On the night of July 4, 1863, the old Army of the Potomac died
The cause of death could be traced back across an illness of a year or more, incompetence of commanders, the tragically bitter politics that had divided officers against each other, but most of all the disintegration of belief in those who led them by the weary foot soldiers who had seen defeat once too often.
Never in the history of the Republic had there been such an army. An army of idealisms, of volunteers willing to lay down their lives for such abstract ideals, the belief in the Republic that had called them to arms, a visceral sense that there was a destiny to that Republic, the "city on the hill," as their puritan forefathers had called it, "the last best hope of mankind," as their current president defined it For some there were other causes as well, a belief in a dream as defined in the Declaration, that all men were, indeed, created equal.
And never had so good an army been so ill served. Man for man, they were the equal of any soldiers in history; that had been proven in the cornfields of Antietam, before the sunken road at Fredericksburg, on Seminary Ridge in the first day of the Gettysburg campaign, and in the final closing hours, on the blood-soaked banks of Pipe Greek.
Few in those battered regiments knew even a fragment of the details that had led them to such a tragic moment, but those few fragments of knowledge were enough. They had fought with a gallantry unparalleled in history… it was, yet again, their commanders who had failed them. Whether it was incompetence, self-serving interests, cowardice, or ignorance, the bitter sacrifice was one that created nothing except another defeat
Something within broke at that moment striking into the heart of each man, of every company and regiment brigade and division. They could still fight as individuals or small units; if any dared to try and reach out to touch their sacred blood-stained flags, they would indeed fight for that, for that they sail believed in. For their survival if cornered, they would still fight; but for the generals, that was gone, perhaps forever.
On the other side, it was a moment long dreamed of, a fulfillment of a sense that half victories, which had cost a hundred thousand men in the last twelve months, had now finally reached a climax, that on this Fourth of July all things were, indeed, still possible.
The Fifth Corps of the Army of the Potomac made its final stand in a torrential summer downpour on the outskirts of Littlestown, after being driven back four miles by the relentless onslaught of Pickett Hood, and the hard-bitten survivors of Johnson's division, the men of the old Stonewall Brigade.
In a way this final stand was indeed their finest hour, reminiscent of the Old Guard's stand at Waterloo. The backbone of the "old Fifth" was the division of regular troops, men who had been in the army since long before the war, when no self-respecting civilian would be caught dead in army blue, and now they were the ones dying in a final bid to hold the road open in die same way they had held the road after me debacle at First Manassas.
Sykes dismounted after losing three mounts in a row, stood with the division as it was battled back, yard by yard, in the pouring rain. If hit only in the center, they most certainly would have held; but whatever position they attempted to secure was soon outflanked, the rebel hosts threatening to completely encircle them. And yet, even then, they bought time, allowing several thousand to move up the road to safety.
Forced into Littlestown, Sykes finally made the fateful decision to turn the division north, back toward Gettysburg, to get what was left of his men out. To try and hold the town would have meant encirclement; to turn south would have meant encirclement as well.
He would be remembered for that moment, for when a panic-stricken officer galloped past, screaming that the army was destroyed, Sykes watched him go then turned to his men. "Yes, the army is gone," Sykes announced sadly, "but these regiments will always remain."
For the men of the Stonewall Brigade charging into Littlestown, it was like the memory of a springtime long ago, marching on relentlessly through the rain, sweeping forward to victory. Old Jack was gone, but now there was Lee, riding at the fore, urging them on, pointing the way, promising that but one more charge would crown them with victory undreamed of.
And so they stormed into Littlestown at the point of the bayonet, rifles all but useless as sheets of rain washed across the fields, churning the road to rivers of mud. The old Fifth broke apart, its bitter survivors turning back on the road toward Gettysburg, their morale broken by the certain knowledge that the rest of their army had just been defeated behind them at Union Mills and there was no sense of hope or rescue. A grim hopelessness set in among the men.
The back door had been sealed. It was six in the afternoon of July Fourth.
Hood, deployed across the Baltimore Road, now had to simply wait, for there was no other way back from Union Mills, except for narrow country lanes that were turning into rivers of mud. The one pike north, its pavement a sticky glue of crushed limestone, was sealed.
Their first take was the flood of broken survivors of the old Second and Twelfth Corps, coming back from the disaster, and the sight of Hood blocking that road sent them recoiling back again, word racing like an electric shock: 'The rebels are in Littlestown."
The men of the First Corps, so savagely mauled in the first day's battle, formed a final defense along the ridges north of Pipe Creek, still game and defiant, but the rest of the army now began to break apart
Sickles kept his head, both figuratively and literally, though his action, even as he undertook it would be the source of bitter debate and acrimony. With the largest intact command, he had waited for over two hours, listening as the sound of battle from the north, the flanking march by Lee pushing back Fifth Corps, gradually receded to the northeast Several of his officers begged for him to march to the sound of the guns, to flank Lee in turn, but he refused, announcing that the battle was already lost and his duty was to keep his units together to form the nucleus of a new Army of the Potomac.
He ignored, as well, the garbled order that came from Meade's headquarters to fall back onto the Gettysburg-Westminster Road, saying that would take his command straight into the trap.
When he judged the time to be right he ordered the position along Pipe Creek to be abandoned, along with all guns and wagons and those wounded who could not walk, each man to load up a hundred rounds of ammunition, and then set the corps off on a grueling march to the northwest cutting far behind Lee's flanking force, an action that when first reported to Lee, caused an hour of tense anxiety until it was realized that Sickles was making for Harney and the road back to Gettysburg. Lee decided to simply let this command go; to try and bring it into the net would overextend an already exhausted and far overextended command.
The march would be the most harrowing the Third Corps had ever endured, a nightmare of slogging through the mud, exhausted men by the hundreds collapsing and Dan Sickles relentlessly setting the pace and already lecturing to his staff about why Meade had lost the battle. He had mis-stepped every inch of the way, and if only he had listened, just listened, how different it would all be, Sickles announced with self-righteous bitterness. He would be damned if ever he would take an order from such a man ever again. His mission now was to save his men and, around the nucleus of the Third Corps, rebuild an army, this time with the right general in command. After all the failures, Lincoln would have to buckle to that; Sickles's Democrat war allies in Congress would see that Sickles now had his chance. In fact, if Lincoln had picked him instead of Meade, Lee would be defeated and his army broken, or so Sickles reasoned to himself, increasing his own anger and determination.
Sedgwick felt as angry as Sickles and as bitter at Meade. Already word was spreading that Meade was now blaming him for the failure, that Sedgwick had failed to advance when he should have, then failed to stop when he should have, thus destroying the reserve that could have been used to punch a way out The fact that Hancock had usurped command would be an issue that Sedgwick would make sure he answered for, and, if need be, he would take it all the way to the Congressional Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War and demand a court-martial as well as a congressional investigation.
Hancock knew nothing of this. His ambulance had passed through Littlestown only minutes before the road was blocked, his escort of loyal men pushing on toward Gettysburg. The word was already out that Stuart's men were closing in on the rear, having brushed aside the disjointed efforts of the Union cavalry to contain them. At Gettysburg, there might be safety with the men of Eleventh Corps, who still occupied the town.
The death blow hit just before six in the evening. Longstreet had waited, resting his men, bringing up rations, though the meal was a cold one of soggy hardtack and salted pork, but it was rations nevertheless. Units were reorganized; dry ammunition was distributed; a dozen batteries were organized and limbered up.
He knew the plan, watching the weather, trying to calculate. No word came from Lee, but Longstreet sensed that the flanking attack had indeed gone in, the distant sound of gunfire fading northward, by then washed out by the intensity of the storm.
Finally, just after five-thirty, he ordered a general advance all along the line. It was evident that there were still troops deployed along the opposing heights, but all could see, as well, that since the previous two hours that line was melting away, guns moving out, skirmishers bringing in prisoners who reported that the Army of the Potomac was abandoning the field.
Three divisions went in: Rodes on the right, Pettigrew in the middle, Early on the left. Pender, McLaws, and Anderson, those who had suffered the most in the defense, were formed into marching columns and held in reserve, with Anderson's division detailed off to the task of preparing to receive the anticipated flood of prisoners. And for once there was a surplus of supplies and an order to prepare to feed these thousands of men as well.
The orders were to avoid a frontal assault at all cost, to probe; to go around the flanks, for Pete sensed that if anyone was still up there, they would fold once their flanks were turned, but would indeed fight if hit head-on.
It was as he assumed. The First Corps held for less than half an hour, with Rodes only skirmishing at long range, until Early's men swept over the heights abandoned by Sickles. With that the First Corps of the Army of the Potomac, the "old First"-the men who boasted that they were the backbone-broke and started for the rear.
With Pender's column pushing up the road, the pursuit was on in earnest, but the advance was determined and careful. The goal was to herd the Union army north and gather up stragglers as prisoners, not to engage in a frontal fight that would force the Union army to draw itself together and cause unnecessary casualties to the already weakened Confederate forces.
A thunderstorm of frightful intensity now lashed the skies, as if reflecting the far more violent confrontation unfolding below. In the darkening gloom, the hot electric blue flashes revealed a road swarming with tens of thousands of men, all semblance of order breaking down among the Union forces, troops splitting away from the line of retreat, streaming off into nearby woods, there to simply collapse. Individual regimental commanders, those with some initiative, ordered their men to turn aside, to march cross-country, hoping to break out of the net For word raced up and down that desperate column that Lee was now in their front on the Baltimore Pike at Littlestown, and Longstreet was closing up from the rear.
It was the worst night of the war for both sides.
For the men of the old Irish Brigade, Second Corps, haunted by the loss of their commander, there was a vicious lashing out when a regiment of Pender's division stormed into the road expecting a quick surrender.
To a man, the Irishmen turned with clubbed rifles and bayonets. It was a brutal vicious melee, no longer a military battle; now it was a settling of scores, and men on both sides were beaten to death without mercy in the gloom, until the survivors broke from the road and spilled into the darkness, heading due east and out of the fight but leaving more than a hundred dead Confederates behind.
All organization at corps and division and even brigade level was gone.
With the road severed at Littlestown, the vast, surging column had come to a complete halt unable to move. Some regiments just stood in line, waiting and waiting in the driving rain-a colonel or in many cases now a major or even a captain in command-for someone to tell them what to do, until the enveloping wave of gray and butternut swarmed in about them.
Here and there fires briefly flickered to light as a lantern was smashed, the coal oil poured over the regimental colors, and then burned; or like their comrades of the Twentieth Maine, the flag was cut to ribbons and pressed into hands, men weeping in rage, frustration, bitterness, and exhaustion.
Every farmhouse, every barn and outbuilding, became a refuge, filled to overflowing with the wounded and with those too exhausted or too frightened to continue.
Strange moments, only possible in this war unfolded, and acts typical of any war. A soldier with one of Pender's North Carolina divisions, coming upon an exhausted Union straggler, discovered him to be his own son who had moved to Ohio before the war, the two embracing and weeping by the side of the road, while less than a hundred yards away another North Carolinian unknowingly shot his own brother in the back when the latter tried to flee.
In nearly every case, prisoners were taken in and treated with at least some compassion, a quick bandaging of wounds, a shared drink from a canteen, though a Georgian, moved to insanity by the death of his brother earlier in the day, methodically stabbed a wounded boy from New York to death as the boy begged for mercy; and then, within seconds, the murderer was summarily executed by his own colonel, who had witnessed the crime.
An unimaginable array of equipment Uttered the road and fields, discarded muskets, cartridge boxes, blanket rolls, uniforms, caps, boxes of rations and ammunition, an entire collection of musical instruments dropped by a regimental band, a case of French champagne found by some boys from Mississippi, who promptly got drunk and were finally placed under arrest, books and newspapers, a paymaster's box with ten thousand in greenbacks, all mingled in with upended wagons, braying mules, burning caissons that exploded with thunderclap roars, and everywhere bodies, some dead, most just collapsed in exhaustion by the side of the road.
Some commanders broke down in the confusion, told the men to save themselves and scatter. But more than one elected to fight, pulling their regiments off the road. Some would fight clean through to the next day, others perhaps only a few minutes before being overwhelmed, but the old army did not die easily.
Vicious, frightful battles unfolded all along the road. The survivors of the First Minnesota turned about when Rodes pressed too closely; their volley killing the hard-fighting Confederate general, dropping him into the mud. The First was swarmed under then and disappeared.
One colonel, who had survived a year in Libby Prison before being exchanged, when facing the prospect yet again, shot himself in the temple right in front of his men. Some officers wept, some raged, a few abandoned their own men, but most tried to lead as best they could; and more than one NCO and private emerged that terrible night as a leader as well.
Henry became an infantryman. He had come across two batteries of guns, stalled in the road, the way ahead blocked by a tangle of wagons, ambulances, an overturned caisson and gun, its team still tied to their harnesses, kicking and thrashing.
Behind, in the semidarkness, he could hear the dull crackle of rifle fire, flashes of light reflecting off the low-hanging clouds, a stampede of men racing by on either side of the road, crying that the Rebs were coming.
A battery commander stood before him, waiting for orders.
For a moment he was tempted to order the guns unlimbered, but in all that mad confusion, what would he shoot at? Thousands of Union soldiers were swarming across the surrounding fields, a flash of lightning revealing a compact column of Confederates already passing him in an open field to the left
"Spike the guns!" Henry shouted.
Exhausted gunners climbed down from limber wagons, battery blacksmiths moving along the line with mallets and the deadly spikes, iron ringing against iron. Loaders tore into almost empty limber boxes, pulling out their few remaining rounds, tearing the powder bags open, throwing them onto the road.
"Sir, should we shoot the horses?" someone cried.
Henry shook his head. Merciful God, there had been enough slaughter this day. Sacrificing the poor beasts for no reason other than the failure of their masters was beyond him.
"No," he said gently. "Those that can stand the march, cut them from the traces and ride; the rest, just leave here. "They'll get picked up by some farmer or become the property of the Confederacy. They have served us well, and we can't simply slaughter them because of our failure this day."
The horses were unharnessed, some of the men swinging up on them to ride bareback, a sergeant riding one of them, bearing a battery guidon, which now served as a rallying point
A flash of lightning revealed a wheat field to the right a farmhouse on a low ridge beyond, a road climbing up past the house. It was as good a direction as any to go. "Follow me," he said, and pushing through a break in the fence, he led his ragged command out across the field and into the night