(Editor's Note: This description of the artillery assault and Pickett's Charge was published in Maine At Gettysburg as part of the account of the Sixteenth Regiment on the third day of the battle.)
In terrible suspense, on the 3rd of July, moments crept by until one o'clock, when the stillness of the air was suddenly broken by a signal gun.
Instantly 150 guns were discharged as if by electricity, answered on the Union side by about 100 more, and tons of metal parted the air, which closed with a roar, making acres of earth groan and tremble. The hills and the huge bowlders (sic) take up the sound and hurl it back, to add its broken tones to the long roll of sound that strikes upon ears 30 miles away.
For two hours the air was filled with a horrible concordance of sounds. The air, thick with sulphurous vapor and smoke, through which came the sharp cry of agony, the hoarse command, and the screaming shell, almost suffocated those supporting the batteries.
Guns are dismounted and rest their metallic weight upon quivering flesh. Caissons explode, and wheels and boxes strew the ground in every direction.
Horses by the score are blown down by the terrible hurricane and lie moaning in agony almost human in its expression. One battery at our immediate front lost 40 horses in 20 minutes.
In the vicinity of Meade's headquarters shells exploded at the rate of 60 per minute. Solid shot would strike the ground in front, cover a battalion with sand and dirt, ricochet, and demon-like go plunging through the ranks of massed men in the rear.
For a mile or more a lurid flame of fire streams out over the heads of our men in long jets, as if to follow the tons of metal thrown through the murky air, which parts to receive it and shudders as if tortured by screaming furies.
Our artillery ammunition was reduced to a few rounds, and there came a signal from Little Round Top that the enemy was rapidly massing for a charge behind the dense smoke which afforded them a screen.
Notwithstanding our infantry would become more exposed if our batteries were silent, the order was issued and the firing ceased.
The rebels jumped at conclusions and sent up a wild yell. We had heard it too often to lose heart or courage; but nerves were at their extreme tension as we watched the splendid lines of Confederate infantry which stretched in our front, as if for parade; and a second and yet in the rear a third debauch from the woods into view.
Such a sight is given only once in a life-time, and once seen never to be forgotten.
Pickett's division leads the front on the right with Pettigrew's on the left. In their rear moved Anderson's and Trimble's commands; the right was covered by Perry and Wilcox, and the left by McGowan and Thomas.
Down the slope into the valley they come; and now it is our turn, and from the black muzzles of more than 80 cannon pour round shot, spherical case and canister, in an incessant torrent which cuts great swaths of living grain.
Men go down by scores, but others fill the gaps, and the undaunted tide sweeps on in perfect order fairly across the Emmitsburg Road, when from behind the stone-wall the Union line pours in a shower of hissing bullets, carrying death and destruction to those brave but mistaken men.
They go down like jackstraws; they lie in windrows. With a desperation born of madness, they force their way through a shower of leaden hail. Hot with passion born of war, stained and blinded with blood, the living fail to see the terrible harvest of death in their rear, and, utterly reckless of personal results, they press on and on, and with a yell of victory plant their tattered flags of rebellion upon the Union stone-wall.
They turn to beckon on the next line. The next line! Where is it? Exultation is drowned in despair and defeat, for from both flanks the Union boys are giving a deadly fire, while shot and shell enfilade their rear.
Thousands fall to the ground and hold up their hands in token of surrender, and others flee through the storm of bullets, shell and canister that reaches the Emmitsburg Road. A brave man can but pity the victims of such a terrible disappointment. Looking down upon all this, I could see, shorn of all wordy description, simply a square mile of tophet.
The remnant of the 16th is sadly depressed. The loved colonel on his way to Richmond, to the prison-pens of the South; our valued surgeon, Alexander, wounded and a prisoner; all the line officers but four either killed, wounded, or missing, and a fearful list of casualties among the men. We thought of the brave fellows started on a pilgrimage worse than death.
There is said to be a time in every man's life when he learns to cry. I believe many of us graduated in this accomplishment that night....