The Heroes and Villians Series - Civil War: The Battles of Gettysburg and Vicksburg
My Name is George Gordon Meade
I was born on December 31, 1815, in the port city of Cádiz, Spain—a fact that surprises most who know me only as a Union general. My father, Richard Worsam Meade, was a wealthy American merchant involved in shipping and naval supply. He had been appointed to oversee American naval affairs in Spain, and so I, the eighth of eleven children, came into this world far from the shores of the country I would one day fight to preserve.
Our family returned to the United States when I was a child, but not in triumph. My father had suffered heavy financial losses during the Napoleonic Wars and died when I was only thirteen. His passing left us in poverty. My youth was not marked by comfort, but by necessity. We relocated to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where I would spend much of my life.
The Reluctant Cadet at West Point
Though I initially had no deep desire for a military life, I was offered a commission to attend the United States Military Academy at West Point. It was a difficult place—strict, grueling, and competitive. I wasn’t a top cadet, but I graduated in 1835, 19th in a class of 56. That was enough to earn me a commission as a brevet second lieutenant in the artillery.
But the military didn’t suit me at first. I served only briefly—just under a year—before resigning in 1836 to pursue a civilian career. For several years, I worked as a civil engineer, even assisting with the building of railroads and harbor improvements. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work.
Called Back to Service
The call of the army found me again in 1842. I re-entered military life, this time as a second lieutenant in the U.S. Army Corps of Topographical Engineers. This suited me better. I had always had a sharp eye for detail, and my work involved surveying coastlines, rivers, and territories—maps that would later become critical in both peace and war.
When the Mexican-American War broke out in 1846, I served under General Zachary Taylor. At the Battle of Monterrey, I was wounded by shrapnel. It was my first experience with war—chaotic, deadly, and far removed from the world of maps and measurements. Still, I returned to topographical work after the war, charting routes for lighthouses and coastal defenses. I had a wife now—Margaretta—and children, and I hoped to keep to my engineering and raise my family in peace. But America was changing.
The Civil War Begins
When the nation split apart in 1861, I did not hesitate. My loyalty lay firmly with the Union, and I was appointed a brigadier general of volunteers. I quickly found myself in combat again, commanding a brigade during the Peninsula Campaign under General George McClellan. At the Battle of Glendale, I was once more wounded—this time in the side—but I stayed in command until I collapsed from blood loss. The war was brutal, and there was little time to rest.
At Antietam, I took over temporary command of the I Corps when its general fell. At Fredericksburg, I led one of the few brigades that actually broke through the Confederate lines, though we were ultimately forced to withdraw. My troops called me "a steady man"—not flashy, not boastful, but reliable. That suited me fine.
Gettysburg: My Greatest Trial
In June of 1863, I was placed in command of the Army of the Potomac—and I didn’t ask for it. In fact, I initially refused. I was given just three days’ notice before the Battle of Gettysburg began. Imagine being told to lead the nation’s largest army on the eve of its most important battle. But I accepted, because duty demanded it.
Lee had brought his Confederate army north into Pennsylvania, and we collided at a small crossroads town called Gettysburg on July 1. Over the next three days, we fought ferociously. I positioned my men along the high ground—Cemetery Ridge, Little Round Top, and Culp’s Hill—and we held it against repeated attacks. I relied heavily on my corps commanders, like Hancock and Reynolds, and brave men like Joshua Chamberlain, who held our left flank with a desperate bayonet charge.
On the third day, Lee sent Pickett’s Division straight at the center of our line in what became known as Pickett’s Charge. They were brave men, but their attack failed. My men held. The Union held. And Lee’s army—bloodied and beaten—retreated back into Virginia.
Gettysburg was the turning point of the war. But though I had saved the North from invasion, I received less glory than others. President Lincoln was frustrated that I did not pursue Lee more aggressively afterward. What he didn’t understand was that my men were exhausted, wounded, and running low on supplies. I would not waste their lives for public approval.
Serving Under Grant
When Ulysses S. Grant was promoted to General-in-Chief in 1864, I remained commander of the Army of the Potomac, but now I answered to him. He made headquarters with my army, and though it sometimes felt as though I was overlooked, I did not complain. My concern was with my men and with winning the war.
We fought through the horrors of the Overland Campaign—Wilderness, Spotsylvania, Cold Harbor—and into the long, grueling siege of Petersburg. Finally, in April of 1865, we forced Lee to surrender at Appomattox Court House. I had seen this war from its bloody birth to its bitter end. I had seen boys become soldiers and soldiers become shadows of themselves.
After the War
I remained in the army during Reconstruction, commanding several military districts. I did my best to administer justice fairly in a divided, angry South. I also oversaw the completion of the Union Pacific Railroad’s survey, returning at last to my engineering roots.
But my health was failing. In 1872, I suffered a combination of kidney disease and pneumonia. I died on November 6, 1872, in Philadelphia, the city where I had once walked the streets as a poor boy, and where I would now be laid to rest.
My Legacy
I have never been a man of speeches or parades. I was not flamboyant like McClellan, nor did I chase headlines like Sheridan. I did not seek power, but I answered when called. At Gettysburg, when the fate of the nation stood in the balance, I stood firm. That, I believe, is enough.
If history remembers me, let it remember that I did my duty—quietly, faithfully, and without ambition beyond the preservation of my country.
Before the Storm: Why Gettysburg and Vicksburg Mattered – Told by Meade
By the summer of 1863, it had become clear to everyone—soldier, civilian, Northerner, Southerner—that this war was not going to be short, nor would it be won by mere speeches or stirring songs. It would be decided by blood, steel, and strategy. The Union, though superior in manpower and industry, had struggled to pin down its rebellious counterpart. And the Confederacy, while tenacious and often brilliant in the field, was beginning to strain under blockade, shortages, and the burden of a long war.
Two places loomed large before either shot was fired: Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and Vicksburg, Mississippi. Neither was chosen by accident. And both were about to become symbols of what this war was truly about—survival, control, and the fate of the Union itself.
The Looming Threat of Lee’s Invasion
When General Robert E. Lee marched his Army of Northern Virginia northward into Pennsylvania in June 1863, it wasn’t just a raid—it was a gamble meant to end the war on Confederate terms. He hoped to strike deep into Union territory, shake the confidence of the Northern public, and possibly sway foreign powers like Britain or France to support the Confederacy.
Washington, Baltimore, Harrisburg—all lay within reach. Lee knew the North was growing tired of war. Copperheads (Northerners who sympathized with the South) were gaining influence. A decisive Confederate victory on Northern soil might push Lincoln to the negotiating table, or even affect the outcome of the next election.
But there was more. By invading the North, Lee could also relieve pressure on war-ravaged Virginia, drawing the Union army away from the farms and fields his people relied upon. That’s where I came in.
I had just been given command of the Army of the Potomac—barely three days before the battle. My orders were simple in words but colossal in weight: find Lee, stop him, and protect the North.
Gettysburg: More Than a Crossroads Town
Now, Gettysburg wasn’t a planned battlefield. Neither side marched there intending to fight a decisive engagement. But fate—or rather, the roads—drew us together. Gettysburg was a transportation hub, where ten major roads met. It was an ideal place to converge troops, move supplies, and defend or attack. Whoever held the high ground there would hold a key position in Pennsylvania.
But even more important was what the battle represented. For the South, a win could mean foreign recognition and peace on their terms. For us in the Union, a loss at Gettysburg could have meant the fall of Washington, widespread panic in the North, and perhaps even the breaking apart of the Republic.
This was no longer about one state or even slavery alone. It had become a test of whether this nation “conceived in liberty” could long endure, as President Lincoln would later say. And that test was coming to a head.
The Siege That Would Split the South
At nearly the same moment as Lee’s push north, General Ulysses S. Grant was tightening his grip on Vicksburg, Mississippi. Many forget this, but Vicksburg was as important—perhaps more so—than Gettysburg in purely strategic terms.
Why? Because Vicksburg sat atop high bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River, the spine of America. If the Union could take Vicksburg, we would gain control of the entire river, cutting the Confederacy in two—separating Texas, Louisiana, and Arkansas from the rest of the South.
The Confederacy relied heavily on supplies from the West—cattle, corn, salt, and men. With the Mississippi in our hands, we could strangle the South from the inside. That’s why the city was so heavily fortified and why Grant’s army, despite facing months of setbacks, kept pressing forward.
While I was preparing to face Lee in the hills of Pennsylvania, Grant was slowly surrounding Vicksburg like a vice. Two campaigns, hundreds of miles apart, were about to determine the future of the same cause.
What Was at Stake
These battles—Gettysburg and Vicksburg—were not isolated moments in a long war. They were pivotal crossroads, not just of geography but of destiny. If Lee won at Gettysburg and Pemberton held at Vicksburg, the South might have held the upper hand. If we won both, it could break the Confederacy’s spirit and make victory possible.
We felt the pressure in every decision. We knew this wasn’t just about holding ground—it was about preserving the very idea of the United States. And so, we fought. Hard. Desperately. Sacrificially.
That is what made Gettysburg and Vicksburg so important—even before the first cannon fired. They were battles of strategy, morale, and meaning. And though history remembers the thunder of those days, I remember the silence before them—the tension, the planning, the weight of knowing what we were about to face.
We stood at the edge of history. And when the storm came, we did not break.
Gettysburg: Day One – The Fight for the Heights - Told by Major General Meade
The first day of the Battle of Gettysburg—July 1, 1863—did not begin under my direct command. I was still miles away when the thunder of cannons rang out over the Pennsylvania fields. My orders had already set the Army of the Potomac in motion, moving northward and converging around a town I suspected would become critical. Still, I could not have predicted how quickly the battle would begin—or how fiercely it would escalate.
It was my cavalry commander, Brigadier General John Buford, who first encountered the enemy. On the morning of July 1, Buford’s cavalry was positioned just west of Gettysburg, watching for signs of General A.P. Hill’s advancing Confederate corps. What he saw confirmed our fears—Confederate infantry, marching in force, was approaching the town. Buford understood instantly what was at stake.
Buford's Brave Stand
Buford was no ordinary cavalry officer. He had a sharp eye for terrain and understood the importance of defensive ground. Gettysburg itself sat in a shallow basin surrounded by a ring of hills and ridges—high ground that could command the entire region. Buford knew that if the enemy seized those heights, we’d be forced to fight uphill to take them back. So, despite being heavily outnumbered and fighting with carbines against muskets and bayonets, Buford chose to stand his ground.
For hours, his troopers fought a delaying action, dismounted and using fences, barns, and ridgelines for cover. They bought us precious time—time enough for the I Corps, under Major General John Reynolds, to arrive on the scene.
Reynolds was a friend, a soldier of great respect, and one of my finest commanders. He rode into the fight with clarity and courage, reinforcing Buford’s line just as the Confederate pressure increased.
Reynolds Falls, but the Line Holds
The fighting on the morning of July 1 was brutal and chaotic. Our forces engaged Heth’s Division west of the town. At first, we gained ground—pushing them back and taking prisoners—but tragedy struck quickly. General Reynolds, riding at the front with his men, was struck in the head by a Confederate bullet and killed instantly. His death stunned the troops but did not break them. General Abner Doubleday assumed command of I Corps and continued the defense.
As more Confederate reinforcements arrived from the north and west, our line began to bend under pressure. Soon, General Howard’s XI Corps reached the field and moved to cover the town’s northern flank. But they faced General Ewell’s Corps, advancing from the north and northeast.
By early afternoon, the Union forces were fighting on two fronts, with no cohesive line and mounting casualties. Despite the bravery of the men, we were outnumbered, outflanked, and outpositioned.
Retreat Through the Town
By late afternoon, the tide had turned decisively against us. Confederate troops overwhelmed our stretched lines. Street fighting erupted in Gettysburg, with panicked soldiers trying to regroup while dodging musket fire through alleyways and back gardens. Many were captured. Many more were killed.
It was not a rout—but it was a retreat. Still, there was one stroke of fortune amid the chaos. As the remnants of I and XI Corps pulled back through the town, they fell back to a strong natural position—Cemetery Hill, just south of Gettysburg. There, the scattered elements of our army regrouped. And there we would make our stand.
Securing the High Ground
While Day One is often remembered for its losses, I see it differently. Buford delayed the enemy. Reynolds bought us time. Our men bled, but they did not break. And, most importantly, we held the high ground.
As I arrived near the battlefield late that night, I assessed the terrain by lantern light. Our troops were now positioned along Cemetery Hill, with high ground stretching south along Cemetery Ridge to Little Round Top, and northeast to Culp’s Hill. If we could hold these heights, we could force Lee to attack us uphill—and that, I knew, might just win us the battle.
Throughout the night, reinforcements arrived. The II Corps under General Hancock, and then others—bringing with them artillery, ammunition, and fresh strength. We began to dig in, forming a fishhook-shaped line across the ridges, preparing for the full force of Lee’s army the next day.
Reflection at Dusk
Day One at Gettysburg had cost us much—over 9,000 Union casualties, the death of General Reynolds, and the loss of the town itself. But we had gained what mattered most: the heights.
In war, position often matters more than numbers or boldness. By holding the high ground, we forced General Lee to fight on our terms, not his. The days ahead would be filled with fire and fury—but we now stood in a place from which we would not be moved.
That night, as I stood on Cemetery Hill, watching our men fortify the line under a blood-orange sunset, I knew: this was where the battle for the Union would be decided. And thanks to the sacrifices of Day One, we had a chance to win it.
Gettysburg: Day Two – Hammering the Flanks – Told by General Robert E. Lee
Dawn broke over Gettysburg on July 2, 1863, soft and quiet—the kind of morning a man might enjoy in peace, were it not for the great violence that loomed ahead. I had spent much of the previous evening studying the Union’s position. From our vantage point on Seminary Ridge, I could see their army arrayed along a strong defensive arc—a curved line of high ground that stretched from Culp’s Hill on the right to Little Round Top on the left.
They had chosen their ground well. But I believed the key to victory lay in outflanking them. If we could turn one or both ends of their line—force them off those heights—we could shatter their hold and drive them from the field. My men were seasoned, determined, and proud. They had marched far, fought hard, and tasted victory before. I believed they could do it again.
Forming the Plan
I resolved to strike their flanks—the ends of their line where defenses were weakest. On the Union left, a rocky hill called Little Round Top marked the southern end of their position. If we could take that ground, we could roll up their line from the bottom. On the right, dense woods shielded Culp’s Hill, another critical anchor.
To accomplish this, I ordered Lieutenant General James Longstreet to launch a massive assault on the left. His corps—led by divisions under John Bell Hood and Lafayette McLaws—would swing down the Emmitsburg Road, attack through the peach orchards and wheat fields, and smash into the enemy’s exposed flank. At the same time, General Richard Ewell, holding our left, would demonstrate—and if possible, storm—Culp’s Hill on the Union right.
It was a bold plan. But it required perfect timing and coordination—two things that war seldom grants.
Delays and Disobedience
By midmorning, I expected Longstreet to move. But hours passed. His men had marched all night and struggled to find a concealed approach. He hesitated. Longstreet did not agree with my plan. He favored a more defensive posture—drawing the Union down from the hills to attack us. But I could not wait. Time was slipping away, and so was our advantage.
By the time his assault began, it was late in the afternoon. Still, when it came, it came with ferocity.
The Union Left: Into the Wheatfield, Peach Orchard, and Round Tops
Hood’s men struck first, moving through the Devil’s Den, the Wheatfield, and the tangled woods below Little Round Top. The terrain was brutal—boulders, fences, and thickets that slowed our movements and exposed our men to fire from every angle.
The Union had reinforced this flank. Fierce defenders like Colonel Strong Vincent and a stubborn regiment from Maine, under Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, stood atop Little Round Top, refusing to yield. Our men climbed those rocky slopes again and again, only to be driven back.
The Wheatfield, too, turned into a killing ground. McLaws’ Division pressed forward through the Peach Orchard, gaining ground, only to be counterattacked and repelled. Men from both sides charged and fell, over and over, until the wheat was trampled red with blood.
For a moment, it seemed we might break through—especially near the Peach Orchard, where we bent their line and inflicted heavy casualties. But they held. And Little Round Top—that cursed hill—remained in Union hands.
The Union Right: The Fight for Culp’s Hill
On our left, General Ewell’s Corps began his assault on Culp’s Hill near dusk. The woods were thick, the slopes steep, and the resistance fierce. We had hoped to turn their right flank as well, but without Longstreet’s simultaneous pressure on the left, the full power of the Union army could shift to meet us.
Ewell’s men fought valiantly, gaining some ground at the base of the hill—but the summit eluded us. Night fell with the roar of muskets echoing in the trees and the smoke of battle hanging over the ridge.
The Union held firm on both ends.
A Costly Day
By the end of July 2, the field was littered with thousands of fallen men—over 20,000 casualties combined, North and South. The land around Gettysburg had been transformed into a scene of tragedy and valor. We had attacked with strength and heart, and in some places, we had gained ground. But we had not broken their line, nor taken the high ground.
As I rode the field that night, my thoughts were troubled. My men had fought with courage and sacrifice, yet the victory I sought remained beyond our grasp.
Still, I believed. One more blow, I told myself, might yet achieve what we had come so far to win. And so, as the stars blinked to life over Pennsylvania, I began planning the third day.
My Name Is George Edward Pickett
My name is George Edward Pickett, and I was born on January 16, 1825, in Richmond, Virginia, though I was raised in Henrico County, not far from the banks of the James River. I came from a proud Virginian family, with deep ties to the land and the Old Dominion’s traditions. From my earliest years, I was taught to honor duty, loyalty, and courage—values that would shape my life in war and peace.
Even as a boy, I was drawn to military tales. I admired boldness, bravery, and the honor of command. It was only natural, then, that I set my sights on West Point, the nation’s military academy, where I was accepted at the age of 17.
The Last of My Class, But Not the Least
I graduated from West Point in 1846, at the very bottom of my class—59th out of 59. But don’t let that fool you. I had a sharp mind and a brave heart; it was discipline I lacked more than intelligence. I might have been a bit too fond of mischief and merriment, but I took my military duties seriously, and my instructors knew it.
Soon after graduation, I was swept into the Mexican-American War, and that’s where I earned my first taste of true command and battle.
The Hero of Chapultepec
During the assault on Chapultepec Castle in 1847, I carried the colors of my regiment to the top of the fortress walls—an act that gained me recognition and a brevet promotion for gallantry. It was a moment of pride, one of the few times I felt like I had truly proven myself among the giants of war. I served under General Winfield Scott, alongside future foes like Ulysses S. Grant, and for a time, I thought I had found my place in the brotherhood of arms.
From the Frontier to the Confederacy
After the war, my assignments took me far from home—to Texas, to the Pacific Northwest, and even the Washington Territory. I spent years on the frontier, enforcing order, settling disputes, and learning to lead men in all kinds of harsh terrain. I was stationed in Washington Territory during the Pig War, a strange diplomatic standoff with the British over a dead pig, of all things. Though no shots were fired, I was proud to have helped avoid bloodshed.
But in 1861, everything changed.
When Virginia seceded from the Union, I faced a choice that tore at my soul. I had sworn an oath to the United States Army, but I was a Virginian first—and my loyalty, like so many others, lay with my home state. I resigned my commission and joined the Confederate Army, believing I was defending my people and my land.
War and Rising Rank
I started the war as a colonel and quickly rose through the ranks. At Antietam, I was wounded while leading a charge, and though I was sidelined for a time, I was promoted to major general. I was given command of a division composed largely of Virginians—proud, fierce, and loyal men. I considered them my family. They would later be known as Pickett’s Division, and their fate would be forever tied to mine.
Gettysburg and the Charge That Bears My Name
When General Lee marched north into Pennsylvania in the summer of 1863, I was eager to join the fight. Unfortunately, my division arrived late on July 2, missing the action that had already begun around Gettysburg. But on July 3, Lee chose my men to spearhead a massive frontal assault on the Union center at Cemetery Ridge—an attack now known to history as Pickett’s Charge.
I did not plan the attack; I executed it, under Lee’s direct orders.
That morning, we unleashed one of the greatest artillery bombardments of the war—over 150 cannons roaring in unison. Then, my men stepped forward across nearly a mile of open ground, shoulder to shoulder, into withering Union fire. Cannon, musket, grapeshot—they poured it into us with fury. We pressed forward, determined and brave, even as whole regiments fell in rows.
Some of my men reached the Union line. A few even breached it. But we were too few. The cost was too high. Out of the 12,500 who charged, over half were killed, wounded, or captured. My division was devastated. It was the high-water mark of the Confederacy, they say—but to me, it was a heartbreak I never fully recovered from.
When I rode back after the charge, I wept—not for myself, but for the men I had lost.
The Long Road Home
After Gettysburg, I continued to serve in the Confederate Army, but my division never fully recovered. I was involved in smaller campaigns, including in North Carolina and Virginia. Toward the end of the war, at the Battle of Five Forks, my forces were overwhelmed again, and I was blamed in part for the defeat that helped force Lee’s final retreat to Appomattox.
When the war ended, I was not among those present at the surrender. I fled briefly to Canada, fearing arrest, but later returned to Virginia.
A Life After the War
Though my rank and citizenship were stripped from me after the war, I eventually received a full pardon. I settled in Norfolk, Virginia, with my beloved wife, Sallie, and our son. I sold insurance to make ends meet, and I spoke often at Confederate memorial events. The war had changed everything, but I remained proud of my service—even if it had ended in tragedy.
I died on July 30, 1875, in Norfolk. I was just 50 years old. Some say I died of a broken heart, still mourning the men who fell beside me on that Pennsylvania field.
My Legacy
History remembers Pickett’s Charge as a symbol of courage—and of catastrophe. Some blame me. Others defend me. But I will say this:
The men I led on July 3, 1863, were not foolish. They were brave sons of the South, who followed orders, marched into the face of death, and gave everything they had. If I am remembered at all, let it be not for a failed charge, but for the love and loyalty I bore for those men—and for the land I called home.
Gettysburg: Day Three – Into the Mouth of Hell" – Told by Major General Pickett
The Morning of July 3, 1863
The morning light over Gettysburg was still and soft, belying the horror that would follow. I stood with my division on the western ridges, under the command of General Robert E. Lee, a man I deeply respected—an officer of dignity, vision, and steel. He had summoned me the night before and informed me that my division would play a central role in the assault to come.
We were to attack the very heart of the Union line—Cemetery Ridge—break through their center, and collapse their army from within. It was to be the decisive blow. “All this requires is men who will go in there and stay there,” General Lee had said. I listened, I nodded. And I began preparing my men.
Preparing the Assault
My division, freshly arrived the day before, was well-rested compared to the other corps. Alongside the divisions of Major General J. Johnston Pettigrew and Major General Isaac Trimble, we were to form the center and left of the attacking column. Over 12,000 men would march nearly a mile across open fields, directly into entrenched Union positions—through cannon, rifle fire, and everything the enemy could throw at us.
It was madness. But it was honorable madness—fueled by belief in the cause, in our leaders, and in the possibility that, with this strike, we could end the war.
The hours before the charge were filled with tension and motion—men writing letters home, adjusting gear, cleaning muskets, praying silently. I walked among them, speaking calmly, touching shoulders, looking them in the eye. Many smiled. Some wept. All stood ready.
The Thunder Before the Storm
At around 1:00 p.m., our artillery opened fire—a massive barrage of over 150 Confederate cannons, intended to soften the Union defenses before we stepped off. It was the loudest roar of war I had ever heard. The earth trembled beneath us. The air itself seemed to rip apart.
And yet… the Union guns did not fall silent. Though we had hoped to destroy their artillery, many of our shells overshot their targets or struck the ridge ineffectively. Their batteries—well dug-in and expertly placed—remained intact.
But the order had already been given. The men were formed. The plan was in motion. There would be no turning back.
The Advance Begins
At around 3:00 p.m., the guns fell silent. The moment had come.
I stood at the front with my men—Virginians, Tennesseans, North Carolinians—men who had followed me for two years. We stepped off in perfect lines, bayonets fixed, colors high, flags fluttering in the breeze. As we marched across the open field toward Cemetery Ridge, I remember thinking: This is what glory looks like.
But that thought was fleeting.
Almost at once, the Union guns opened fire. Shells, canister, musket volleys—they tore into our ranks with devastating force. Whole lines vanished. Men fell in waves, torn apart or thrown into the air. The field was a slaughterhouse, and yet we marched on.
Breaking the Union Line—Briefly
Despite the horror, some of us reached the stone wall at the base of the ridge. We breached the Union line—briefly. For a moment, there was close fighting—bayonets, pistol shots, clubbed muskets. Men wrestled and died on that blood-soaked ridge.
But we were too few, and their reserves were too strong.
The Federals counterattacked quickly and with fury. Our flanks were folding—Pettigrew’s and Trimble’s men were being driven back. My own division had taken catastrophic losses. I looked around and realized: there would be no reinforcements, no support, no victory.
We had reached what would later be called the "High-Water Mark of the Confederacy." But like the tide, we would only fall back.
The Walk of the Living Dead
The retreat was worse than the advance.
There is something about turning from a lost cause, especially one soaked in the blood of your friends. The Union guns raked us again as we fled. Wounded men crawled, limped, or were carried by comrades. Some refused to leave the field, choosing instead to die beside fallen brothers.
When I finally reached the rear, I had little left to command. Of my division—over 5,000 men—more than half were dead, wounded, or missing. Entire regiments were reduced to handfuls. I stood with tears streaming down my face. I had lost everything.
When General Lee found me, I could barely speak. He took responsibility, as any leader should. “It’s all my fault,” he said. But those words could not bring back my boys.
What Pickett’s Charge Meant to Me
History would call it Pickett’s Charge, though it was not mine alone. It was Lee’s decision, and I carried it out.
But I will carry the memory of that charge to my grave. Those brave men who marched under my banners did so with honor, courage, and love for their cause. Their sacrifice was not in vain, even if the assault failed. It stands as a testament to devotion and discipline—and to the terrible cost of war.
Reflections from a Broken Heart
I lived many more years after Gettysburg, but I was never quite the same. I carried a quiet grief with me. My division never fully reformed. I never again held such command. My heart remained on that field in Pennsylvania.
I often wondered what might have been, had we succeeded. But war, like life, gives no guarantees—only consequences.
And on that third day at Gettysburg, we paid dearly.
Why We Could Not Break Them: Reflections on Gettysburg" – Told by General Lee
When I think back to those three days in July of 1863, my heart grows heavy. The hills, the wheat fields, the scattered stones of Gettysburg—each bears witness to the blood we spilled and the hope we lost.
It was not just a battle we lost—it was, I fear, a moment of opportunity that slipped forever from our grasp. The men of the South fought with unshakable courage, but the Union Army held that field. And now, in the quiet hours of my life, I must reckon with why.
The Strength of Their Position
First and foremost, the Union won at Gettysburg because they held the high ground—ground we failed to take on the first day.
By the time our forces occupied the town of Gettysburg on July 1, their army had already secured Cemetery Hill, Culp’s Hill, and later, Little Round Top. These ridges formed a natural fortress, shaped like a fishhook, and the Federals made full use of it. From these heights, they could see our movements, command the field with artillery, and shift troops along the inner curve with speed and protection.
We, by contrast, were forced to attack uphill, across open fields under deadly fire. I had hoped the power of our offense and the valor of our men would overcome their defenses. I was wrong.
Disjointed Confederate Assaults
Our attacks lacked coordination. On July 2, I ordered assaults on both flanks—Longstreet on the Union left, Ewell on the Union right. But the attacks did not strike in unison.
Longstreet’s assault began late in the afternoon, delayed by disputes and confusion over routes. Ewell’s demonstration on the opposite end came hours later. As a result, the Federals had time to reinforce each side as needed. Our piecemeal approach allowed them to absorb and counter each thrust. In war, timing is everything. And at Gettysburg, we lost the precious unity of time and direction.
The Failure of the Final Blow
On July 3, I ordered the attack that would come to bear my officer’s name: Pickett’s Charge. I believed that if we could break their center, the entire line would collapse. The morning was filled with prayer and preparation. We launched a thunderous cannonade—the largest of the war—hoping to weaken their artillery. But it did not.
When Pickett, Pettigrew, and Trimble’s men stepped forward across that open field, they marched into a storm of fire. They showed every ounce of Southern bravery—but no army, no matter how determined, can withstand such slaughter without support or advantage.
Their lines held. Ours broke. That day, I sent men to die for a cause I believed righteous—but I sent them without sufficient artillery cover, without adequate support, and into a position far stronger than I had accepted. The fault was mine.
Union Leadership and Resilience
Though I commanded men of great strength, I must also admit: the Union Army of the Potomac fought with discipline, resolve, and unity. General George G. Meade, newly appointed to command, made sound decisions. He used his interior lines well, moved reinforcements quickly, and held fast when tested.
His corps commanders—Hancock, Reynolds, Sykes, and Howard, among others—acted decisively. On the second day, they saved their left flank at Little Round Top. On the third, they crushed our assault at Cemetery Ridge. At every point where we pressed, they answered.
They did not falter. And that, I must honor.
Numbers, Supplies, and Fate
Our army, for all its valor, was tired and far from home. We had stretched our supply lines thin, and our cavalry was late to provide necessary reconnaissance. The Federals had better access to ammunition, reserves, and information. Though I believed we could overcome these obstacles, they proved heavier than I had admitted.
Sometimes, in war, you meet an enemy whose will matches your own. At Gettysburg, we met such an enemy—and they stood their ground.
A Defeat I Must Bear
Gettysburg marked a turning point in this great and terrible war. We would fight on for nearly two more years, but never again would we carry the war so deep into Union soil. Never again would we hold the initiative as we did that summer.
I bear full responsibility for the loss. I believed our cause just. I believed my men invincible. But at Gettysburg, the Union Army showed the world that they, too, could not be broken.
If there is any glory in that field, it belongs to the men on both sides who gave their all. But the victory belonged to the Union—and I, Robert E. Lee, must speak that truth plainly.
Hold the Ground at All Costs: My Stand at Gettysburg – Told by Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain (Famous Soldier for the Union Army)
Before the war, I was a professor of rhetoric and modern languages at Bowdoin College in Maine. I had never trained as a soldier, but I believed the cause of the Union—the cause of liberty, of national unity—was worth fighting for. So, I set aside books for a musket, and in 1862, I joined the 20th Maine Volunteer Infantry.
I did not seek command, but I was made lieutenant colonel, and later colonel, due to my education and leadership. I studied tactics from French manuals in the candlelight of tents. What I lacked in military experience, I tried to make up for with careful thought and genuine care for my men.
By July of 1863, we were battle-tested. And we were about to face our greatest test yet—Gettysburg.
The March to Destiny
We reached Gettysburg on the evening of July 1, having marched over 100 miles in just five days. My men were exhausted, blistered, and running low on supplies—but their spirits remained high. The next morning, we were ordered to take position on the far left flank of the Union line, on a rocky hill called Little Round Top.
General Gouverneur K. Warren recognized that this hill—unoccupied at the time—was the key to the whole Union position. If the Confederates took it, they could outflank the entire army. So we were sent there—my regiment, the 20th Maine, placed on the extreme left of the Union army, with no one to our left but the open countryside.
The Order: Hold at All Costs
My commanding officer, Colonel Strong Vincent, came to me and gave an unforgettable order:
“You are the extreme left of the Union line. You are to hold that ground at all costs.”
Those last words—at all costs—settled deep into my bones. I knew what they meant. If we failed, the enemy would swing around and collapse the Union line like a closing door. There would be no retreat, no reinforcements, and no second chances.
The Assault Begins
Not long after taking our position, we saw them coming—Confederate troops from Alabama and Texas, climbing the rugged, wooded slope toward our line. They came with force and fury, and we met them with everything we had.
The fighting was brutal—close, personal, savage. Musket fire cracked across the boulders. Men cried out, bled, and died beside me. The rocks of Little Round Top were slick with sweat and blood.
The Confederates charged again. And again. And again. We were running low on ammunition, and many of my men were wounded or exhausted. I could see the enemy regrouping for another charge, and I knew we could not withstand much more.
The Bayonet Charge
At that moment—desperate, out of breath, out of bullets—I made the decision that would define my life. I gave the order that no one expected: “Fix bayonets!”
We swung our line forward in a right-wheel maneuver, like a door on a hinge, and charged downhill with bayonets drawn. It wasn’t a large charge—but it was sudden, fierce, and completely unexpected. The enemy, already worn down and low on ammunition themselves, broke ranks.
We captured over 100 prisoners, secured the flank, and held the hill. Little Round Top remained in Union hands.
What We Held Was More Than Ground
I often reflect on that day—not with pride, but with awe and humility. The men of the 20th Maine were farmers, schoolteachers, fishermen, and laborers. They were not born warriors. Yet in that hour, they stood between the Union and defeat.
They held. They bled. And they did not break.
Little Round Top was only one part of a much larger battle. But if we had lost that position, the Union line might have crumbled, and the battle—perhaps the war—could have turned differently.
After Gettysburg
I survived the war and returned home. I served as Governor of Maine, later as President of Bowdoin College, and lived a long life, though wounded several times in later battles.
But nothing ever matched that moment—standing with my men, outnumbered, nearly out of ammunition, and deciding that the only way to hold was to advance.
Gettysburg was more than a victory. It was a testament to the spirit of ordinary men, fighting not for glory, but for a cause greater than themselves.
A Reluctant Assault: My Experience at Gettysburg" – Told by Lieutenant General James Longstreet (Confederate Soldier)
When we marched into Pennsylvania in the summer of 1863, I understood General Lee’s purpose: to strike deep into Union territory, take the war to the North, and perhaps deal a blow that would force Lincoln to negotiate peace. Morale was high, and our army was strong—buoyed by our victory at Chancellorsville.
But I had concerns. I believed in our army’s strength. I did not, however, believe in an offensive campaign on enemy soil, especially against prepared defenses. My preference was to maneuver the Union out of position, force them into attacking us on favorable ground. General Lee thought otherwise.
When we arrived near Gettysburg on July 1, the battle was already underway. General A.P. Hill’s and General Ewell’s corps had engaged the Federals near the town. They had pushed them back—but instead of falling back, the Union army fell back to strong defensive ground—the high ridges south of town.
And that’s when I knew: we had lost the initiative.
July 2: Into the Slaughter
On the morning of July 2, Lee ordered me to attack the Union left flank. The ground was rocky, uneven, and unfamiliar. I did not receive my full marching orders until late in the day, and the approach to the field was delayed, further shortening the time we had to engage.
Still, when the hour came, I led Hood’s and McLaws’ divisions into some of the bloodiest terrain I have ever seen—the Wheatfield, the Peach Orchard, and Devil’s Den. We struck hard. Our men fought bravely, pushing the Union forces to the brink, capturing ground, nearly turning their flank.
But the Union line did not collapse. Little Round Top, the rocky hill anchoring the Union left, had been quickly reinforced. One Maine regiment, under a professor-turned-colonel named Joshua Chamberlain, made a desperate stand and held the line. We could not take the hill. Without it, we could not roll up the Union flank.
We had gained ground, yes—but it was ground soaked in blood and tactically inconsequential. I returned to headquarters that night deeply troubled.
July 3: The Charge I Opposed
The next day, General Lee shared his plan: a massive frontal assault on the center of the Union line at Cemetery Ridge.
I could hardly believe it. I opposed it. Respectfully, but firmly. I told Lee we should shift around the Union left again—maneuver them out of their strong position, make them come to us. But General Lee was committed. He believed the Union center was vulnerable.
He ordered me to oversee the attack. I did my duty. The artillery barrage began around 1:00 p.m., and soon, Pickett’s, Pettigrew’s, and Trimble’s men formed up for the march. Over 12,000 soldiers in neat gray lines began their advance across three-quarters of a mile of open field, toward well-positioned Union infantry and artillery.
I watched from a distance, knowing—in my heart and in my head—what was about to unfold.
The charge was gallant, courageous, and doomed. Union artillery tore holes through our lines. Musket fire from behind stone walls cut them down. Some reached the wall. Most did not. Nearly half of those men did not return.
When General Pickett returned, I saw in his eyes the pain I carried in my own. “General Lee has no division,” he told me.
What I Carried from Gettysburg
Gettysburg broke something in me. Not my loyalty to General Lee, but my belief that our strategy would prevail through pure courage alone. Courage, though noble, cannot overcome superior ground, stronger numbers, and coordinated defense.
After the war, I spoke openly about my disagreements with Lee at Gettysburg. For that, I was branded a traitor to the Southern cause by many. I was blamed for delays on the second day. But history has judged more fairly in time.
I never sought fame. I sought to save lives and win the war. At Gettysburg, I failed in both.
Final Reflections
The men I commanded at Gettysburg were among the bravest I’ve ever known. They followed orders, charged into certain death, and gave the last full measure of devotion. They deserved better than the ground they were asked to take.
Gettysburg was not the end of the war—but it was the beginning of the end for our cause. We would fight on for two more years, but we would never again march so far north, nor hold such hope of victory.
If I could speak to those young men again, I would say only this:"Your courage was not in vain—but it was spent on ground we should never have crossed."
The Key to Victory: Vicksburg and the River War" – Told by General Grant
When the Civil War began, President Lincoln understood something clearly: the Mississippi River was the backbone of the Confederacy. It carried supplies, moved troops, and bound together the Southern states from the Appalachian foothills to the Gulf of Mexico. Whoever controlled that river would control the war in the West—and so the river became one of my primary objectives.
My job was to take Vicksburg, Mississippi, the last Confederate stronghold on the Mississippi River. Perched on high bluffs with cannons overlooking every bend, Vicksburg was called the Gibraltar of the South. It wouldn’t fall easily. But I was determined to make it fall.
A Fortress Surrounded by Swamp and Steel
I first approached Vicksburg in late 1862, and quickly realized that a direct assault would be suicidal. Confederate General John C. Pemberton had fortified the city well. Swamps, bayous, and flooded terrain surrounded it, and any Union advance would have to cut through near-impenetrable natural defenses.
I tried digging canals, rerouting rivers, and creating new approaches—all failed. The terrain beat us as much as the enemy. Critics in the press called my efforts foolish. Washington doubted me. But I never wavered. If we could take Vicksburg, the South would be cut in half. That was worth every risk.
Turning South and Striking Boldly
In April 1863, I changed the game. Instead of attacking Vicksburg directly from the north, I decided to march my army south, cross the Mississippi below the city, and strike it from the east—a move the Confederates didn’t expect.
With the help of Admiral David D. Porter, I floated my gunboats past the Vicksburg batteries under the cover of night, and ferried my men across at Bruinsburg, Mississippi. From there, we cut a line deep into enemy territory, living off the land and moving fast. I severed my own supply lines and gambled everything on speed and audacity.
Fighting Our Way to the City
Between May 1 and May 17, my army fought and won five battles—Port Gibson, Raymond, Jackson, Champion Hill, and Big Black River Bridge. We drove the Confederates back, defeated Pemberton’s reinforcements at Jackson, and then turned west toward Vicksburg.
By May 18, we had the city surrounded.
The Siege Begins
I launched two quick assaults on Vicksburg’s defenses—on May 19 and May 22—but both were repelled with heavy casualties. The fortifications were too strong, and the defenders too stubborn. I decided there would be no more frontal attacks.
Instead, I would lay siege to the city—cutting it off from all outside support and bombarding it day and night. My men dug trenches, built batteries, and closed in on the city like a tightening noose.
Inside Vicksburg, civilians and soldiers alike suffered. Food grew scarce. Horses, mules, and rats became meals. People lived in caves to avoid our shelling. They were brave—no doubt—but they were trapped.
Victory on Independence Day
For 47 days, we held the siege.
Then, on the morning of July 4, 1863, a white flag appeared on the Confederate lines. General Pemberton surrendered, and with it, 30,000 Confederate soldiers laid down their arms. The fortress of Vicksburg was ours. The Mississippi River flowed free from north to south.
And just like that, the Confederacy was cut in two. News of the victory reached Washington with thunderous joy. It was Independence Day, and for the first time in years, there was cause for real celebration. In combination with Meade’s success at Gettysburg the day before, it marked a turning point in the war.
The River Belonged to Us
The fall of Vicksburg gave the Union complete control of the Mississippi River, fulfilling one of the major goals of the Anaconda Plan. The western Confederate states—Texas, Arkansas, Louisiana—were now isolated, and the Confederacy was bleeding from within.
The campaign proved something else: that war could be won not just by brute force, but by bold strategy, relentless pressure, and patience. We didn’t defeat Vicksburg in a day. We wore it down, inch by inch, until surrender became the only option.
Looking Back
Vicksburg was the moment that shaped my command—and the beginning of the end for the rebellion. It proved to Lincoln and the nation that I could lead a great army in the field. It showed the South that we could not be outlasted.
There would be more battles, more blood, and more hard decisions. But the Mississippi now flowed with Union power, and the noose had tightened.
In the end, I did not win Vicksburg alone. My men dug, marched, fought, and endured. They were the reason the river ran blue once again.
Turning the Tide: The Legacy of Gettysburg and Vicksburg" - General Grant
When historians speak of the Civil War, they often look to early July 1863—when the fields of Gettysburg and the bluffs of Vicksburg both fell into Union hands—as the moment when the tide turned.
They are not wrong. In those few days, we struck two decisive blows—one in the East, one in the West—and showed the world, and perhaps even ourselves, that the Union was not only enduring, but winning. I had the honor of commanding the campaign at Vicksburg, while General George Meade led the Army of the Potomac to victory at Gettysburg. We fought separate battles, but together, we reshaped the course of the war.
The Cracked Spine of the Confederacy
When Vicksburg surrendered on July 4, we gained not just a city—we gained control of the Mississippi River, the backbone of America’s interior. That river was more than water; it was a lifeline, and for the Confederacy, its loss was a fatal wound.
Our victory at Vicksburg split the South in two, cutting off Texas, Louisiana, and Arkansas from the rest of the rebellion. It also allowed us to move troops and supplies up and down the river, reinforcing our armies and choking off Southern trade. The so-called Anaconda Plan—to squeeze the Confederacy into submission—had taken a giant step forward.
Vicksburg showed what relentless pressure, mobility, and strategy could achieve. But the war was not just a Western fight. It was national—and while we took the river, another battle was raging in Pennsylvania.
Gettysburg: The Defense of the Union Heart
While I was digging trenches in Mississippi, General Lee had taken a bold gamble and invaded the North. His aim was clear: break Union morale, win a decisive victory on our soil, and perhaps convince foreign powers to recognize the Confederacy.
But at Gettysburg, his plan failed. General George G. Meade, newly promoted and under great pressure, held the Union line through three terrible days. From Cemetery Ridge to Little Round Top, his men stood fast. Pickett’s Charge, launched on the final day, was repelled with staggering losses. The Confederate army retreated, never again to mount a full-scale invasion of the North.
Though I was not there, I knew what it meant. The Eastern Army had held, and Lee—who had seemed invincible—was finally turned back. Gettysburg was a moral and military victory, and together with Vicksburg, it gave the Union what we had long needed: momentum.
The Cost of Victory
Neither battle came cheap. At Gettysburg alone, there were over 50,000 casualties—Americans, all. At Vicksburg, the siege brought starvation and suffering to thousands, both soldier and civilian. We had won, yes—but war has a price, and no commander should ever forget it.
I visited the graves after Vicksburg fell—rows of fresh mounds, many unmarked, many too small. I remembered the sound of cannon fire, the smell of powder and death, and the weight of command.
Victory brings no joy if it comes without reflection. And reflection is a duty I carry as heavily as my sword.
The War Would Go On
Though the victories were great, the war was not over. The Confederacy would fight on with stubborn resolve. There would be more campaigns—Chattanooga, Atlanta, the Wilderness, Petersburg—and more loss.
But after July 1863, the Union held the upper hand. The question was no longer if we could win, but when, and at what cost.
The victories gave President Lincoln renewed strength and political capital. They restored the North’s faith in our armies and commanders. They showed the world—especially Britain and France—that the Union was strong, and that secession would not stand.
A Nation Reclaimed, One Battle at a Time
Years later, when I became General-in-Chief and eventually President, I never forgot those days. Gettysburg and Vicksburg were not just military operations—they were national awakenings. They proved that the Union was more than geography. It was an idea worth defending, and one that men were willing to die for.
When I think of those battles now, I remember the soldiers—mud-covered, sun-burned, fearless—who fought not for fame, but for the future.
They are the reason this nation endured.
Destiny’s Crossroad: Conversation at the Edge of Memory – Generals Lee & Grant
It was many years after the last shots had been fired when we met—General Lee and I—in the stillness of a Virginia countryside. The war was long over. The smoke had cleared, and the flags had been furled. But the memories lingered, especially Gettysburg—that crossroads of fate where the hopes of a nation, and the cause of another, met in three days of fire and fury.
We sat beneath an old tree, two men changed by war, not as generals now, but as witnesses to history.
Opening Reflections
Lee: "General Grant, there are days I still hear the cannon fire from those Pennsylvania ridges. Gettysburg... It was meant to be decisive. My men had marched so far, endured so much. I believed, perhaps too confidently, that we could break the Union line and end the war on Northern soil."
Grant: "And yet you didn’t, General. Not for lack of courage—but perhaps because you believed too deeply in the invincibility of your army."
Lee: "That may be so. I misjudged. I believed the Union army was demoralized after Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville. I believed your people might sue for peace after one more blow. I underestimated their resolve."
A Union Misunderstanding
Grant: "And I’ll say this, General: many in the North misunderstood Gettysburg too. They saw it as the end, when it was truly only a turning point. Yes, Meade stopped your advance, but he didn’t pursue you with force enough to destroy your army. Some say he missed an opportunity."
Lee: "Indeed, your newspapers cried for his dismissal. But I respect what Meade accomplished. He took command just days before the battle and managed to stand firm under immense pressure. The Union line held because of sound decisions, good ground, and brave men."
Grant: "I agree. But let me be honest—we made mistakes too. Our high command often focused too much on the East. The Western Theater was gaining the real momentum. While Gettysburg drew headlines, Vicksburg, which fell the very next day, broke your Confederacy in half."
Correcting the Record
Lee: "Many in the South believed that had Pickett’s Charge succeeded, the war would’ve ended. That’s a myth, I must admit. Even if we had taken Cemetery Ridge, we’d have held it only briefly. Your reserves were close, your interior lines fast. We were too far from our supply lines, too scattered."
Grant: "Exactly. And Pickett’s men never had real artillery support. The bombardment missed the Union guns. That charge was brave—foolishly brave. But it could not have broken the spine of the Union army."
Lee: "Still, they walked into death without flinching. I sent them, and I bear that responsibility."
Grant: "You honored your duty, but your hope outweighed your reality. And we in the North often misunderstood your motivation. Many believed the South fought only for slavery, but I know some—like you—fought for what you saw as the defense of your homeland. That does not justify the cause, but it complicates the story."
Lee: "I appreciate the distinction, General. And let me correct another misconception: some believe you Northern generals were hesitant or plodding. That might have been true early on. But you proved otherwise. At Vicksburg, at Chattanooga, and later in Virginia—you pursued, pressed, and never let go."
Grant: "That was the lesson: war is attrition. Gettysburg taught both our nations that there would be no quick end. It wasn’t glory anymore—it was endurance."
What the Battle Meant at the Time
Lee: "To my men, Gettysburg felt like a loss of faith. They had believed in our cause with such fervor. But afterward, many sensed the tide turning, even if they wouldn’t say it aloud. We began to fight defensively, to hold what we had rather than reach for more."
Grant: "And to the North, it was a reawakening. Gettysburg reminded us what was at stake. It gave Lincoln the ground on which to deliver his most profound promise—that government by the people, for the people, would not perish."
Lee: "I read his words. Brief, but immortal. He did in two minutes what others could not in two hours."
The Last Measure of Meaning
Grant: "Gettysburg became more than a battle. It became a symbol—that the Union would endure, and that the cost of freedom would be high."
Lee: "And for us in the South, it became the beginning of the end. Slowly, painfully, we learned that courage could not overcome supply lines, numbers, and the will of an entire industrial nation."
Grant: "But both sides bled. Both sides lost sons, brothers, fathers. That’s what we share, Robert—not just strategy or scars, but sorrow."
Lee: "Yes. If Gettysburg taught me anything, it is that war must never be entered into lightly. For while it tests nations, it breaks men."
Parting Words at the Edge of History
We rose in silence, the sun setting behind the hills. Two old soldiers who had once commanded armies now bowed to time, memory, and the lessons we had learned too late.
Lee turned to me, his voice low.
Lee: “History will judge us, Ulysses. But let it not judge us as enemies. Let it remember that we both hoped to build a better nation—even if we fought for different visions of it.”
Grant: “And let it remember Gettysburg—not just for who won, but for what it proved: that liberty, though bruised, stood firm.”
