July 1, 1863, 8:00 p.m.
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

An arduous day’s march, and the commencement of real fighting, characterized the day. The civilians seem bewildered and terrified, yet fascinated by the novelty and style of the soldiers. I seem to be the only news correspondent here with the Army at the moment, though I know that Waud and Gantt are coming from Carlisle, and there are rumours that the New York Herald has enough correspondents to merit the establishment of a “field office,” complete with wagons, tents, and various other amenities. There were four young girls and a squad of schoolboys who seem genuinely fascinated with the Press, or at least with encountering one such as myself with a connection to one of the “New-York papers.” I also met a farmer’s wife from Limerick, Ireland, who offered safe refuge for my sketches and more cumbersome equipment. She saluted me with a rich brogue strong enough to stop a Rebel division, had it been a case of solid shot.

The surgeons and stewards were busy at their bloody work, and I was pleased to encounter my friend, Steward Roger Walker, formerly of the 71st Pennsylvania Volunteers, and brother-in-law to Mrs. Alice Walker of the U.S. Sanitary Commission. I first met Steward Walker in the Army Hospital in Nashville in April of last year (‘62), where I had been sent to recover from my shrapnel wounds sustained at the great battle near Pittsburg Landing on April 6. I was most surprised and delighted to learn that the Mrs. Walker I met in the camp of the Army near Sharpsburg, Maryland following the great engagement at Antietam Creek was the widow of Steward Walker’s eldest brother, the late Chas. E. Walker of Philadelphia publishing fame, whose estate has permitted Mrs. Walker to conduct her noble work among the Army camps and hospitals.

I have now retired to the refuge of Parkway House, a local inn, where a boisterous company of Negro army teamsters has set up camp outside. Their carryings-on portend a night of sporadic rest at best. I commit my exhaustion to what I hope will be peaceful dreams. JAD

***

July 2, 1863, 12:00 p.m.
Cashtown, Pennsylvania.

Action heavy today. The field is covered with the refuse of yesterday’s fighting - muskets and parts of muskets, buttons, bayonets, knapsacks, canteens, and, of course, the more grisly souvenirs which somehow escaped the notice of the military burial details. Gantt, Waud, and J.S. Halliday of the Herald are to meet with me later on Cemetery Ridge, if practicable. Many teams of artillery are to be seen, moving into position - the shouted commands of the battery officers resemble the shouts of the longshoremen in New York City, only colored by a tone of alarm and urgency usually absent on the peacetime docks. A large number of citizens of the town of Gettysburg have turned out to assist in the tasks which accompany the aftermath of a great battle - helping the wounded off the field, burying the dead, providing intelligence to the officers of Gen’l Meade’s staff, and scurrying the helpless and infirm to more secure quarters. We of the Press have been allowed access to much of the town, although most of the local merchants have closed their doors to business during the current contest. It is a strange business to transform a once tranquil and idyllic community into a chaotic and frenetic Army camp, and comfortable American houses undergoing the disconcerting transformation into hideous scenes of carnage, as the surgeons and their sundry charges ply their trade. One can only hope that the paroxysm of war may effect some redeeming metamorphosis in our land, bringing the blessings of freedom and national unity to those hitherto dark recesses of the fragmented Republic. Fiat lux in Republica!

3:00 p.m. (Handwriting more scribbled) The action has heated up considerably in the afternoon, with new legions of Rebels massing in the field to our front; I write this under duress - one company of Zouaves holds a portion of the field which, only minutes ago, was occupied by an entire division of our III Corps. The Rebel artillery, manned by colorful Virginians in scarlet shirts, is now employing the use of canister to decimate our ranks, valiant though they may be in holding their ground. To our right, the U.S. Sharpshooters (under the command of Col. Berdan), are taking their toll on the Rebel officers, but this seems to have little effect on the enemy’s advance. A mixed group of sharpshooters in green, dismounted Mass. Cavalry, and New York and Pennsylvania infantry seems to be making a final desperate stand, but now the Rebel artillery is joined by a wall of infantry in gray, who begin to pour into the field with an inexorable rush, bursting forth with the dreaded “Rebel yell,” resembling a host of devilish fiends from the deeper recesses of Dante’s dark imagination. At last, our gallant troops break and run, despite the vain attempts of their few remaining officers to rally them. In a remote corner of the field, hemmed in by a wall of trees and a sudden ravine, the surviving remnant in blue are forced to yield, overwhelmed by superior numbers. Alas! A sad day for the Union.

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