Hallowed Ground - James M. McPherson [33]
Park historians accepted the claim that the Twenty-sixth advanced farther than any other regiment, and allowed North Carolina to place their monument at that point. But the place is to the north of the east-west jog of the stone wall, and outside the Union defensive line, while the Armistead monument represents a breakthrough of that line. The controversy reflects a long-standing dispute between Virginians and North Carolinians, who resented Virginia's domination of the writing of Confederate history. Much of the dispute has centered on “Pickett's Charge.” North Carolinians maintain that it should be called “the Pickett-Pettigrew Charge” (Pettigrew was from North Carolina) because almost as many North Carolina regiments (fifteen) as Virginia regiments (nineteen) took part. And the Twenty-sixth North Carolina, they continue to insist, got farther than any Virginian. To assuage the bruised North Carolina ego, it is now politically correct to call it the Pickett-Pettigrew assault. But this in turn is misleading, for ten of those fifteen North Carolina regiments were in Trimble's two brigades, not in Pettigrew's division.
Not to be outdone, Mississippians have entered the fray. Under pressure from Senator Trent Lott of that state, the Park Service in 1998 allowed a monument to the Eleventh Mississippi to be placed about two hundred yards north of, and as close to the Union lines as, that of the Twenty-sixth North Carolina. The Eleventh Mississippi was a notable regiment. Most of its companies were composed of rough-hewn backwoodsmen, famous for their marksmanship. But all of the soldiers in Company A were University of Mississippi students who enlisted as a body in 1861—the University Greys. They later earned literary fame through the medium of William Faulkner's Absalom, Absalom! On July 3, 1863, a baker's dozen of the Eleventh did get as far as the place where their monument now stands. But what the tablet on the monument does not say is that when the lieutenant commanding this contingent looked back for the rest of the regiment, he was dismayed to see it running to the rear “in full disorder, at the distance of about one hundred & fifty yards from us.” Having no choice, the lieutenant hoisted a white flag and surrendered to the Yankees of the 111 th New York.
These controversies about who got the farthest would be amusing if Confederate heritage groups did not take the matter so seriously. Pickett's Charge— excuse me, the Pickett-Pettigrew assault—is viewed not only as the Confederacy's high-water mark, but also as one of the most courageous and praiseworthy events in military history. For decades the hearts of surviving veterans swelled with pride when they recounted their deeds in that attack. Southern honor knew no finer hour. I have always been struck by the contrast between this image and that of the Army of the Potomac's frontal assault against Confederate lines at Cold Harbor exactly eleven months later. In that attack, ordered by Lieutenant General Ulysses S. Grant, fifty thousand Union soldiers suffered seven thousand casualties, most of them in less than half an hour. For this mistake, which he admitted, Grant has been branded a “butcher” careless of the lives of his men, and Cold Harbor has become a symbol of mule-headed futility. At Gettysburg, Lee's men also sustained almost seven thousand casualties in the Pickett-Pettigrew assault, most of them also within a half hour. Yet this attack is perceived as an example of great courage and honor. This contrast speaks volumes about the comparative images of Grant and Lee, North and South, Union and Confederacy.
The Eleventh Mississippi monument stands close to the Brian