“Returning from the banks of the Susquehanna, and meeting at Gettysburg, July 1, 1863, the advance of Lee’s forces, my command was thrown quickly and squarely on the right flank of the Union Army. A more timely arrival never occurred. The battle had been raging for four or five hours. The Confederate General Archer, with a large part of his brigade, had been captured. Heth and Scales, Confederate generals, had been wounded. The ranking Union officer on the field, General Reynolds, had been killed, and General Hancock was assigned to command. The battle, upon the issue of which hung, perhaps, the fate of the Confederacy, was in full blast. The Union forces, at first driven back, now reënforced, were again advancing and pressing back Lee’s left and threatening to envelop it. The Confederates were stubbornly contesting every foot of ground, but the Southern left was slowly yielding. A few moments more and the day’s battle might have been ended by a complete turning of Lee’s flank. I was ordered to move at once to the aid of the heavily pressed Confederates. With a ringing yell, my command rushed upon the line posted to protect the Union right. Here occurred a hand-to-hand struggle. That protecting Union line, once broken, left my command not only on the right flank, but obliquely in rear of it.

“Any troops that were ever marshalled would, under like conditions, have been as surely and swiftly shattered. Under the concentrated fire from front and flank, the marvel is that they escaped. In the midst of the wild disorder in his ranks, and through a storm of bullets, a Union officer was seeking to rally his men for a final stand. He, too, went down pierced by a minie ball. Riding forward with my rapidly advancing lines, I discovered that brave officer lying upon his back, with the July sun pouring its rays into his pale face. He was surrounded by the Union dead, and his own life seemed to be rapidly ebbing out. Quickly I dismounted and lifted his head. I gave him water from my canteen, and asked his name and the character of his wounds. He was Major-General Francis C. Barlow, of New York, and of Howard’s Corps. The ball had entered his body in front and passed out near the spinal cord, paralyzing him in legs and arms. Neither of us had the remotest thought that he could survive many hours. I summoned several soldiers who were looking after the wounded, and directed them to place him upon a litter and carry him to the shade in the rear. Before parting, he asked me to take from his pocket a package of letters and destroy them. They were from his wife. He had one request to make of me. That request was that, if I lived to the end of the war and ever met Mrs. Barlow, I would tell her of our meeting on the field of Gettysburg and his thoughts of her in his last moments. He wished to assure me that he died doing his duty at the front, that he was willing to give his life for his country, and that his deepest regret was that he must die without looking upon her face again. I learned that Mrs. Barlow was with the Union Army, and near the battlefield. When it is remembered how closely Mrs. Gordon followed me, it will not be difficult to realize that my sympathies were especially stirred by the announcement that his wife was so near to him. Passing through the day’s battle unhurt, I despatched, at its close, under a flag of truce, the promised message to Mrs. Barlow. I assured her that she should have safe escort to her husband’s side.

“In the desperate encounters of the two succeeding days, and the retreat of Lee’s army, I thought no more of Barlow, except to number him with the noble dead of the two armies who have so gloriously met their fate. The ball, however, had struck no vital point, and Barlow slowly recovered, though his fate was unknown to me. The following summer, in battles near Richmond, my kinsman with the same initials, General J. B. Gordon of North Carolina, was killed. Barlow, who had recovered, saw the announcement of his death, and entertained no doubt that he was the Gordon whom he had met on the field of Gettysburg. To me, therefore, Barlow was dead; to Barlow I was dead. Nearly fifteen years passed before either of us was undeceived. During my second term in the United States Senate, the Hon. Clarkson Potter of New York was the member of the House of Representatives. He invited me to dinner in Washington to meet a General Barlow who had served in the Union Army. Potter knew nothing of the Gettysburg incident. I had heard that there was another Barlow in the Union Army, and supposed of course, that it was this Barlow with whom I was to dine. Barlow had a similar reflection as to the Gordon he was to meet. Seated at Clarkson Potter’s table, I asked Barlow: ‘General, are you related to the Barlow who was killed at Gettysburg?’ He replied: ‘Why, I am the man, sir. Are you related to the Gordon who killed me?’ ‘I am the man, sir,’ I responded. No words of mine can convey any conception of the emotions awakened by these startling announcements. Nothing short of an actual resurrection of the dead could have amazed either of us more. Thenceforward, until his untimely death in 1896, the friendship between us which was born amidst the thunders of Gettysburg was cherished by both.”

General Ewell Is Hit by a Bullet

General Gordon gives an account of an amusing incident of the first day:

“Late in the afternoon of this first day’s battle, when the firing had greatly decreased along most of the lines, General Ewell and I were riding through the streets of Gettysburg. In a previous battle he had lost one of his legs, but prided himself on the efficiency of the wooden one which he used in its place. As we rode together, a body of Union soldiers, posted behind some dwellings and fences on the outskirts of the town, suddenly opened a brisk fire. A number of Confederates were killed or wounded, and I heard the ominous thud of a minie ball as it struck General Ewell at my side. I quickly asked: ‘Are you hurt, sir?’ ‘No, no,’ he replied; ‘I’m not hurt. But suppose that ball had struck you: we would have had the trouble of carrying you off the field, sir. You see how much better fixed I am for a fight than you are. It don’t hurt a bit to be shot in a wooden leg.’

“Ewell was a most interesting and eccentric character. It is said that in his early manhood he had been disappointed in a love affair, and had never fully recovered from its effects. The fair maiden to whom he had given his affections had married another man; but Ewell, like the truest of knights, carried her image in his heart through long years. When he was promoted to the rank of brigadier or major-general, he evidenced the constancy of his affections by placing upon his staff the son of the woman whom he had loved in his youth. The meddlesome Fates, who seem to revel in the romances of lovers, had decreed that Ewell should be shot in battle and become the object of solicitude and tender nursing by this lady, Mrs. Brown, who had been for many years a widow. Her gentle ministrations soothed his weary weeks of suffering, a marriage ensued, and with it came the realization of Ewell’s long-deferred hope. He was a most devoted husband. He never seemed to realize, however, that marriage had changed her name, for he proudly presented her to his friends as ‘My wife, Mrs. Brown, sir.’”

The School Teachers’ Regiment

The 151st Pennsylvania Infantry, commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel George F. McFarland, included Company D, made up mainly of the instructors and students of the Lost Creek Academy, of McAlisterville, Juniata County, of which Colonel McFarland was principal. For this reason it was called the “Schoolteachers’ Regiment.” The material throughout was excellent, many of the men being experienced marksmen. The regiment went into battle with 21 officers and 446 men, and sustained a loss in killed, wounded, and missing of 337, or over 75 per cent.

The casualties of the 26th North Carolina Regiment, against which they were engaged, were 588 out of 800, just about the same percentage.