On the afternoon of July 2, 1863, as the Battle of Gettysburg entered its second day, a British observer embedded with Confederate forces watched Major General Daniel Sickles’ Union Third Corps advance beyond the low ridge, leaving its flanks exposed. The aggressive positioning, which historians still debate as either bold innovation or reckless overreach, would cost Sickles’ corps more than 4,200 casualties, nearly 40 percent of its strength, by day’s end. The observer was Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Fremantle of the British Coldstream Guards, who kept a detailed diary of his time among Confederate leaders during the campaign. In his account, Fremantle described the immense artillery duel that erupted around 4:45 p.
m. , when Confederate General James Longstreet unleashed a thunderous barrage from the southern flank. More than 60 guns roared in unison, soon mirrored by General Richard Ewell’s artillery from the north. Federals countered with a 90-gun crescendo along Cemetery Ridge.
Over 20,000 rounds were exchanged in hours, scorching the earth and claiming 200 gunners alone. As shells arced overhead, a Confederate brass band between the lines and the Lutheran Seminary struck up lively polkas and waltzes, clashing absurdly with the explosions around them. By 5:45 p. m.
, the left flank near Culp’s Hill quieted, but musket fire on the right signaled Longstreet’s infantry surge. Hood’s Texans, McLaws’ Georgians, and Barksdale’s Mississippians crashed into the Peach Orchard and Wheatfield. Around 6:30 p. m.
, momentum faltered. Records indicate that when the Florida Brigade crumbled under enfilade fire from Little Round Top, it exposed Longstreet’s flank, triggering a domino effect. Confederate casualties mounted into the thousands by nightfall. Longstreet personally led a Georgia regiment bareheaded against a Napoleon battery, sword flashing.
Brigadier General William Barksdale fell mortally wounded, as did General Semmes. The greatest loss was Major General John Bell Hood, the Texas hero, maimed in the arm by shrapnel early in the engagement. His men mourned as if bereft of soul. Fremantle surveyed the carnage the next morning.
Burial details toiled amid fly-swarmed heaps, but hundreds of corpses and the dying dotted the fields unattended. Mortally wounded Yankees in garish Zouave garb, baggy red pants aping French Algerian uniforms, fixed him with hollow beseeching stares as he passed. The third day brought the assault Fremantle had anticipated. Fresh to the fray, General George Pickett’s division, scarcely numbering 4,500, would spearhead Longstreet’s thrust, flanked by Heath’s and Pettigrew’s veterans from Hill’s ranks.
The ground they had to cross was open meadow perhaps a full mile wide, mercilessly raked by enemy guns from start to finish. Around 2:30 p. m. , Fremantle rode toward Longstreet as the attack began.
He witnessed the tide of suffering: solitary figures limping rearward, propped on improvised crutches, pairs leaning on one another, litters borne by comrades. Union logs would later count Pickett’s casualties at over 6,000 in under an hour, half of the attacking force. Fremantle found Longstreet perched atop a zigzag rail fence, exuding serene command. “Sir, I wouldn’t trade this sight for the world,” Fremantle called.
Longstreet replied with a wry chuckle: “The devil you say. I’d give my kingdom to skip it all together. ” The assault had crashed against the Union’s iron wall and recoiled in shattered waves. Longstreet confided that Pickett’s men had stormed the crest and seized federal batteries in a blaze of triumph, but held for barely 20 minutes before yielding as Heath and Pettigrew faltered on their flank.
As Yankee columns massed for a counterstroke, Longstreet orchestrated countermeasures with swift precision, shuttling forward fresh guns and corralling the scattered troops. When a general approached to lament his brigade’s exhaustion, Longstreet responded with biting irony: “Very well, sir. Let them lie. The blues advance to do the labor for you.
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Fremantle then sought General Robert E. Lee, drawn by word of catastrophe rippling through command. He found Lee circulating among the frayed battalions, urging cohesion: “This tide turns yet. We’ll ponder it anon, but true hearts must stand firm now.
We crave every loyal arm. ” He implored the walking wounded to staunch wounds and seize rifles afresh. To Fremantle, Lee murmured, “A grievous hour, Colonel, truly grievous. Triumph eludes even the mightiest eternally.
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Despite the calamity, no trifle escaped Lee’s eye. Spotting a rider flogging his skittish steed at a shell’s crack, Lee interjected sharply: “Ease off, Captain. No lash. My own nag shares that folly.
Force avails nothing. ”
General Wilcox appeared in an abbreviated coat and frayed straw hat, voice cracking as he detailed his command’s ruin. Lee clasped his hand warmly. “No cause for despair, sir.
All this blunder rests on me. I’ve squandered the day. Aid me now to salvage what endures. ”
Confederate reports timestamped the repulse at 3:07 p.
m. Pickett’s ranks boasted but one unscathed field-grade survivor. The carnage unfolded across a single square mile of bare field in 60 minutes. At 6:00 in the evening, prolonged northern huzzahs rolled forth, sparking fears of a Union onslaught.
Instead, they heralded a federal commander parading amid his ranks, trailed by three dozen riders. Fremantle later inspected four rifled pieces thinly screened by foot soldiers. Their steadfast posting thwarted Yankee aggression. A sergeant and his gun crew encircled him, buoyant despite their vulnerability.
They lauded Pickett’s gallant surge and voiced unwavering faith in their commander. “The chief holds our faith unshaken. This reverse blemishes him not. Uncle Robert charts Washington still,” one declared.
As they conversed, enemy pickets crept nearer, dissolving the gathering. By 7:00, word arrived that Johnson’s wing under Ewell had seized vital ground on the left. Silence blanketed the sector, though sharp volleys crackled on the right, where Hood’s Texans reportedly ensnared rash Yankee horsemen, sparing just 18 of 400 in a vengeful harvest. That night, rumors swept through the camps that Longstreet had been slain.
When Fremantle assured the bandaged men of his vigor, their joy eclipsed their agony. At daybreak on July 4, Fremantle learned that a chest of regimental funds had been pilfered overnight, one of several such thefts attributed to skulkers who had evaded the fighting. The quartermaster was despondent, the culprit gone with the money. Fremantle trekked forward by 8:00 and encountered Longstreet in buoyant mirth, a phoenix amid embers.
A truce banner fluttered from Union lines, and a Yankee envoy proclaimed Longstreet fallen and captured. Longstreet replied with profound thanks, noting he remained unscathed and free, managing his fate adeptly. In conference with General Pendleton, clerical overseer of batteries, Fremantle learned that 140 Confederate cannon had thundered in unison the day before. Consensus crowned the 12-pounder Napoleon supreme for maneuver, light at 1,200 pounds, hurling 8-pound spheres 1,700 yards, forged from seized Yankee iron or recast relics of earlier skirmishes.
By 10:00, word arrived of an evening march toward Virginia, driven by necessity born of spent powder and exhausted supplies. Hopes lingered that the Federals might attack on Independence Day, offering a chance for one final clash. Ordnance convoys already snaked toward Cashtown, and Ewell’s trophy-laden wagons lumbered toward Hagerstown via Fairfield. Johnson had relinquished his nocturnal gains under cover of darkness.
Briefly, his men had clutched Cemetery Hill’s slopes, only to be ousted for lack of support, thwarted by that leader’s debility. A deluge began at 1:00, drenching the retreating army into crude Pennsylvania shelters. By 2:00, Fremantle trudged along a relocated bivouac three miles along the Fairfield trace. He discoursed at length on the campaign’s principal lapse: dispersing forces.
Yesterday’s bid had been made with 15,000 to 30,000 men by Longstreet’s calculus. Hill’s novices, untested youths, buckled in triple echelons. Contemporary accounts tally 7,000 Confederate captives across the three days, with 3,500 paroled by oath. Federal tallies noted 40 percent recidivism by fall.
The residue was herded to Richmond under Pickett’s remnants. Pennsylvania spoils streamed ceaselessly: conveyances, equines, draft beasts, herds. Ewell’s prizes drew special acclaim.
Fremantle concluded his account by reflecting on the hinge of history he had witnessed, from Pickett’s thunderous charge to Lee’s unbreakable rally, a campaign of audacious dreams, blood-drenched fields, and rain-veiled redemption.