Back More

Historical Document

Who can write the history of a battle whose eyes are immovably fastened upon a central figure of transcendingly absorbing interest—the dead body of an oldest born, crushed by a shell in a position where a battery should never have been sent, and abandoned to death in a building where surgeons dared not to stay?

The battle of Gettysburgh! I am told that it commenced, on the 1st of July, a mile north of the town, between two weak brigades of infantry and some doomed artillery and the whole force of the rebel army. Among other costs of this error was the death of Reynolds. Its value was priceless, however, though priceless was the young and the old blood with which it was bought. The error put us on the defensive, and gave us the choice of position. From the moment that our artillery and infantry rolled back through the main street of Gettysburgh and rolled out of the town to the circle of eminences south of it. We were not to attack but to be attacked. The risks, the difficulties and the advantages[?] of the coming battle were the enemy’s. Our[s] were the heights for artillery; ours the short, inside lines for manoeuvering and reinforcing; ours the cover of stonewalls, fences and the crests of hills. The ground upon which we were driven to accept battle was wonderfully favorable to us. A popular description of it would be to say that it was in from an elongated and somewhat sharpened horseshoe, with the toe to Gettysburgh and the heel to the south.

Lee ’s plan of battle was simple. He manned his troops upon the east side of this shoe of position, and thundered on it obstinately to break it. The shelling of our batteries from the nearest overlooking hill, and the unflinching courage and complete discipline of the army of the Potomac repelled the attack. It was renewed at the point of [sic] the shoe—renewed desperately at the southwest heel—-renewed on the western side with an effort consecrated to success by Ewell ’s earnest oaths, and on which the fate of the invasion of Pennsylvania was fully put at stake. Only a perfect infantry and an artillery educated in the midst of charges of hostile brigades could possibly have sustained this assault. Hancock ’s corps did sustain it, and has covered itself with immortal honors by its constancy and courage. The total wreck of Cushing ’s battery—the list of its killed and wounded—the losses of officers, men and horses Cowen [sic] sustained-and the marvellous outspread upon the board of death of dead soldiers and dead animals—of dead soldiers in blue, and dead soldiers in gray—more marvellous to me than anything I have ever seen in war—are a ghastly and shocking testimony to the terrible fight of the Second corps that none will gainsay. That corps will ever have the distinction of breaking

the pride and power of the rebel invasion.

For such details as I have the heart for. The battle commenced at daylight, on the side of the horse-shoe position, exactly opposite to that which Ewell had sworn to crash through. Musketry preceded the rising of the sun. A thick wood veiled this fight, but out of its leafy darkness arose the smoke and the surging and swelling of the fire, from intermittent to continuous, and crushing, told of the wise tactics of the rebels of attacking in force and changing their troops. Seemingly the attack of the day was to be made through that wood. The demonstration was protracted—it was absolutely preparative; there was no artillery fire accompanying the musketry, and shrewd officers in our western front mentioned, with the gravity due to the fact, that the rebels had felled trees at intervals upon the edge of the wood they occupied in face of our position. These were breastworks for the protection of artillery men.

Suddenly, and about 10 in the forenoon, the firing on the east side, and everywhere about our lines, ceased. A silence as of deep sleep fell upon the field of battle. Our army cooked, ate and slumbered. The rebel army moved 130 guns to the west, and massed there Longstreet ’s corps and Hill ’s corps, to hurl them upon the really weakest point of our entire position.

Eleven o’clock-twelve o’clock-one o’clock. In the shadow cast by the tiny farm house 10 by 20, which Gen. Meade had made his Headquarters, lay wearied staff officers and tired reporters. There was not wanting to the peacefulness of the scene the singing of a bird, which had a nest in a peach tree within the tiny yard of the whitewashed cottage. In the midst of its warbling, a shell screamed over the house, instantly followed by another, and another, and in a moment the air was full of the most complete artillery prelude to an infantry battle that was ever exhibited. Every size and form of shell known to British and to American gunnery shrieked, whirled, moaned, whistled and wrathfully fluttered over our ground. As many as six in a second, constantly two in a second, bursting and screaming over and around the headquarters, made a very hell of fire that amazed the oldest officers. They burst in the yard—burst next to the fence on both sides, garnished as usual with the hitched horses of aids[sic] and orderlies. The fastened animals reared and plunged with terror. Then one fell, then another—sixteen lay dead and mangled before the fire ceased, still fastened by their halters, which gave the expression of being wickedly tied up to die painfully. These brute victims of a cruel war touched all hearts. Through the midst of the storm of screaming and exploding shells, an ambulance, driven by its frenzied conductor at full speed, presented to all of us the marvelous spectacle of a horse going rapidly on three legs. A hinder one had been shot off at the hock. A shell tore up the little step of the Headquarters Cottage, and ripped bags of oats as with a knife. Another soon carried off one of the two pillars. Soon a spherical case burst opposite the open door—another lipped through the low garret. The remaining pillar went almost immediately to the howl of a fixed shot that Wentworth must have made. During this fire the houses at twenty and thirty feet distant, were receiving their death, and soldiers in Federal blue were tom to pieces in the road and died with the peculiar yells that blend the extorted cry of pain with horror and despair. Not an orderly—not an ambulance—not a stragger [sic] was to be seen upon the plain swept by this tempest of orchestral death thirty minutes after it commenced. Were not one hundred and twenty pieces of artillery, trying to out from the field every battery we had in position to resist their purposed infantry attack, and to sweep away the light defences behind which our infantry were waiting? Forty minutes—fifty minutes—counted on watches that ran! Oh so languidly. Shells through the two lower rooms. A shell into the chimney that daringly did not explode. Shells in the yard. The air thicker and fuller and more deafening with the howling and whirring of those infernal missiles. The chief of staff struck—Seth Williams loved and respected through the army, separated from instant death by two inches of space vertically measured. An Aide bored with a fragment of iron through the bone of the arm. Another, out with an exploded piece. And the time measured on the sluggish watches was one hour and forty minutes.

Then there was a lull, and we knew that the rebel infantry was charging. And splendidly they did this work-the highest and severest test of the stuff that soldiers are made of. Hill’s division, in line of battle, came first on the double-quick. Their muskets at the “right-shoulder-shift.” Longstreet’s came as the support, at the usual distance, with war cries and a savage insolence as yet untutored by defeat. They rushed in perfect order across the open field up to the very muzzles of the guns, which tore lanes through them as they came. But they met men who were their equals in spirit, and their superiors in tenacity. There never was better fighting since Thermopyalae than was done yesterday by our infantry and artillery. The rebels were over our defenses. They had cleaned cannoniers and horses from one of the guns, and were whirling it around to use upon us. The bayonet drove them back. But so hard pressed was this brave infantry that at one time, from the exhaustion of their ammunition, every battery upon the principal crest of attack was silent, except Crowen’s. [sic] His service of grape and cannister was awful. It enabled our line, outnumbered two to one, first to beat back Longstreet, and then to charge upon him, and take a great number of his men and himself prisoners.

Strange sight! So terrible was our musketry and artillery fire, that when Armistead ’s brigade was checked in its charge, and stood reeling, all of its men dropped their muskets and crawled on their hands and knees underneath the stream of shot till close to our troops, where they made signs of surrendering. They passed through our ranks scarcely noticed, and slowly went down the slope to the road in the rear.

Before they got there the grand charge of Ewell, solemnly sworn to and carefully prepared, had failed.

The rebels had retreated to their lines, and opened anew the storm of shell and shot from their 120 guns. Those who remained at the riddled headquarters will never [forget] the crouching, and dodging, and running, of the Butternut-colored captives when they got under this, their friends, fire. It was appalling to as good soldiers even as they were.

What remains to say of the fight? It staggled [sic] warily on the middle of the horse shoe on the west, grew big and angry on the heel at the southwest, lasted there till 8 o’clock in the evening, when the fighting Sixth corps went joyously by as a reinforcement through the wood, bright with coffee pots on the fire.

I leave details to my excellent friend and associate Mr. Henry. My pen is heavy. Oh, you dead, who at Gettysburgh have baptized with your blood the second birth of Freedom in America, how you are to be envied! I rise from a grave whose wet clay I have passionately kissed, and I look up and see Christ spanning this battlefield with his feet and reaching fraternal and lovingly up to heaven. His right hand opens the gate of Paradise—with his left he beckons to these mutilated, bloody, swollen forms to ascend.

Glossary

battery: two or more pieces of artillery used for combined action

bayonet: a daggerlike steel weapon attached to or at the muzzle of a gun and used for stabbing or slashing in hand-to-hand combat

breastworks: a defensive work; usually breast high

cannister: now called canister shot; similar to grapeshot but the balls were smaller and more numerous

cannoniers: a person who manages, or fires, a canon

Ewell: Richard Stoddert Ewell, United States Army officer and a Confederate General

gainsay: to deny, dispute, or contradict

grape: also called grapeshot; not one solid element, but a mass of small metal balls or slugs tightly packed in a canvas bag

hock: the joint in the hind leg of a horse, cow, etc.

Reynolds: John Fulton Reynolds, United States Army officer and a Union General

straggled: to stray from the road, course, or line of march; to spread or be spread in a scattered fashion

stragger: to move or stand unsteadily

Thermopyalae: also spelled Thermopylae; mainly known for the Battle of Thermopylae where Greek, including Spartan, and Persian forces met for one battle of the Greco-Persian Wars

Defining Documents in American History: Civil War (1860–1865)

“The Conclusion of the Battle of Gettysburg”

by Anna Accettola, M.A.

Date: July 6, 1863

Author: Wilkeson, Samuel

Genre: article; editorial; report

“…more marvelous to me than anything I have ever seen in a war—are a ghastly and shocking testimony to the terrible fight of the Second corps that none will gainsay.”

Summary Overview

This document, which is a description of the finale of the Battle of Gettysburg, was written not only to detail and narrate the scenes which Samuel Wilkeson had been sent to report upon, but also to communicate his own pain, caused by the brutal death of his son at the same battle. Even though his pain is apparent in the document, his pride at his countrymen and distaste for such a gruesome affair also shine through. The quote above defines his own feelings toward the battle—not that it is something to be praised, but that it is so horrible that he can barely comprehend its magnitude, nor will anyone else be able to do so either. While there were many reports of Gettysburg, this is perhaps the only one written with ink infused with so much heart and sorrow of the journalist.

Defining Moment

The subject of this document was clearly the Battle of Gettysburg, which took place in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania from July 1, 1863 through July 3, 1863. In this battle, which is infamous for having the highest number of casualties in any battle of the Civil War, Major General George Gordon Meade led the Union troops against the Confederates, led by General Robert E. Lee. This was the second attempt by General Lee to invade the North. This three-day battle ended with Lee’s forces being turned back and a victory for the Union. Furthermore, General Lee and the Confederate forces did not plan any more offensive maneuvers against the North. Since that time, the Battle of Gettysburg has been the subject of much fascination by historians, both professional and amateur. And while not considered a particularly important battle at the time, it is now regarded as a pivotal moment in the Civil War.

This document was written by Samuel Wilkeson as part of his job reporting for The New York Times. As such, his audience was any subscriber to his newspaper during the time period in which the report was published. It contributed to both the social and political feeling of the time. Because the newspaper was the only way in which contemporary people could learn about the events of the war, reporters had significant influence over the population. Through their reports they could highlight the horrors of war, incite passion and patriotism for the cause and the troops, and even sway public opinion. There were many reports from the Battle of Gettysburg, for forty-five reporters were sent in to the town in order to gather information. The styles of these reports varied by the individual reporters’ backgrounds and personal influences. One such reporter was Thomas Morris Chester of the Philadelphia Press, who was the first black reporter in the Civil War to work for a major newspaper. Many of his reports had a distinct trend toward reporting the events as they concerned African American troops, which would clearly show his own personal interests. Likewise, while doing his duty to report the facts about the battle, Samuel Wilkeson was also able to express his horror at the bloodshed and his own grief from the loss of his son. Such intricacies set him, and other reporters, apart from any simpler, dry recitation of the events.

Author Biography

The life story of Samuel Wilkeson has been somewhat obscured by time, but his work for the New York Times during the Civil War has insured his name in history. Born in 1817, he is best known for his work with the Times and for his reporting on the Battle of Gettysburg during the Civil War. One of 500 correspondents who were assigned and embedded with the soldiers fighting in the Civil War, Samuel Wilkeson was also one of forty-five reporters who reported directly on the Battle of Gettysburg.

Wilkeson was from a wealthy and affluent family, his father, also Samuel Wilkeson, helped to found the city of Buffalo. He was married to Catherine Cady, sister of the famous social activist Elizabeth Cady Stanton. They had several sons. Samuel had been assigned to cover the events in which the Army of the Potomac was involved, including the Battle of Gettysburg. Overcoming his own personal loss at the death of one of his sons, Lieutenant Bayard Wilkeson, at the Battle of Gettysburg, who was nineteen years old at the time, Samuel managed to complete his assignment and published the following report on the battle.

A year after this battle, his younger son, Frank Wilkeson, ran away from home to join the military, lying about his age, as he was only fourteen years old at the time. Samuel Wilkeson lived long enough to see this same son, having survived his time spent fighting in many battles in the Civil War, follow in his father’s footsteps and being a journalist for the New York Times. While not much more is known about Samuel Wilkeson, his name and the names of his family members have an indelible place in United States history. Samuel Wilkeson died in 1889, but his work continues to shed light on one of the most infamous and bloody battles of the Civil War.

Document Analysis

This document reports the details of the Battle of Gettysburg from the point of view of a spectator, but not just any spectator, that of a trained professional journalist working for the New York Times who had lost his son in that same battle, simply a day before he arrived on the scene. From the first sentence, Samuel Wilkeson shows his dedication to his son and his overwhelming grief for his violent and brutal death. His apparent confusion about how to do his job while in the throes of such depression is infused into every word. This is the aspect of Wilkeson’s article that most sets his report apart from other descriptions of the Battle of Gettysburg—his blatant grieving for his son mixed with his ability still to recount the details of the battle and strategies of each side of the conflict. Wilkeson truly shows his merit as a writer, however, by using poetic language and descriptions to enrich his descriptions and paint for his audience the landscape of the battle.

Expressions of Grief and the Details of the Battle

Wilkeson’s first paragraph clearly gives a voice to the pain which was so overwhelming to him. With the words “in a position where a battery should never have been sent,” Wilkeson both shows a parent’s hate for the battle and conditions surrounding a child’s death and criticizes the battle strategy. But by acknowledging his loss, and then putting that pain aside momentarily, Wilkeson is able to describe for his audience the events of the battle. Beginning with a description of the start of the battle, he then proceeds to outline the strategy of the Confederate leaders. These sentences may reveal that he did not approve of the strategy which was used by the Union generals, although it did lead to a victory for the Union. The geographical placement of the Battle of Gettysburg was more one of chance than true planning, with delays and issues with leadership obstructing General Robert E. Lee’s attempt to move his army to the north against the Union. The actual placement of troops almost entirely favored the Northern side of the conflict, with men, such as Wilkeson’s son, placed on hilltops and in strategic and defensively sound areas. But, as with any battle, men on both sides were injured and killed. Unfortunate though it was, bad luck had more to do with Wilkeson’s son being hit by a mortar shell and dying of shock than any poorly placed battlement.

As Wilkeson states, beginning in the second paragraph, the battle commenced on the 1st of July and General Lee was immediately faced with several issues that led to the Union gaining an upper hand that they would not relinquish for the rest of the battle. Even though Wilkeson reports that “Reynolds,” whose full name and title is Union General John Fulton Reynolds, was killed in the initial skirmish, before the full force of the Union troops could arrive, Lee was not able to do more than move into the weak position that his troops occupied for the remaining of the fighting. Wilkeson spends the rest of the paragraph describing the land upon which the battle was fought—its disadvantages for the Confederate troops and the advantages for the Union soldiers. Wilkeson continues by describing the movement of Lee’s army, his use of shelling, and the Union troops who, valiantly in his opinion, held off the barrage.

The end of the third paragraph, however, has a slightly different tone than a strict report of the details of the battle. As is highlighted in the quote above, Wilkeson describes the losses suffered by the Union infantry and artillery on account of the continuous shelling by the Confederates as “more marvelous to me than anything I have ever seen in war.” This editorializing enlivens his report from a dry retelling of the facts, which could be done by anyone who saw the battle and had a basic understanding of battle tactics and strategy. Because Wilkeson knew there was more to journalism than a simple recitation of events, he was able to create a narrative which brought the far-away scene of the battle home to those who could only learn of it through his article. Mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, and children all had to wait for journalists to give them the details about those battles which took their family members away from them and into danger. A soulless recitation of events only gives information detached from experience, but in order to be able to comprehend the war which the country had been embroiled in for so long, personal reactions were also necessary.

The Poetry of the Battle

He takes his article to another level of beauty, however, when Wilkeson begins to describe the battle scene using poetic rhetoric. When he writes the fourth paragraph of his report, Wilkeson begins to expand on his basic descriptions using more flowery terms in order to convey the dramatic effect of the battle. With such phrases as “out of the leafy darkness” and “a silence as of deep sleep” color the description of one push of the battle so that it is no longer in the realm of dry retelling. By using such language, Wilkeson was able to aid his readers in becoming a part of the scene and better understanding the tension, pain, and bleakness that haunts a battlefield. Without his ability to weave so eloquent a narrative, much of his contemporary audience would not have been able to identify with those who fought, were injured, and died upon that piece of ground.

Wilkeson continues his narration with juxtaposition of peace and destruction. The quiet and still morning was broken by the sound of a bird, warbling from its perch. This idyllic scene is then shattered by the commencement of Confederate shelling. Later, Wilkeson relates the image of a horse running on three legs, the “hinder one having been shot off at the hock.” Where a running horse should inspire a lightness of spirit and awe at natural beauty and grace, this one only inspires horror. By using such imagery, Wilkeson uses common events—the singing of a bird and the running of a horse—to show his audience the battle and give them something to which they could relate. While many of his readers would never have seen a battle or known the shock of a wounded soldier firsthand, they would all know the morning call of a bird in a tree or how a horse looks pulling a carriage or running through a field.

The last section of Wilkeson’s article is devoted to the ending of the battle, the fierce fighting and the eventually defeat of the Confederate forces. While not as poetic as the preceding sections, his pride in the Union troops and their ability to hold their ground against such an onslaught of Confederate soldiers is apparent in his descriptions of their fighting. Interestingly, he is also positive in his descriptions of the southern troops, describing them as having “perfect form” in their charge and strong in their fighting. His loyalty to the Union won out, however, as he states that they are “equal in spirit, and their [the Confederates’] superiors in tenacity.” While his poetry is not as apparent in these last passages, his heart still is—an attribute which gives his readers the ability to experience his pain and the turmoil of the battle.

With his final paragraph, Wilkeson blends the elements of his writing which have been discussed—the grief, the reporting of facts, and the poetry. When he states that “my pen is heavy” and turns over the remaining reporting to his associate Mr. Henry, his grief for his own child and all who fell at Gettysburg is evident, as is his belief that the work of broadcasting the details to the public must continue. He then describes the clay in which his son is buried and creates the fanciful image of Christ leading the fallen into Paradise, a clear demonstration of his poetic talents. But even through all of this pain, Wilkeson ends on a positive note, declaring the fallen to be envied and that through their sacrifice “the second birth of Freedom in America” has come. While somewhat ahead of his time, as the war would not end for some years to come, this announcement seemed moderately prophetic of the eventual victory of the Union and the freedoms promised to its citizens.

Essential Themes

This document shows the Battle of Gettysburg in a way that few battles have able to be recorded, with a mix of emotion and professional detachment. And it is brought together by the author’s poetic flair which elevates it to something far beyond a sketch of a battle plan or even a recitation of the death of a son. While this article was written with the short-term purpose of fulfilling an assignment and passing information to the public, it had the long-term effect of preserving the firsthand experience of one of the most infamous battles in the Civil War. Furthermore, this account gives life to a battle that for most people is simply a piece of history, tragic but completed. Wilkeson gives personalities to the faces of the dead, names to the bodies, and serves himself as a poignant reminder of all that is lost in battle, for those who fall and those who remain.

There are many historians who, today, declare the Battle of Gettysburg to be a defining moment in the tide of the Civil War. It has been said that once the Union had won that decisive victory, the South was essentially on a downward trend until the end of the war. But even if that is true, and it is consistently debated even to the present day, those who witnessed the battle or fought in it or even led it had no idea that they were participating in something so pivotal. One of the only things they knew for certain, as it is well known today also, was that Gettysburg was one of the bloodiest battles in American history—horrifying in its destruction and loss of life—a fact which anyone who reads a firsthand account, such as that of Samuel Wilkeson, is unlikely to forget.

Bibliography

McElfresh, Earl B. “Fighting on Strange Ground.” Civil War Times 52.4 (2013): 31-36. Print.

Shahid, Sharon. “In News History: The Lone Black Reporter of the Civil War.” Washington DC News Museum. N.p., n.d. Web. 25 Aug. 2013. http://www.newseum.org/news/2011/02/thomas-morris-chester.html.

“The Civil War and Gettysburg: The Correspondents’ Perspective.” Gettysburg National Military Park. Gettysburg Foundation, n.d. Web. 25 Aug. 2013.

Wilkeson, Samuel. “Samuel Wilkeson: “The Conclusion of the Battle of Gettysburg”“ California State University Pomona, n.d. Web. 24 Aug. 2013.

Additional Reading

Cutler Andrews, J. The North Reports the Civil War. [Pittsburgh]: U of Pittsburgh P, 1955. Print.

DeAngelis, Gina. The Battle of Gettysburg: Turning Point of the Civil War. Mankato, MN: Bridgestone, 2003. Print.

Perry, James M. A Bohemian Brigade: The Civil War Correspondents, Mostly Rough, Sometimes Ready. New York: Wiley, 2000. Print.

Starr, Louis Morris. Reporting the Civil War: The Bohemian Brigade in Action, 1861-65. New York: Collier, 1962. Print.

“The Battle of Gettysburg.” Civil War Trust, n.d. Web. 25 Aug. 2013.

Citation Types

Type

Format

MLA 9th

Accettola, Anna. "“The Conclusion Of The Battle Of Gettysburg”." Defining Documents in American History: Civil War (1860–1865),Salem Press, 2013. Salem Online, online.salempress.com/articleDetails.do?articleName=DDCW_0049.

APA 7th

Accettola, A. (2013). “The Conclusion of the Battle of Gettysburg”. Defining Documents in American History: Civil War (1860–1865). Salem Press. online.salempress.com.

CMOS 17th

Accettola, Anna. "“The Conclusion Of The Battle Of Gettysburg”." Defining Documents in American History: Civil War (1860–1865). Hackensack: Salem Press, 2013. Accessed July 12, 2025. online.salempress.com.

Table of Contents