Few in those battered regiments knew even a fragment of the details that had led them to such a tragic moment, but those few fragments of knowledge were enough. They had fought with a gallantry unparalleled in history… it was, yet again, their commanders who had failed them. Whether it was incompetence, self-serving interests, cowardice, or ignorance, the bitter sacrifice was one that created nothing except another defeat
Something within broke at that moment striking into the heart of each man, of every company and regiment brigade and division. They could still fight as individuals or small units; if any dared to try and reach out to touch their sacred blood-stained flags, they would indeed fight for that, for that they sail believed in. For their survival if cornered, they would still fight; but for the generals, that was gone, perhaps forever.
On the other side, it was a moment long dreamed of, a fulfillment of a sense that half victories, which had cost a hundred thousand men in the last twelve months, had now finally reached a climax, that on this Fourth of July all things were, indeed, still possible.
The Fifth Corps of the Army of the Potomac made its final stand in a torrential summer downpour on the outskirts of Littlestown, after being driven back four miles by the relentless onslaught of Pickett Hood, and the hard-bitten survivors of Johnson's division, the men of the old Stonewall Brigade.
In a way this final stand was indeed their finest hour, reminiscent of the Old Guard's stand at Waterloo. The backbone of the "old Fifth" was the division of regular troops, men who had been in the army since long before the war, when no self-respecting civilian would be caught dead in army blue, and now they were the ones dying in a final bid to hold the road open in die same way they had held the road after me debacle at First Manassas.
Sykes dismounted after losing three mounts in a row, stood with the division as it was battled back, yard by yard, in the pouring rain. If hit only in the center, they most certainly would have held; but whatever position they attempted to secure was soon outflanked, the rebel hosts threatening to completely encircle them. And yet, even then, they bought time, allowing several thousand to move up the road to safety.
Forced into Littlestown, Sykes finally made the fateful decision to turn the division north, back toward Gettysburg, to get what was left of his men out. To try and hold the town would have meant encirclement; to turn south would have meant encirclement as well.
He would be remembered for that moment, for when a panic-stricken officer galloped past, screaming that the army was destroyed, Sykes watched him go then turned to his men. "Yes, the army is gone," Sykes announced sadly, "but these regiments will always remain."
For the men of the Stonewall Brigade charging into Littlestown, it was like the memory of a springtime long ago, marching on relentlessly through the rain, sweeping forward to victory. Old Jack was gone, but now there was Lee, riding at the fore, urging them on, pointing the way, promising that but one more charge would crown them with victory undreamed of.
And so they stormed into Littlestown at the point of the bayonet, rifles all but useless as sheets of rain washed across the fields, churning the road to rivers of mud. The old Fifth broke apart, its bitter survivors turning back on the road toward Gettysburg, their morale broken by the certain knowledge that the rest of their army had just been defeated behind them at Union Mills and there was no sense of hope or rescue. A grim hopelessness set in among the men.
The back door had been sealed. It was six in the afternoon of July Fourth.
Hood, deployed across the Baltimore Road, now had to simply wait, for there was no other way back from Union Mills, except for narrow country lanes that were turning into rivers of mud. The one pike north, its pavement a sticky glue of crushed limestone, was sealed.
Their first take was the flood of broken survivors of the old Second and Twelfth Corps, coming back from the disaster, and the sight of Hood blocking that road sent them recoiling back again, word racing like an electric shock: 'The rebels are in Littlestown."
The men of the First Corps, so savagely mauled in the first day's battle, formed a final defense along the ridges north of Pipe Creek, still game and defiant, but the rest of the army now began to break apart
Sickles kept his head, both figuratively and literally, though his action, even as he undertook it would be the source of bitter debate and acrimony. With the largest intact command, he had waited for over two hours, listening as the sound of battle from the north, the flanking march by Lee pushing back Fifth Corps, gradually receded to the northeast Several of his officers begged for him to march to the sound of the guns, to flank Lee in turn, but he refused, announcing that the battle was already lost and his duty was to keep his units together to form the nucleus of a new Army of the Potomac.
He ignored, as well, the garbled order that came from Meade's headquarters to fall back onto the Gettysburg-Westminster Road, saying that would take his command straight into the trap.
When he judged the time to be right he ordered the position along Pipe Creek to be abandoned, along with all guns and wagons and those wounded who could not walk, each man to load up a hundred rounds of ammunition, and then set the corps off on a grueling march to the northwest cutting far behind Lee's flanking force, an action that when first reported to Lee, caused an hour of tense anxiety until it was realized that Sickles was making for Harney and the road back to Gettysburg. Lee decided to simply let this command go; to try and bring it into the net would overextend an already exhausted and far overextended command.
The march would be the most harrowing the Third Corps had ever endured, a nightmare of slogging through the mud, exhausted men by the hundreds collapsing and Dan Sickles relentlessly setting the pace and already lecturing to his staff about why Meade had lost the battle. He had mis-stepped every inch of the way, and if only he had listened, just listened, how different it would all be, Sickles announced with self-righteous bitterness. He would be damned if ever he would take an order from such a man ever again. His mission now was to save his men and, around the nucleus of the Third Corps, rebuild an army, this time with the right general in command. After all the failures, Lincoln would have to buckle to that; Sickles's Democrat war allies in Congress would see that Sickles now had his chance. In fact, if Lincoln had picked him instead of Meade, Lee would be defeated and his army broken, or so Sickles reasoned to himself, increasing his own anger and determination.
Sedgwick felt as angry as Sickles and as bitter at Meade. Already word was spreading that Meade was now blaming him for the failure, that Sedgwick had failed to advance when he should have, then failed to stop when he should have, thus destroying the reserve that could have been used to punch a way out The fact that Hancock had usurped command would be an issue that Sedgwick would make sure he answered for, and, if need be, he would take it all the way to the Congressional Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War and demand a court-martial as well as a congressional investigation.
Hancock knew nothing of this. His ambulance had passed through Littlestown only minutes before the road was blocked, his escort of loyal men pushing on toward Gettysburg. The word was already out that Stuart's men were closing in on the rear, having brushed aside the disjointed efforts of the Union cavalry to contain them. At Gettysburg, there might be safety with the men of Eleventh Corps, who still occupied the town.
The death blow hit just before six in the evening. Longstreet had waited, resting his men, bringing up rations, though the meal was a cold one of soggy hardtack and salted pork, but it was rations nevertheless. Units were reorganized; dry ammunition was distributed; a dozen batteries were organized and limbered up.