merely been wrong!

But when, if ever, would they reach that river?
That safe haven flow of a river!

Never those wounded Marse Robert forgot,
Who ceaselessly begged to be shot;

For the pain was too great, and the road too long,
And they lifted their anguishing song
In a crescendo of wailing
Through lips that were failing,
Whose eyes were fevered and bright.

But the General pushed his army along
Till the river was at last in sight!

Potomac was angry; she raged and boiled,
Even as Marse Robert recoiled.

The eyes of the wounded, now fading and dim,
Looked across such waters they never could swim,
And hungrily lay there and shivered!

Oh, their hopes were barely a sliver
Before the mountainous waves of the river!

Then from the rear came darkly looming
The Yankee artillery booming!

For a week they were held on Potomac's bank,
Meade threatening their rear,

Till Lee directed a young engineer
To remove walls of warehouse plank,
To build a bridge and some ferry boats.

He ordered Jeb Stuart to hold the Yank
At bay till the river subsided;

His weary ranks entrenchments provided
And manned till he could water the boats.

The day before he would cross the river
The fates would strike him and deliver
Yet another terrible rain!

But Lee was not a whimpering quitter
In the face of rain or pain;
He was not some simpering babysitter
Who was cowed by fate's disdain!

He ordered the wounded into the boats
And built a bridge of pontoon floats.

All that day the crossing took;
First Ewell would cross, then Longstreet,
On a bridge that swayed and shook.

The rear of Hill would turn to greet
Meade's desperate last-ditch attack!

And Hill would turn those Yankees back,
And he and his weary minion
Would cross to the Old Dominion,

Burning their bridges against attack.

The story continues, but not here.

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