This is the third in a five-part series about the Battle of Gettysburg, fought from July 1–3, 1863. Gettysburg was a—arguably, the—pivotal battle in the American Civil War. In reading this series, bear in mind what should always be remembered when reading history: people taking part in these events didn’t know how they would turn out. The choices that they made, the decisions that they took—in the face of what they knew, what they thought they knew but was not true, and what they didn’t know—shaped the outcome.   

July 1, 1863, the first day of the Battle of Gettysburg, dawned red.

Two troops of Union cavalry under the command of General John Buford were posted on a ridge west of the town of Gettysburg, watching the roads heading into town. As the light rose, Buford spotted movement in the distance. It was a long line of brown- and gray-glad soldiers marching towards his position. The line did not travel along the road, though, it was stretched across it, angling from the northeast to the southwest, parallel to the ridge Buford’s men held. Buford noticed something else through his binoculars. The oncoming soldiers held their muskets in front of them, not on their shoulders. They were ready for business. 

Buford knew that his few hundred troopers did not stand a chance to hold off an entire Confederate infantry division of several thousand men. Buford’s cavalry did have the advantages of high ground and better weapons—breech-loading carbines that could be fired five times more quickly than the infantry’s muzzle-loading muskets. But the overwhelming numbers far outweighed those advantages. He dispatched a rider south to inform General John Reynolds, at the head of the leading units of the Union infantry, to speed his approach. 

As the Confederates advanced, Buford sent them a message, too. One of his artillerymen boomed a cannon ball toward the oncoming infantry. We’re ready for you. 

And so began the first day of the Battle of Gettysburg.  

I will not describe the way Buford and his men stubbornly held their ground until Reynolds and his infantry arrived. I will not tell of John Reynolds’s last act, sending a message to commanding general George Gordon Meade to bring the rest of the army posthaste, a message Reynolds finished dictating just before a Confederate sharpshooter ended his life. I will not tell the arrival of yet more divisions from both armies and the growing fierceness of the fight or of the decimation of the 24th Michigan (399 casualties out of a complement of 496 men).  I will not tell of the encounter between two old friends from before the war, Union General Abner Doubleday (taking time off from “inventing” baseball) and Confederate General James J. Archer, captured by Union troops early in the fighting.*  I will not tell of the horrible fighting that took place north of the town in the afternoon, where General Oliver O. Howard's divisions were overrun for the second battle in a row.

I will tell of four key decisions made that fateful first day, decisions that would have profound impact on the battle—and, thus, on the rest of the Civil War.  Two long, low ridges ran from the northeast to the southwest west of Gettysburg. The one farther west, McPherson’s Ridge, was the line held by Buford and his cavalry as the day began. The second, adorned by a theological seminary, was where the Union line reformed later in the day. Even Seminary Ridge, though, became too difficult for the Union soldiers to hold: Lee’s troops outnumbered the men of the North on this first day.

But there was a third ridge, one that began at a hill topped by a cemetery just below Gettysburg and ran south for several miles. When General Oliver O. Howard arrived with his XI Corps of the Union army—shortly after Reynolds came on the scene at the head of the I Corps—he seized Cemetery Hill for his headquarters. The high ground provided a good vantage point to see what was unfolding. And recognizing that high ground is the best to fight from, Howard held some of his men and artillery in reserve there. They began digging in. When the Federals were finally chased off Seminary Ridge and the hills north of town, in something of a panic, they scrambled through the streets of the town, Confederates close on their heels. Emerging from the town, they reached Cemetery Hill and Cemetery Ridge, and stopped running. Trained by two years of fighting, they gathered behind any walls they could find, piled felled trees to make walls where they did not exist, and dug trenches for themselves. A Union line was forming, a line that would become the center of the Union defenses for the next two days.  

The second key decision was Robert E. Lee’s determination to press the attack. He arrived at the scene in the afternoon and determined to seize opportunity. General James Longstreet, “Old Pete,” his most trusted subordinate (now that Stonewall Jackson was dead) urged Lee to take up a defensive position and challenge the Federals to attack him. Lee had won the Battle of Fredericksburg the previous December in just that way: wave after wave of Union soldiers had marched to their doom up a ridge in the face of withering Confederate fire from its crest.

Longstreet saw no reason not to repeat that successful strategy. Lee’s aggressiveness dismissed the idea. As Longstreet ruefully remembered later, “When the hunt was up, his combativeness was overruling.” 

Lee pointed to the Federals on Cemetery Hill and said, “The enemy is there, and I am going to attack him there.” 

Longstreet demurred: “If he is there, it will be because he is anxious that we should attack him: a good reason, in my judgment, for not doing so.” 

Lee ended the conversation. “No. They are there in position, and I am going to whip them or they are going to whip me.” 

Lee wanted his generals to attack the Union line soon. The orders were not forceful, though, the Confederates were not well organized after several hours of brutal fighting, and Longstreet’s fresh divisions, who might have carried the day, were still miles away. The attack never took place. Had it done so, who knows what might have happened. The Confederates might have driven the Union soldiers off the hill and ridge, and taken that position. Or they might have been so spent from the earlier fighting that they could not have taken Lee’s objective. It doesn’t matter. The attack never took place. 

What does matter, though, is Lee’s decision to be aggressive at Gettysburg rather than defensive. The attack on Cemetery Hill and Cemetery Ridge did not take place on July 1, but Lee’s mind was set that he would attack. During the night, more Union troops would arrive, and that Union line that aggravated Old Pete so would become even stronger. But the next morning, Lee would still be ready to attack. He would roll to make his point, even if he had to do it the hard way. 

The third key decision came on the Union side. Late in the afternoon, General Winfield Scott Hancock** (“Hancock the Superb,” he was called) arrived, sent by Meade, still far away, with orders placing him in charge of the army on the scene until he, Meade, arrived. As Hancock reached Cemetery Hill, he found soldiers busily digging in and officers busily trying to reassemble their brigades and regiments after the losses of the battle and the confusion of the retreat through town. Howard, who outranked Hancock, bristled when Hancock informed him that Meade had delegated command to him. The two managed to agree that they would hold the Cemetery Hill/Cemetery Ridge line until Meade’s arrival. Hancock issued orders to make the position stronger.  

Then, he took a decisive step. East of Cemetery Hill was Culp’s Hill, a wooded patch that rose even higher. Hancock realized that, if the Confederates occupied that ground, the Union line would be in serious danger. Confederate artillery could pummel the Union troops from the rear while Lee’s infantry charged from the west. Hancock immediately told Doubleday to move his troops to Culp’s Hill and hold it.

Doubleday's men had been pushed to the brink. “My corps has been fighting, general, since 10 o’clock,” he protested. Sympathetically, but firmly, Hancock replied. “I know that, sir. But this is a great emergency, and everyone must do all he can.”  Doubleday moved his men.

The fourth decision, also by Hancock, was a similar one. As he surveyed the Union line, he worried that it was vulnerable on the left, at the southern end of Cemetery Ridge. When more troops reached the scene, Hancock used them to solve that problem. He dispatched them to a hill to the south of Cemetery Ridge, a hill called Little Round Top. As more troops arrived that night, Hancock had them fill in the line along the ridge. 

At the end of the first day, the Union line from Little Round Top, up Cemetery Ridge to Cemetery Hill, and off to Culp’s Hill in the east, looked like a fishhook. Meade, arriving after midnight, was pleased by his army’s position. On the other side, Old Pete was still fretting. 

(For a map of the first day, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Gettysburg.)

* Well, I will tell that story. Spotting his old friend being led to the rear of the Union lines, Doubleday stuck out his hand and said, “Archer! I’m glad to see you!” Archer, not acknowledging the proffered hand, grumpily responded, “Well, I’m not glad to see you by a damn sight.”

** Yes, Hancock was named for General Winfield Scott, who had been a hero in the War of 1812, and under whom Hancock served, more than thirty years later, during the Mexican War. 

Words © 2009 AtHome Pilgrim

All Rights Reserved.