On July 3, 1863, at Gettysburg, Confederate General James Longstreet gave the order that sent approximately 12,000 men across an open field into a storm of Union artillery and rifle fire. The assault, known forever as Pickett’s Charge, lasted barely fifty minutes. When it was over, the field was littered with the dead and dying, and the Confederate offensive in the North was effectively finished.
Longstreet’s private account of that day, written years later, offers a harrowing look at the confusion, the desperate warnings ignored, and the slaughter he witnessed firsthand. His words reveal an assault doomed from the start by poor planning, exhausted artillery, and a commanding general who would not be swayed.
### A Grim Confidence Before the Advance
In the hours before the charge, the air was thick with tension. Longstreet described a scene of grim confidence mixed with dread. As he prepared to give the final order, one of his officers saluted him, tipped his hat, and rode off to join his men.
Longstreet found himself unable to speak, his voice stifled as if choked by gunpowder smoke.
General Pickett approached him directly. “General, shall we advance?” he asked firmly.
Without waiting for a lengthy reply, Pickett rode off with almost a swagger, his spurs faintly jingling as he joined his brigade. Longstreet watched him go, then urged his own restless chestnut mare forward, rushing toward Colonel Alexander’s artillery station, where chaos had already taken hold.
Alexander reported that his face was smeared with dirt. He had positioned the reserve batteries to prevent sparks from the ironclad wheels of the gun carriages, a sight that briefly kindled hope in Longstreet’s mind. But the hope was short-lived.
The order to advance was absolute. General Lee had firmly resolved to make the attack, and no argument would change that.
### The Artillery Was Nearly Useless
Longstreet urgently commanded Alexander to halt the movement immediately and replenish the ammunition caissons. The situation was dire. The ammunition was so severely depleted that the guns were nearly useless in providing proper artillery support.
To Longstreet’s dismay, no shot, shell, or powder could be found. The crates stood as empty as a beggar’s purse, leaving the Confederates defenseless at the critical moment.
Worse still, the ammunition for the positioned batteries was so critically low that they could offer little aid to the advancing infantry. Meanwhile, across the field, the enemy’s gun teams and artillery pieces were seen hastily retreating toward the rear. The infantry assault meant to accompany them had been withdrawn by direct order of General Lee’s chief of staff, spreading confusion among the Confederate ranks.
Despite these glaring problems, riders swiftly carried exhortations down the lines, urging the men to press forward with haste. The general would tolerate no delay, nor would he allow anything to tarnish the honor of the mission.
### The Advance Begins
At that pivotal moment, the troops advanced with a swift, bounding energy, like hounds unleashed on a hunt. As officers rode past, they exchanged sharp salutes, their stern faces betraying no emotion despite the enemy’s furious fire now raining down on the advancing troops.
The withdrawn Union artillery units had been replaced by fresh guns pulled from the enemy’s second line. These new positions would soon prove devastatingly effective. The Confederate column moved forward in perfect formation beneath the smoke.
The vanguard had barely cleared the path when supporting ranks followed, their bayonets catching what little light filtered through the battle haze.
Pettigrew’s division picked up the pace, their regimental banners whipping in the erratic winds as they descended the slope through relentless enemy fire. The thick gunpowder smoke enveloped them like a sinister fog. Artillery crews, sleeves rolled up in the heat, sent volleys arcing over the infantrymen’s heads.
Nearby, General Trimble sat astride his gray gelding with the calm demeanor of a gentleman preparing for an evening stroll, though his clenched jaw revealed his true tension. With practiced ease, he adjusted his bridle and posture while his chestnut hair, uncut for months, lay across his shoulders like a warrior’s mantle.
The advance began in earnest to the shrill melody of fife and drum. The troops maintained flawless formations, correcting their lines with parade ground precision. General Pickett, ever the elegant horseman, guided his dapple mount with effortless grace as the column passed the Confederate artillery positions.
The bareheaded gunners stood at respectful attention, their cannon muzzles yawning wide like bronze hunting hounds, ready for the chase.
### The Field Became a Slaughterhouse
The battlefield quickly became a slaughterhouse. Officers and men alike began to fall. Some met their end with barely a whimper, while others dragged themselves toward medical tents in desperate hope, clutching shattered limbs.
The enemy’s concentrated infantry fire and devastating artillery crossfire tore through the Confederate ranks with terrifying efficiency.
Well-aimed shots screamed through the air like banshees, carving bloody gaps in the lines. Yet no sooner did these wounds appear than the resolute men closed ranks, their relentless advance churning the earth to mud beneath their determined march. Here and there, entire files collapsed as if struck by divine wrath, falling like marionettes with their strings cut.
Elsewhere, soldiers dropped like exhausted birds mid-flight.
Colonel Fremantle, conspicuous in his bright British scarlet amidst the sea of gray, rushed forward with premature congratulations for what he assumed was success. Longstreet could only gesture grimly to the decimated lines, now reduced to half their strength.
Meanwhile, Colonel Sorrel, a wiry man of iron will, was dispatched to reinforce Pickett’s vulnerable rear. Colonel Latrobe, his saber clattering against his thigh as he rode, carried urgent orders to General Trimble. The situation grew more desperate by the minute.
McLaws received orders to push his left flank forward, but the enemy’s concentrated fury made progress nearly impossible. Seeing the weakening Confederate position, the foe boldly advanced against the supporting brigades. General Trimble’s men, though breathing air thick with gunpowder and despair, fought valiantly to fill the breaches left by shattered brigades, even as Pickett’s forces were forced to withdraw toward new defensive positions, their banners dipping wearily in retreat.
### Officers Fell Like Autumn Leaves
The battlefield became a slaughterhouse of lead and iron where field officers fell like autumn leaves, their bodies trampled into the blood-soaked earth. General Lee arrived, his face pale beneath his hat’s broad brim, joining the staff officers as they struggled to maintain order amidst the carnage.
On the left flank, Trimble fought with soldierly precision, rallying his men to fill the gaps left by the fallen. Colonel Whittle of Armistead’s brigade, a veteran who had survived wounds at Williamsburg and Malvern Hill, took another shot through his right arm before collapsing beside an abandoned cannon, his hand still gripping a caisson wheel in death.
Pettigrew, though wounded, remained mounted, his voice growing hoarse from constant commands. Yet the enemy swarmed like locusts on the right. Brigadier Garnett fell.
Then Kemper and Trimble were carried from the field. Their fates were mirrored by Union generals Hancock and Gibbon across the lines.
Armistead pressed forward toward the enemy’s fortified position, planting his hat on his sword to rally his men. But the overwhelming Union forces crushed even his noble resolve. He fell, mortally wounded, and the Confederate advance stalled and then broke.
### Longstreet’s Darkest Moment
As shells screamed overhead like vengeful spirits, one exploded near Longstreet, showering him with dirt. For a brief moment, he shamefully wished for a merciful death to escape the hell unfolding before him. But duty demanded action.
He rode to the remaining Confederate artillery, resolved to hold the line while a single gun still fired.
Pickett, seeing that the assault had failed while Union reinforcements kept coming, finally ordered the retreat. Yet there was no panic, only shattered men withdrawing in grim silence, their faces stone. Officers like General Lane, his beard blackened with powder, moved calmly among the survivors, steadying them as the setting sun painted the field in blood-red hues.
The grand charge ended not with rebel yells, but with the whimpers of broken men limping back from Cemetery Ridge. The cold arithmetic of war had prevailed. For every Union officer struck down, the Confederates had lost three.
The wheat field of southern valor had met the Union’s scythe and been cut down.
### A Disaster That Could Have Been Avoided
Longstreet’s grim warnings had echoed through the Confederate command in the days before the battle, but they went unheeded. He had argued against the assault, urging Lee to maneuver around the Union flank instead of launching a frontal attack on the strongest position. Lee refused.
The result was catastrophic.
Years later, Longstreet would pen his damning verdict on the charge. He wrote that on that day, the Confederacy did not die. It committed suicide.
The assault was not a display of noble courage, but a reckless gamble that squandered the army’s best troops in a single, doomed hour.
### The Mysteries That Remain
Yet mysteries remain. Why did Longstreet take his full truth to the grave? He was criticized for years after the war, blamed by some Confederate veterans for the loss at Gettysburg.
He maintained his account was accurate, but he never revealed everything he saw or heard that day.
And what did Lee whisper to his shattered men as they staggered back from Cemetery Ridge? Longstreet noted that Lee spoke to the survivors, but he dared not repeat the words. They were too terrible, too heavy with the weight of a lost cause.
The real story lies buried with those who fell on that bloody field. Their unanswered questions remain as thick as the smoke that covered the ground. What is certain is that Pickett’s Charge was not a moment of glory, but a tragedy of errors, pride, and devastating loss.
Longstreet saw it all, and what he saw changed everything.