CHAPTER 5
Stars In Their Courses
Gettysburg, 1863
“They fought from heaven; the
stars in their courses fought . . . .”
Judg. 5:20
It was Wednesday evening, June 10, 1863. The sun rested on the western horizon. The day had been a scorching one, and even at sunset the land and air continued to radiate the heat. Joe was bent over a fire near his tent, busily preparing his evening meal. He was still with the 1st Massachusetts, which remained in the Third Corps, commanded by Major-General Daniel E. Sickles. But now, since the death of his former Second Division commander, General Berry, killed at Chancellorsville, his new commander was Brigadier-General Andrew A. Humphreys. Joe was preoccupied, so immersed in his musing that he was unaware of the multitude of men encamped with him at Falmouth, on the north bank of the Rappahannock. He thought of the great, recent battle at Chancellorsville, where the Union army suffered another of its recurring defeats at the hands of the Rebels. He thought of the futility of war, made so unambiguously clear in the circumstance that the army was now at its old camp from which it had marched to its defeat at Chancellorsville. But what seared his heart the more was the absence of his good friend, William, with whom he had shared the rigors of war for nearly two years. He knew only that William was missing. He had searched the field hospitals, made all sorts of inquiries, but could find nothing that shed any light on the fate of his friend.
Intermingled with the many sounds of camp activity, which barely registered in his consciousness, the sound of approaching horses caught Joe’s ear. But he thought nothing of it, for the arrival and departure of men on horseback was a usual occurrence. He did not bother even to look up. Then, as if magic had displaced reality, he heard the joyful greeting, “Hello, Joe, I’m back.” He turned with such haste that he almost lost his balance. He could not believe it! There, not five feet away from him, William sat on a cavalry mount, laughing at his astonished, speechless friend. In a moment, William leaped from his mount, and the two friends clasped hands and embraced. Joe now noticed that two men, sitting on their mounts, had accompanied William. They, too, dismounted. Joe recognized one of the men as William’s brother, Lewis, whom he had met in the recent past. The second person, he soon learned, was another of William’s brothers, Horace, who was in the 9th Battery of the Massachusetts Light Artillery.
Horace, the eldest son of John and Rhoda Prescott, had enlisted in the 9th Battery on August 1, 1862. His battery, under Captain John Bigelow, had served in the Department of Washington, but had recently been transferred to the Artillery Reserve of the Army of the Potomac. This Horace welcomed, for he was anxious to get to the front and see action.
Horace was now thirty-eight years of age, older than many of his comrades. He was five feet eight inches in height. He had light brown hair, which, parted near center, flowed so as nearly to cover his ears. He had blue eyes. He wore a neatly trimmed mustache. He was serious-minded and thoughtful. While in no sense a recluse, yet he held himself in some reserve and maintained an appropriate self-regard that others recognized and admired. He was cordial in his relations with others and willing to lend a helping hand when it was needed. He was not a talkative person, but when the occasion was right he showed himself an informed and most interesting conversationalist. He was extremely perceptive, and often entertained others with his humor and wit.
“You got here just in time, William,” Joe said, “because we’re moving out in the morning. We’re not sure, but we think that we’ll go north. I’ll add some more to my meal; we shall have supper together.”
In no time at all Joe had a fine meal ready. It consisted of broiled beef, potatoes, bread, and fresh vegetables. The four men then sat around the dying embers of the fire and exchanged news about themselves and the army. William recounted, again, the story of his capture at Chancellorsville, his imprisonment at Richmond, his grand escape and reunion with Lewis at Brandy Station. Then the conversation turned to the fortunes of the army.
“My cavalry regiment moved out to Warrenton Junction this morning,” Lewis said, “but I got permission to bring William to his regiment. We took an extra mount and picked up Horace and brought him along. We knew that he would want to see William. I’ll join the regiment tomorrow. I’ve been on several reconnaissance sorties, and Lee is on the other side of the Blue Ridge moving north.”
“I was sure that this would be Lee’s next move,” Horace put in. “He has the same problem that he had after Fredericksburg, when he had to invade Maryland. Notwithstanding his victory at Chancellorsville, he’s too weak to attack us here or to move on Washington. He can’t stay where he is, because he has no food for his men. If he falls back on Richmond, we’ll follow and lay siege to him, which will undoubtedly end in his defeat. So he’ll have to invade the North again.”
“We know,” Joe added, “that General Grant is making headway in his effort to take Vicksburg. Maybe Lee thinks that if he moves north he’ll draw Confederate troops from the Vicksburg area and relieve that city. If that doesn’t happen, he will at least protect Virginia during the harvest season, plus find food for his men in the North.”
“He may even go into Pennsylvania,” William remarked. “If he can get deep in the rear of Washington and win a victory, he could just capture the capitol and win the war.”
“Well, the next few days will tell the story,” Lewis said. “It looks as if we are at a crisis point in this awful conflict. It can’t drag on much longer without swinging decisively in our favor or theirs.”
It was getting late, and the men turned in for the night, sleeping in the open. After a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, and coffee, Lewis and Horace bid goodbye to the two infantrymen and set off to join their regiments.
“I wonder when, or even if, we shall meet again,” William murmured. His reunion with his brothers, so pleasant and precious, yet brought an ache in his heart as memories of their long-ago boyhood, now lost for all time, flooded his consciousness.
“All we can do,” Joe spoke reassuringly, “is carry on in our work for the Union and hope for a better day. I believe, with all my heart, that it will come.”
General Lee continued to take his army north. It moved west and northwest from Fredericksburg, crossed the Blue Ridge into the Shenandoah Valley, and then proceeded north. Since the army was now west of the Blue Ridge and South Mountain and held the passes, it was shielded from attack by the Union forces, which were east of those mountain ranges.
On the morning of June 11, General Hooker began his movement north in pursuit of the Confederate army. He kept the “inside track,” so as to interpose the Union army between the Confederates and Washington in the rear. The 1st Massachusetts broke camp at noon, and, with the rest of the Second Division of Sickles’ Third Corps, headed northwest. As did others of the regiment, William carried on his back fifty-seven pounds of rifle, ammunition, knapsack, cartridge box, tent, blanket, canteen, and rations. That evening the regiment reached Hartwood Church and camped in the open.
The next morning the men resumed their march, and reached Beverly Ford at ten o’clock that night. It was a long, difficult march of thirty miles. The day was clear and hot. In some places great clouds of dust were raised, swirling around the men so that they could see only a few yards ahead. A great number of men fell by the wayside, overcome by heat and fatigue. For the next two days, June 13 and 14, the 1st Brigade, William’s brigade, remained at the ford holding the enemy at bay. On the evening of the 14th, a Sunday, the brigade moved out, marched all night, and arrived the following morning at Warrenton Junction. Over the next few days, the march continued to the north. The men marched swiftly and over great distances. The weather was oppressively hot, the roads dry and dusty, and the water scarce, all of which caused a great amount of suffering by the troops. To add to the men’s discomfort, the woods and fields through which the roads ran were set on fire, and the atmosphere was filled with smoke and cinders.
The 1st Massachusetts crossed the Potomac at Edwards Ferry on the late afternoon of June 25, crossing from Virginia to Maryland. The regiment then headed out for the Monocacy River. It was a march that William would never forget. The troops took the tow-path of the Ohio and Chesapeake Canal. As night fell it began to rain heavily and in such torrents that the canal overflowed into the Potomac, causing many of the soldiers to mistake their path and fall head first into the canal. William, trudging once again by the side of Joe, managed to keep his footing. On through the dark, raw, wind-swept night the men marched. Many men, during that long night, gave up and spent the remainder of the night on narrow strips of land between the canal and the river. But William and Joe, with a few others, kept doggedly on. At one o’clock in the morning, the remnant of the regiment reached the Monocacy. Utterly exhausted, William and Joe threw themselves on the ground and went to sleep in the rain. Out of three hundred and sixty men in the regiment, only forty men had reached the Monocacy that night.
On the morning of June 15, Lewis’ cavalry regiment, the 1st Maine, in company with the entire Second Division, left Warrenton Junction and marched to Manassas Junction, where it made camp for the night. Two days later, the 17th, it broke camp early and arrived at Aldie about two o’clock in the afternoon. Aldie, located at a pass through Bull Run Mountain, was a small village on the road from Washington to Winchester. The regiment arrived as a furious battle between two brigades of Stuart’s Confederate cavalry, commanded by Stuart himself, and Colonel Judson Kilpatrick’s First Brigade of the Second Division was in progress. When the 1st Maine arrived at the scene of fighting, General David McM. Gregg, commander of the Second Division, ordered the regiment to report to Kilpatrick, who in turn ordered the regiment to a position on the left of the town. The forces of the Union cavalry, having fought throughout the day, were hard-pressed and were falling back.
Colonel Douty led his men on the road toward the enemy. The order was given to charge, and the men, with sabres drawn, and giving three loud cheers, rushed toward the Confederate cavalry. Once again, their faces flushed with the excitement of battle, Lewis and Ray rode side by side a short distance behind their brave leader. They rode on, undaunted by artillery fire coming from the crest of a hill in their front, through a hail of deadly fire from carbines and rifles behind the stone walls and haystacks that lined the road. The troopers soon came upon the broken and dejected men of Kilpatrick’s brigade. Lewis caught a glimpse of Kilpatrick. His sweat-dripping face was lined with dust, his countenance was sad, and his eyes lacked their usual flash and fire. He saw the unbroken front of the regiment, the glistening sabres drawn, and asked, “What regiment is this?” Lewis, Ray, and a dozen others instantly shouted, “First Maine.” It was as if a bolt of electricity had shot through the body of Kilpatrick. His countenance brightened to a smile, and with his old, familiar clear-ringing tone he commanded: “Forward, First Maine! You saved the field at Brandy Station, and you can do it here!” With deafening yells and flashing sabres, the regiment, led by Colonel Douty, charged down the hill and met the oncoming Rebels. Then the Union men were among them, firing their carbines and wielding their bayonets. So furious was the charge that the Confederate cavalry was put to rout.
During this grand charge of the 1st Maine, its commander, Colonel Douty, was killed. Lieutenant-Colonel Charles H. Smith, soon commissioned as Colonel, assumed command of the regiment.
On its odyssey north, Lewis’s regiment fought two additional battles, one at Middleburg and the other at Upperville. All three battles were fought in the same week, earning the right, without question, of having the three names, “Aldie,” “Middleburg,” and “Upperville,” written on the regimental battle-flag.
There occurred a note-worthy incident, which greatly amused the troops, not only of the regiment, but of the entire division. It was destined to be long-remembered through succeeding generations of the Prescott family. Upperville was a small town on the road running west from Aldie through the Blue Ridge Mountains at Ashby’s Gap. In consequence of the recent battles at Aldie and Middleburg, the enemy fell back towards the Blue Ridge. The Union troops were following them up. At about four o’clock in the afternoon of June 21, the troops were drawn up in a large plain in front of the town of Upperville, through which the road ran. Confederate artillery was posted at many points and was firing on the Union soldiers, but with little effect. Colonel Smith was ordered to take his regiment to a position to the right of the town, where a force of Confederate cavalry was seen. Two regiments had by now failed in their attempt to take the town and were falling back. As the 1st Maine was moving to its position, it passed General Pleasonton, the corps commander, who ordered the regiment to assist Kilpatrick, in front of the town. He ordered the regiment to “charge the town, drive out the enemy, and, if possible, to get beyond.” The men of the regiment took the challenge and steadily advanced, Colonel Smith leading the charge.
Lewis and Ray rode together at the side of Smith. As the troopers advanced, Kilpatrick remarked, “That First Maine would charge straight into hell if they were ordered to.” There was a brass howitzer in the middle of the street through which the regiment had to pass, and which had an ugly look. Suddenly the order was given to charge. Just then the enemy fired the howitzer, and a charge of grape-shot whistled over the heads of the men.
With sabres drawn and flashing, they charged ahead, intent on capturing the artillery-piece. Ray was slightly ahead of Lewis, who was off to one side a pace or two. So vigorously did they charge that, before they knew it, they were upon the gun. There was but one thing to do. In a flash Ray leaped his horse clear over it. Lewis followed suit an instant later. The gun was then captured and the enemy were driven from the town. Those stalwart comrades who saw the amazing equestrian performance sent up a rousing cheer for the two troopers.
Ray’s only comment was, “Well, when this war is over, we can join a circus.”
Late in the evening, as twilight gave way to night, the men carried their wounded off the field, collected the trophies of the field, and buried their dead. The work performed that week by the regiment, and indeed by the entire cavalry, was vital to the army in its northward march. It protected the army from Confederate attack by way of the passes in the Blue Ridge and it secured the Loudoun Valley, between that range and Bull Run Mountain, through which the Union forces passed on their way north.
At dusk on June 27, the regiment crossed the Potomoc at Edwards Ferry. Two days later, at noon on the 29th, the regiment arrived at Frederick, where the several corps of the Union army had concentrated. News of the three great battles, in which the regiment had performed with brilliance, had spread throughout the army. To his great surprise, soon after his arrival, Lewis was greeted by both brothers, William and Horace.
The three had supper together that evening. They discussed the startling developments of the past few days. For now the army had a new commander, General George G. Meade, who had replaced General Hooker. The latter had resigned in protest to the restrictions imposed on him, which he felt hindered his pursuit of the Confederate army. Also, his plan to remove the garrison at Harper’s Ferry and incorporate it in his command had been rejected. He therefore was constrained to submit his resignation. President Lincoln, with the advice of General-in-Chief Henry Halleck, appointed Meade to the command.
When their supper was finished, the twilight glow painting the sky in rose, Horace stood and spoke softly, “Come with me where the Third Corps is camped; there’s someone I want you to meet. They walked leisurely for some few minutes, continuing their conversation, and came to the location of the corps. A wagon was parked in a small area, around which soldiers of the Third Corps formed a protective circle. A young lady, accompanied by a Negro driver and a young soldier, were sitting together and chatting.
“Why, there’s Amanda,” exclaimed Lewis.
William and Horace laughed. “Yes, there she is,” William said. “She has her own wagon, filled with articles and medical supplies, furnished by the Christian and Sanitary Commissions, and is on this march to help care for the sick and wounded. She has a driver, and the young man, Paul James, is her assistant. He’s a medical student who has enlisted to help care for the soldiers.”
Amanda saw her brothers approaching, and rose and swiftly ran to greet them. What a happy reunion it was! The time passed swiftly as the four relived former days and talked of the portentous days lying ahead in the next few days. They now knew that a great battle was imminent, although they did not know just when or where it would occur.
It was soon time for the three men to return to their units. The four stood together in silence for a few minutes. Goodbyes were exchanged. Amanda kissed her brothers, who, with hearts filled with love and admiration for their sister, turned and walked to their camps. They were nearly overcome with their realization of such momentous changes that the war had brought to their lives. Once, not so long ago, they were children in a home filled with love and warmth, carefree and protected by loving parents. Now they were together in an altogether different sphere: in a great army slowly, but inexorably, moving to a climax of battle. Had the world lost all sanity?
Lee’s army was now in Pennsylvania. The First Corps, under Lieutenant-General James Longstreet, and the Third Corps, under Lieutenant-General A. P. Hill, were, respectively, at Chambersburg and Fayettville. The Second Corps, that of Lieutenant-General Richard S. Ewell, who had replaced the slain Jackson, was at Carlisle and York. The cavalry, commanded by Major-General J.E.B. Stuart, was on a raid between Washington and Carlisle, on the east of the Union army. Ewell’s excursion deprived Lee of any information as to the movement and position of the Federal army. However, on the evening of June 28, he learned that the Union forces were at Frederick, and not, as he had supposed, south of the Potomac. He realized that his communications with Richmond were threatened. Accordingly, he issued orders for all of his troops to fall back south and west and unite at Gettysburg.
On June 30, the day following the reunion of the four, Meade began to move his army north, beyond Frederick. He ordered that only ammunition trains and ambulances should accompany the troops. They carried three-days’ rations and sixty pounds of ammunition. The army had been formed into two wings. Major-General John F. Reynolds, who regularly commanded the First Corps, was placed in command of the left, or western, wing. The wing included the First, Third, and Eleventh Corps. The right wing, which Meade accompanied, included the Second, Fifth, Twelfth, and Sixth Corps. Meade had 85,000 men, while Lee had approximately 75,000 effectives.
During that day the entire army, taking different routes, marched north, to come nearer to the Susquehanna River and the threatened Pennsylvania cities. That night William and Joe, after a short march, bedded down with the corps at Taneytown, about half way between Frederick and Gettysburg. Horace, with the Artillery Reserve, camped a short distance beyond the village, on the turnpike to Emmitsburg. Lewis, with the Cavalry Corps, and Amanda, with the Sixth Corps, spent that night at Manchester, some distance to the East.
In the area where the army was now gathered, a small creek, Pipe Creek, flowed southwest until it emptied in the Monocacy River. General Meade decided to take up a defensive position along this creek, and laid out a line, twenty-five miles in length, from Manchester to Middleburg.
General Reynolds, himself a Pennsylvanian and incensed at the devastation of his native State, decided to advance and hold Gettysburg. The First and Eleventh Corps made their camp that night on the Emmitsburg Road, about five miles southeast of Gettysburg. Two brigades of cavalry, led by Brigadier-General John Buford, commander of the First Division, were positioned just northwest of Gettysburg, on the Road from Gettysburg to Chambersburg. The forces of Hill’s corps were not far away, just off to the northwest. The stars in the heavens were ruling the events that would soon bring on the great, decisive battle of the war. Throughout the ranks of both armies, from the supreme commanders to the privates, no human hand controlled that night the destiny of humankind. Neither General, Meade or Lee, wanted to fight on the ridges of Gettysburg. The great battle would, it turned out, be determined by no less thing than the need of the Confederates to buy shoes in the stores of that small Pennsylvania town.
Major-General Henry Heth commanded a division of A. P. Hill’s Third Corps. Heth knew that there was a supply of shoes in Gettysburg. Believing that there was but a detachment of Union cavalry at Gettysburg, on the evening of June 30 he said to Hill, “If there is no objection, I will take my division tomorrow and go to Gettysburg and get those shoes.”
“None in the world,” Hill replied.
At four o’clock on the morning of July 1, General Reynolds was awakened by his aide, who gave him Meade’s order to advance the First and Eleventh Corps to Gettysburg. Reynolds rode with the First Division of the First Corps, now under command of Major-General Abner Doubleday. When the division came within half a mile from the town, a frightened citizen informed Reynolds that a fight was in progress just west of Gettysburg. He immediately galloped into town, turned west, where he found Buford’s cavalry on a ridge, McPherson’s Ridge, hard pressed by Heth’s confederates. By this time it was 10:00 A.M., and the fighting had been in progress since nine o’clock, the time when Heth, on his way to get the shoes, ran into the Union cavalry.
At 10:30 that morning, Doubleday’s First Corps reached the scene of battle and engaged the enemy along McPherson’s Ridge. An hour later, the enemy were thrown back to a small ridge in their rear. In the early stages of this action, General Reynolds was killed. His death was a grievous loss to the Union army, for he was a brilliant general with great promise.
For the next several hours, there was a lull in the fighting, as both sides were busy bringing up reinforcements. Doubleday’s First Corps moved out on McPherson’s Ridge and formed a line of battle northwest of the town along the Chambersburg Pike. Howard’s Eleventh Corps moved through Gettysburg and formed a line north of the town. The Union line formed an arc, covering the town on its west and north. The forces of Ewell’s Second Corps and those of Hill’s Third Corps confronted the Union line.
The Confederate attack came at 2:30 that afternoon. The fighting was severe. Doubleday’s men were pushed toward Gettysburg, but continued to resist the enemy advance. However, Howard’s men of the Eleventh Corps were, as at Chancellorsville, routed. The troops poured back through the streets of Gettysburg. A semblance of order was restored when the corps reached Cemetery Hill, some distance south of town. Doubleday’s flank was now exposed, and he was forced to retire to Seminary Ridge, just west of Gettysburg. By 4:30 that afternoon, both armies rested from their day’s battle. The first day of the Battle of Gettysburg was over, with another Confederate victory.
Reveille sounded early on the morning of July 1, and William and Joe hastily turned out of their sleeping quarters, the hard ground along the road. Standing now, rather then lying prone, Joe ruefully remarked, “Well, anyway, what with this sort of arrangement, it isn’t too hard to get out of bed and find the floor.”
“You always manage to put it exactly right, Joe.”
Soon the regiment was again on the march. The men marched through Emmitsburg and halted about half a mile beyond the town. At 3:00 P.M. General Humphreys, the commander of the division, was ordered to move his men up to Gettysburg, twelve miles distant. William, always observant, saw some things that disturbed him. Among other things, he saw large groups of Dutch farmers sitting with their families on the fences in front of their farms, glowering at him as if he were doing something other than to protect their lives and property. Needless to say, these people did not receive cordial salutations as the weary men plodded along the dusty road.
General Sickles’ aide, who had by this time met Humphreys, guided the division along the road from Emmitsburg to Fairfield, some distance southwest of Gettysburg. It was the wrong road. Soon after dark the troops came to a tavern, Black Horse Tavern, where they came into the immediate vicinity of the enemy. The division then turned around and marched back to the Emmitsburg Road, turned north and, at 2:00 A.M. the next morning, July 2, bivouacked about one mile from Gettysburg.
At Manchester, where Amanda was with the Sixth Corps, there was also much activity. General Meade ordered the corps to come in haste to Gettysburg, where it was most urgently needed. At ten o’clock that night, the 1st of July, Amanda had Paul and her driver prepare to join the march of the corps. The little wagon soon found a place within the ranks of the infantry. It would be a long march that night, since Gettysburg was thirty-four miles distant.
On through the dark night, the little wagon, gathered in the embrace of marching men, rolled along the dusty road. Amanda sat by her driver and watched the strange odyssey in which she was now participating. Every hour or so, the movement would pause to give the weary men rest and time for a cup of coffee. Later in the night, Amanda caught the strains of band music. Never had she heard this on a march, with the exception of occasions when the army entered a town. But now this army was alone, marching in the invisible night. She caught the tune: it was the old song of the 12th Massachusetts, now sung by all of the armies of the Union. The men marching by her wagon began to sing. The sound of voices rolled forward and backward with increasing crescendo like a mighty wave, until all along the line ten thousand men lifted in the night air the inspiring battle song of the Republic, “Glory, Glory, Hallelujah.” The men’s spirits lifted, and they quickened their pace to match the roll of the drums.
Day finally came. By mid-morning the heat was oppressive. Now the weary men trudged on in silence. Amanda heard only the singing wheels of her wagon and the slap, slap of thousands of shoes striking the road in rhythmic cadence. From time to time a soldier collapsed, and his comrades placed him on the grass by the side of the road. Later, after he recovered his strength, he rejoined his comrades. Farmers brought pails and tubs of cool well water for the soldiers to quench their thirst. Others fed the men with fresh fruit, milk, and a variety of cooked foods.
Later in the day, Amanda began taking men, now barely able to walk, into her wagon. To make additional room, Paul got out and walked. After a short rest, the men resumed their march, and others took their place in the wagon. Several times Amanda reached into her supplies and pulled out a new pair of socks to replace the worn ones of a soldier. Around noon, with so many disabled men needing help, Amanda too left her wagon and, finding a place by one of the men, joined in the march. For the rest of the day she walked with the troops. At five o’clock that afternoon the corps reached its destination and made camp on the banks of Rock Creek, a short distance southwest of Gettysburg.
The men of both armies lay on their arms that long, anxious night of July 1, 1863. The lines of battle had been clearly drawn, and the stage was now set for the resumption of the conflict the next day.
Gettysburg is located at the intersection of several roads. Three roads, the Emmitsburg road from the southwest, the Taneytown road from the south, and the Baltimore Pike from the southeast, converge to enter the townfrom the south. Two roads from the west, the Chambersburg Road and the Hagerstown Pike, converge at the western edge of Gettysburg. To the north and east there are roads leading to Carlisle, Harrisburg, and York.
The town itself is located in a basin. A series of hills and ridges running on a north-south axis encloses the town on its west and east sides. Interspersed between the ridges are fields, meadows, and orchards.
A short distance southeast of the town, between the Baltimore Pike and Rock Creek, there is a rock-strewn and heavily forested promontory, called Culp’s Hill. A narrow neck of land extends northwest and joins with Cemetery Hill. The two hills are equal in height, but the latter has a flat top on which artillery could be easily posted. Cemetery Ridge, beginning at this hill, extends south along the west side of the Taneytown Road. Two knolls, Little Round Top and Round Top, form the southern terminus of the ridge, although there is an open space between it and Little Round Top, which is the northernmost knoll. A small stream, Plum Run, flows through a rocky valley at the western base of Little Round Top. On the west side of the stream, a rocky depression suddenly rises sixty feet above the valley. It would come to be known as “Devil’s Den.”
At dawn on the morning of July 2, Horace’s First Brigade left Taneytown and proceeded to Gettysburg. The brigade, conveying the ammunition train, reached a position on the Taneytown road about one and a half miles from Gettysburg. It’s commander, Colonel Freeman McGilvery, reported to General Tyler, who ordered the brigade posted between the road and the Baltimore Pike as a reserve. It was nearly noon when Horace’s battery went into park position, so he and his comrades ate their noon rations and caught a few winks of much-needed sleep. Horace, who was number four in his gun-crew and pulled the lanyard to fire the weapon, slept on his side of the breech-end of the gun.
After a short night’s sleep, William and Joe were awakened just as the sun was ushering in the daylight hours of the 2nd of July. They were surprised to find that they had spent the night under the shadow of Round Top Hill. They had a quick breakfast of hardtack and coffee. They expected to be on the move shortly and made themselves ready to march at a moment’s notice. However, it was not until just after noon that they were ordered to fall in and march to the front.
By that time, the Union forces were in place to encounter the enemy. General Meade had established his headquarters at a small farmhouse located in the center of the Union line, in the rear of Cemetery Ridge. The line was a convex arc, extending west from Culp’s Hill to Cemetery Hill, then south along Cemetery Ridge to the Round Tops. Major-General Henry Slocum commanded the right wing. The forces of his Twelfth Corps and Howard’s Eleventh Corps, plus a division of the First Corps, held this portion of the line. Major-General Winfield Hancock, commander of the Second Corps, was in command of the left wing along Cemetery Ridge. It was held by the First Corps, under Doubleday, and the Third Corps, under Sickles.
The Confederate line of battle was a concave arc, much more difficult to handle than the convex arc of the Union line. The Second Corps, under Ewell, was poised to strike the Union right at Cemetery Hill and Culp’s Hill. The First and Third corps, under Longstreet and Hill, were massed along Seminary Ridge. The two ridges on which the armies were assembled were a mile apart, separated by a level plain.
Around noon, General Sickles ordered his two divisions to move into line along the southern part of Cemetery Ridge. The two friends, William and Joe, were soon marching with their Second Division buddies. Their brigade, under Brigadier-General Joseph Carr, was placed in the first line of battle formed along the eastern edge of the Emmitsburg Road. A belt of woods, occupied by enemy pickets, extended along the western side of the road. Immediately to the right of the line, William saw a farmhouse, the Cordori house. To his left, a short distance away, he noticed a peach orchard.
General Sickles posted his First Division, under the command of Major-General David Birney, on the left of Humphreys’ Second Division. Instead of placing Birney’s division in line with Humphreys’ men, Sickles advanced it half a mile beyond the main line. As a result, his line now began on the left at Devil’s Den, extended northwest through a wheat field to the Peach Orchard, then bent back in a northeasterly direction along the Emmitsburg Road. But it did not meet the left of Humphreys’ line. Thus there was an open angle between the lines of the two divisions.
“I’m not an officer,” William said to Joe, “but I know enough about warfare to know that this isn’t good. I can’t understand it.”
“Neither can I. The Rebels can get in the orchard where we can’t see them and rush through the open area of the angle. At any rate, if I were running things for the enemy that’s what I’d order for the day’s work.”
William and Joe were not the only ones who were wondering about things. At 3:30 that afternoon, a half hour after Sickles formed the salient, the Confederates opened a severe artillery fire against the two sides of the angle at the Peach Orchard. General Meade soon arrived on the scene. He was appalled at what he saw. He knew that Birney’s division was too far out. Sickles offered to pull back. “I think it is too late,” Meade replied. “The enemy will not allow you.”
He was correct. The Confederate attack opened at 4 o’clock that afternoon. It proceeded in two successive waves. The first wave was directed at the extreme left of the Union line, against the forces at Devil’s Den and Little Round Top. If these positions were taken, Lee’s forces could flank the Union line and clear the entire ridge of Federal troops. The fighting at Devil’s Den, which became a melee of individuals grappling with each other, was intense. It was soon captured by the Rebels.
Fortunately for the Union cause, Little Round Top was saved. The army’s chief engineer, Gouverneur Warren, saw the undefended summit of the hill and ordered that it be occupied at once. It was soon accomplished. The brigade of Colonel Strong Vincent, Fifth Corps, dashed across Plum Run and climbed the rocky north shoulder of the hill. The assault, which soon found the troops on the crest of the hill, was led by Colonel Joshua Chamberlain of the 20th Maine.
The second wave of attack was launched at 5:30 P.M. Both William and Horace were to figure in this phase of the Battle of Gettysburg.
General Birney’s men of the First Division were sheltered by a stone wall near their side of the wheat field. The Confederates came forward with a shout, crossed the Emmitsburg Road and smashed the center of the division. General Sickles was himself at the front, riding the line, when he was severely wounded. As he was carried from the field on a stretcher, he yielded his corps command to Birney. The men fought valiantly for two hours. Brigade after brigade of men in butternut, emitting their eerie yell, were hurled against the division until it was virtually destroyed. By sunset, when it fell back to the rear, it had suffered over four thousand casualties.
The Confederates, elated by their victory, continued to attack. They were met by a fresh division. It was too much for them, for now it was their turn to taste the bitter dregs of defeat. They turned and ran back through the trampled wheat field through which they had a short time ago rushed into battle.
Humphreys’ men, off to the right and rear of Birney’s salient saw what had occurred. William, looking off to the left of the line, hanging as it was in the air, full well knew what was coming. And it was not long in coming.
General Humphreys was all set to attack the opposing forces before they attacked him. Before he could do so, however, General Birney ordered him to reposition his line from its east-west axis to an oblique one facing southeast. This was necessary in order to prevent the enemy from coming through the angle and taking the division in reverse. Although a difficult maneuver under the stress of battle, he succeeded in accomplishing it. His artillery smashed the enemy in front, then retired. By now Birney realized that Humphreys’ position was becoming untenable and ordered him to retire to the crest of Cemetery Ridge half a mile to the rear.
It was a difficult and painful retreat. William’s experience was shared by countless others in the Second Division. With a heavy heart, he faced the other way and began slowly to walk over open ground that afforded virtually no protection from enemy fire. The casualties were fearful. All around him men were falling. General Humphreys rode up and down the line. He rode close to William, who heard him say, “Steady men, move slowly.” Time and again William turned to face the advancing enemy and fired into their ranks. Bone-tired, faces covered with sweat and dust, he and his fellows inched their way rearward.
At four o’clock that afternoon, Horace was sitting on the ground near his gun chatting with the crew when the commander of the battery, Lieutenant Richard Milton came up. “We have orders to move out,” he said. “General Sickles’ corps is hard-pressed, and we are to give him additional artillery support. We must move swiftly.”
“All right, let’s go, boys,” Captain Bigelow shouted.
In a few minutes the six horses were off at a fast trot, pulling behind them the limber and its attached artillery piece. There were six guns in the 9th Battery, which was the prescribed strength of a battery. McGilvery rode beside the battery and remained near it throughout the engagement with the enemy. The three other batteries in his command of twenty-two guns followed closely. They were positioned in the rear of Sickles’ troops.
For the next two hours, Horace fired the gun, a twelve-pound Napoleon. During the early part of the fight, the twelve pound shells burst down on the Rebel artillery, and with such density and fury that it was put out of action. Around 5 o’clock, a heavy column of Rebel infantry came through the wheat field and moved through the woods to attack Birney’s division. The number two man placed a charge of canister in the piece. Horace pulled the lanyard and looked with horror at the number of men felled as if by a giant scythe. But there was little time to ponder the character of war. The firing went on incessantly. Immense clouds of smoke from the great guns and thousands of muskets billowed upwards from the rent earth and all but obscured the view of the angry warriors.
Now an even larger force of enemy infantry came up nearer to the position of the artillery. General McGilvery immediately turned the entire line of his guns on them. But they were not to be denied a possible victory. On they came until, when they could no longer withstand the rain of death hurled at them, they broke and fled back through the woods.
Around 6 o’clock the commanding general decided to place his batteries a short distance to the rear. While this was executed, Horace walked in his position beside the gun, firing charge after charge of canister at the advancing enemy. The piece was placed at the back of some woods near the Trostle Farm. The onrushing Confederates were briefly repulsed, but after rallying they maintained their advance. With Birney’s men now back on Cemetery Ridge, there was no infantry support for the batteries. One by one they began leaving the field.
McGilvery saw the men of Humphreys’ division fighting valiantly, albeit hopelessly, a short distance to the west. He knew that a crisis had been reached and that time must be bought to allow reinforcements to be brought up. He spurred his mount and galloped furiously to Bigelow’s battery. “You must hold this position at all hazard,” he told Bigelow, “until we get fresh infantry.”
The battery readily accepted its grim assignment. Isolated by both artillery and infantry, alone on the naked field, and hit by successive waves of Confederates, it fought on resolutely. Horace fired canister into the enemy with such rapidity that the barrel became too hot for the men to handle. The scene became an inferno. In the end, the battery was decimated. One officer was killed and several wounded. Over half of the men lay dead near their guns. All of the horses and limbers were shot down. Many of the men who still lived began to leave their guns and retire to safety.
At his field piece, Horace assumed command. He was the eldest man in the crew, had a long background of experience, and the survivors of the wreckage spontaneously turned to him for leadership.
“We can’t leave our gun to the enemy,” Horace shouted over the din of battle. “Pull together, now, and let’s roll the gun back.”
The men willingly complied, and, with strenuous effort, managed to remove the gun to the rear. One other gun of Milton’s battery was also saved.
The sacrifice of Bigelow’s battery served its purpose admirably. Just before sunset reinforcements arrived and, after severe fighting, the troops repulsed the enemy charge. By 9 o’clock the fighting on the left wing of the Union army was over.
From 6:30 P.M. until after dark there was fighting on the right wing of the Federal army. The forces of Ewell’s corps attempted to take Cemetery Hill and Culp’s Hill. After a severe contest, the attempt was repulsed.
The Second Division of the Cavalry Corps arrived at the battlefield around 11:00 A.M. on the morning of July 2. The Third Brigade, Lewis’s brigade, took a position on the Hanover Road, near Ewell’s corps, on the right of the line of battle at Culp’s Hill. There was some skirmishing, but no major cavalry action. The cavalry did, however, serve to protect the Union flank.
Amanda commenced her mission of mercy soon after the rout of Birney’s men. She knew that scores of Massachusetts men were now lying dead and wounded on the field of battle. The fact that these were men from her own area only increased her desire to be among them and minister to them. She and her assistant, Paul, gathered bandages and medicine, and other articles that might be needed, and walked to meet the retreating soldiers of the Third Corps. There, on the ridge, they bound wounds, administered medicine, and comforted the dying. In a short time, the barns and outbuildings in the area were filled with the wounded. During the late afternoon and early evening of that terrible day, Amanda made her way to these field hospitals, often assisting the surgeons in their work of amputation. She knew that William, although not one of Birney’s men, was in the Third Corps. She was always fearful lest one of the men who received her tender care should be her brother. But as the hours progressed she grew more confident that he had come through unharmed.
July 2nd was an extremely hot day, and the wounded were always in need of water. Amanda sent Paul to get some water from a near-by pump. He soon returned with the report that a guard was posted at the pump with orders to prohibit men from using it. The people who lived on the farm feared that the well would run dry, and asked that a guard be stationed at the pump.
Amanda’s only reply was “Humph, we’ll see about that.” So forcefully did she voice her disgust, that Paul, who knew her to be a gentle person, was somewhat taken aback. He laughed as he saw her, with pail in hand, push her way through the men standing about and make her way to the pump. With fierce determination she looped the bail over the mouth of the pump, grabbed the handle, and began vigorously pumping the cool well-water into the pail.
A strong complaint was soon made. But the guard paid no attention. “My orders say nothing about women,” he replied. That settled the matter. For several minutes Amanda continued to work the pump, while thirsty soldiers in the vicinity quenched their extreme thirst. Then, with the pail filled to the brim, she made her way back to the wounded lying in the barn. She made many such excursions during the hours she tended the wounded.
The moon rose full-orbed and cast its golden light over the valleys and hills of Gettysburg. The servants of the god of war had ceased their destructive work. All was quiet save the cries of the wounded, pleading for water and assistance. A lone figure in the valley between the lines moved silently among the pitiful wrecks of humanity. It was Amanda. She sought out the wounded of both armies who had been overlooked and were in need of surgical attention. She knelt on the ground beside them and tenderly washed and bound their wounds. Her voice, low and sweet, her kind words of sympathy and encouragement, became an angelic chord sounding from another, brighter, world. The eyes of the sufferers followed her as she went from one to another. On through the lonely night hours she worked to aid and save those who had fallen. Finally, her strength spent, she found a place under a tree and lay on the ground. She was soon asleep. She slept the remainder of that night among the dead and wounded, a reality and symbol of hope for a lost world. For her, and her alone, the stars in their courses ceased their warfare and instead rejoiced. The moon smiled upon her, casting its rich mellow light on her upturned face.
Late in the evening of this 2nd of July, elements of Ewell’s corp succeeded in establishing a foothold on the far right of the Union line. Lee’s plan for the next day was to mount a two-pronged attack on Meade’s army: Ewell to attack on the right and Major-General George Pickett’s division of Longstreet’s corps on the center.
By 11 o’clock Ewell’s troops had been driven from their lodgement on the far right of the Union line. Now Lee’s only hope for a victory rested with Pickett’s thrust against the Union center. His was the elite division of the Confederate army, and, as it had not been previously engaged at Gettysburg, it was in peak condition.
The Third Corps was not actively engaged during the third day of battle on July 3. The First Division, Birney’s, had been decimated the previous day. The Second Division, Humphreys’, was used to support other corps that were engaged in the fighting. William did not, accordingly, enter battle that day.
At 1:00 P.M. the Confederates opened a thunderous artillery fire on the center of the Union lines on Cemetery Ridge. For two hours one hundred and fifteen guns hurled their salvos at the men in blue. A shell burst over William’s head. Pieces of iron showered down and killed several men. A solid shell struck a large rock, which burst as if exploded by gun powder, sending pieces of iron and rock in all directions. William could do nothing except huddle behind a large boulder and protect himself from the rain of iron.
At 3 o’clock, Brigadier-General Henry Hunt, chief of Federal artillery, silenced his guns. Horace, with McGilvery’s battery, was at the southern edge of Cemetery Ridge. He stood at the side of his gun, thankful for a short reprieve from the frenzy of firing continuously for two hours, and looked down the slope and across the plain extending westward to Seminary Ridge. A long line of gray-clad men, fifteen thousand in all, emerged from the woods and began its advance eastward over the valley floor. To the sound of a martial air and with their battle flags unfurled, the men came on in perfect formation. Rays from the brilliant midday sun glanced from their polished muskets and tilted bayonets. It was, for the last time in this war, the colorful pageantry of battle in the old style. “Here they come, here come the infantry,” Horace exclaimed to those who stood near him.
The men of the Union Second Corps held the center of the Federal line. They were positioned behind a stone fence a short distance on their side of the Emmitsburg Road. At the midpoint in its north-south axis there was an empty space. The southern half of the fence was a short distance west of the northern half. Thus an unfortified angle was formed. It would be known as “Bloody Angle.” There was a clump of trees just behind the angle. The advancing enemy were moving to concentrate here and break the Union line.
When the advancing troops reached the Emmitsburg Road, the order was given to open fire on them. Horace fired his gun, loaded with canister, at the men now marching toward Cemetery Ridge. Soon all of McGilvery’s guns were firing into the right flank of Pickett’s troops. Great gaps were opened in their lines as Federal artillery unleashed upon them a terrific storm of shells. Yet they came on, closing their ranks. Although both wings of Pickett’s line faltered, troops in the center surged on toward the angle. They reached the foot of the ridge and climbed up the slope toward the stone wall where the Union infantry waited for them. Sheets of flame erupted all along the line as the men in blue discharged their muskets. Like a mighty wave, the men in butternut surged forward, into the angle and over the wall. The men in blue and gray fought hand to hand. Thousands of men fought with primal savagery, growling and cursing, even praying, without realizing it. This, mingled with the cries and moans of the wounded, created a sound that none before had ever heard, something, one who heard it said, “like a vast mournful roar.” When they could do so, Union infantry fired into the heaving mass of Rebel troops. The hard-pressed defenders, with reinforcements, organized a counter-attack and hurled the Confederates back. Those who lived and were not captured turned and streamed back to the safety of their lines. The din of battle subsided and the smoke from thousands of muskets wafted skyward. From their heights on Cemetery Ridge, the men looked over the plain, strewn with the wreckage of war, and saw, as one soldier said, “a square mile of Tophet.”
It rained heavily the next day, the 4th of July. At any moment, the men of Lee’s army expected to hear the Federal artillery salute the independence of the nation won nearly a century earlier. But it remained quiet; no guns were fired. Instead the men of both armies spent the day burying the dead. That night Lee began his withdrawal into Virginia. A few days later, Meade and his army left Gettysburg in pursuit of the southern army. During the night of July 13, Lee eluded the pursuing Federals and crossed the Potomac into Virginia. In a few weeks, both armies again faced each other on southern soil: Lee at Orange Court House, and Meade at Culpeper Court House. William, Lewis, and Horace were once again in the South. Amanda remained in Gettysburg and served in the field hospitals.
The Confederacy reached its “high water mark” on the fields of Gettysburg. Thereafter its fortunes were destined to decline. On the day after the Union victory at Gettysburg, General Grant occupied Vicksburg, opening the length of the Mississippi and cutting the Confederacy in two. The news of Grant’s victory was flashed across the nation, reaching westward to the Pacific coast. Away off in southwestern Oregon men were cutting the pass over the Sexton Mountains. When they received word of Grant’s victory, they named the little hamlet at the southern exit near Rogue River, “Grants Pass.”
It was the evening of November 2, 1863. Two men, one tall and worn with care and the other younger and wearing a military uniform, were in the telegraph room of the War Office. They were President Lincoln and Asa Prescott, who, since Antietam, had served the President in the Executive Mansion. Asa often accompanied the President on his nightly vigils at the War Office as he waited for news of the armies now flung across the land.
“I received a letter today,” the President said,” from Mr. Wills inviting me to attend the dedication of the national cemetery at Gettysburg. I’ve been asked to say a few words at the close of the ceremony. You will want to come with me.”
“We’ve known for some time now,” Asa remarked, “that Edward Everett will give the main address. I have been wondering just when Wills would remember that you’re the President and that it’s appropriate that you participate in the occasion.”
“I suppose the invitation is an afterthought. It may be that many of the trustees of the association think that I will not want to come. But I must be there, for the event has a national meaning.”
The conversation concerned the recent developments at Gettysburg. After the two armies left, over twenty thousand wounded men were left in the little town of two thousand inhabitants. Money, food, and medicine were sent from all over the northeast. Additional nurses, the great majority being women, came to lend their assistance. The Union dead, over three thousand, were hastily buried, and, if for no other reason than the requirements of sanitation, had to be properly interred.
Governor Andrew G. Curtin, of Pennsylvania, appointed David Wills as his representative at Gettysburg to deal with the many problems that followed the battle. A cemetery association, whose trustees represented the northern states whose soldiers had fought at Gettysburg, was formed. Seventeen acres on Cemetery Hill were purchased and designated as the National Soldier’s Cemetery. The fallen heroes were to be buried in plots allocated to the several states. Edward Everett, whom Emerson characterized as the “master of eloquence,” consented to give the dedicatory address. The date of September 23 was set for the occasion, but was changed to November 19 in order to accommodate Everett, who asked for more time to prepare. As an afterthought and with some hesitation on the part of some of the trustees, Lincoln, who, although running a major war, presumably had plenty of time at hand, was given an invitation on November 2 to offer “a few appropriate remarks” after the oration.
Lincoln met his Cabinet on September 17 and asked Stanton, the Secretary of War, to make arrangements for a special train to Gettysburg. The Cabinet was invited to accompany him, but several members declined the invitation. Thaddeus Stevens, the Republican floor leader in the House, thought that Lincoln was, politically speaking, a “dead card.” He favored Salmon Chase, the Secretary of Treasury, as the next President. When asked if he were going to Gettysburg, Stevens responded caustically, “Let the dead bury the dead.”
The four-car special train left Washington for Gettysburg at noon on November 18, the day before the ceremony. The Vice-President was in the party, as were Asa and Amanda, who was now caring for the wounded in Washington. The train arrived in Gettysburg at sundown. Lincoln was driven to the Wills home, where he was to spend the night. Asa and Amanda went to the home of Miss Mary McAllister, who had helped care for the wounded in the Christ Lutheran Church, located across the street from her home.
They soon became aware that their brothers, Horace, Lewis, and William, were in the vicinity with their units representing the branches of the army. When she learned that three brothers of her two guests were at Gettysburg, Miss McAllister insisted that they come and share the evening meal.
It was a memorable evening. Here, on the site of the recent decisive battle of the war, five members of a far-away northeastern family sat together around a dining table. After a bountiful supper, the little group lingered, over coffee, and conversed about the great events of the day. Amanda told of her work in the hospitals of Gettysburg and Washington. Asa, who kept informed about political matters in Washington, brought the others up to date on developments there. But the greater part of the conversation had to do with the course of the war and the future prospects for the cause of the Union. The joy of the reunion, however, was colored with a touch of melancholy, as the children of John and Rhoda Prescott thought of their home in Maine, of the bygone days of their youth, and of a time in an unforeseen future when war should cease and yield to the ways of peace and a more complete reunion of loved ones.
It was getting late in the evening, and, after extending a profusion of thanks, the group separated for the night. As the three uniformed soldiers were returning to their units, they noticed a group in front of the Wills residence. President Lincoln, who was standing in the doorway of the residence, had been asked to give a speech. He made one of his little speeches about his having nothing to say. “In my position it is sometimes important that I should not say foolish things.” An impertinent voice called out, “If you can help it.” But he was used to this sort of thing and took no offense. He merely laughed and went on to say, “It very often happens that the only way to help it is to say nothing at all. Believing that is my present condition this evening, I must beg of you to excuse me from addressing you further.”
At the appointed hour the next day, a procession of military and civic groups wended its way to Cemetery Hill. The President rode on horseback. The procession was over in fifteen minutes. There was a dirge followed by a prayer and the playing of Old Hundred. The great orator then rose, paused a moment in silence while looking at the battlefield and the grandeur of South Mountain off to the West. He then began his oration.
It was an oration in the old style. With the majesty of sky, fields, and mountains overwhelming him, it was too much to expect that his poor efforts could add anything to “the eloquent silence of God and Nature.” He then recalled the funeral customs of ancient Greece, the honors given the dead at Marathon,
That battle-field where Persia’s victim horde
First bowed beneath the brunt of Hellas’ sword.
Having established such a precedence for the present-day care of the dead, he then gave a long and learned disquisition, with appropriate allusion to the history of England, about the true meaning of revolution and its betrayal by the Confederacy. Then followed a detailed recital of the events of the battle, beginning with Hooker’s withdrawal from the Rappahannock and ending with Lee’s return to Virginia on July 4. He assured his audience that at last a reunion of the states would come, that “these bonds of the Union are of perennial force and energy.” He closed with a brilliant peroration, bidding
farewell to the dust of these martyr-bones, that wheresoever throughout the civilized world the accounts of this great warfare are read, and down to the latest period of recorded time, in the glorious annals of our common country, there will be no brighter page than that which relates The Battles of Gettysburg.
Everett had spoken for two hours. When he sat down, the Baltimore Glee Club sang an ode written especially for the occasion. Ward Hill Lamon, of Illinois, rose and introduced Lincoln with the words “The President of the United States.” A tall man in a black frock coat slowly rose, drew from his pocket two small sheets of paper, adjusted his steel-bowed glasses, and waited for the commotion to subside. He had no need to gaze upon mountains or to look upon politicians and battles. What he saw that moment were the eternal verities. In his high tenor voice he began to speak to the thousands assembled before him. He spoke for two minutes. But what he said would become immortal.
Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are met on a great battle-field of that war. We are met to dedicate a portion of it as the final resting place of those who have given their lives that that nation might live.
It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do so.
But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow, this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.
The world will very little note, nor long remember what we say here; but it can never forget what they did here.
It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated, here, to the unfinished work that they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us; that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that the nation shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
ROSTER OF THE ARMIES
GETTYSBURG, JULY 1-3, 1863
ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, USA
Major-General George C. Meade, Commanding
First Corps: Major-General Abner Doubleday
Major-General John Newton
Second Corps: Major-General Winfield S. Hancock
Major-General John Gibbon
Third Corps: Major-General Daniel E. Sickles
Major-General David B. Birney
Second Division: Brigadier-General Joseph B. Carr
1st Massachusetts: Lieutenant-Colonel Clark B. Baldwin
William Prescott
Fifth Corps: Major-General George Sykes
Sixth Corps: Major-General John Sedgwick
Eleventh Corps: Major-General Oliver O. Howard
Twelfth Corps: Major-General Henry W. Slocum
Brigadier-General Alpheus S. Williams
Brigadier-General Henry J. Hunt: Artillery
Brigadier-General Robert O. Tyler: Artillery Reserve
First Volunteer Brigade: Lieutenant-Colonel Freeman McGilvery
Massachusetts Light, 9th Battery: Captain John Bigelow
Lieutenant Richard S. Milton
Horace Prescott
Major-General Alfred Pleasonton: Cavalry
Second Division: Brigadier-General David McM. Gregg
Third Brigade: Colonel J. Irvin Gregg
1st Maine: Lieutenant-Colonel Charles H. Smith
Company L: Captain Constantine Taylor
Lewis Prescott
ARMY OF NORTHERN VIRGINIA, CSA
General Robert E. Lee, Commanding
First Corps: Lieutenant-General James Longstreet
Second Corps: Lieutenant-General Richard S. Ewell
Third Corps: Lieutenant-General A. P. Hill