Pickett or Pettigrew? An Historical Essay

In Short

This book is a corrective historical essay written in 1888, aimed at challenging the long-standing narrative that General George Pickett’s Virginia division was the sole hero of the famous charge at Gettysburg. Through the lens of a veteran, the author argues that North Carolina troops, led by General James Johnston Pettigrew, bore equal, if not greater, burdens in that assault. By analyzing casualty statistics and battlefield records, the book serves as a passionate, often contentious plea for historical accuracy and a reclamation of the reputation of the soldiers of Hill’s Corps.

The Story

The narrative begins with a clear, combative purpose: to challenge the "persistent misrepresentations" that have clouded the legacy of the North Carolina regiments under General James Johnston Pettigrew. The author, an officer who served on the staff of the Army of Northern Virginia, sets the stage by identifying the source of the trouble: a post-war climate where Virginia newspapers and historians held a monopoly on how the war was remembered. These sources, the author claims, systematically elevated Pickett’s "magnificent Virginians" to a status of mythic heroism while ignoring the heavy, often more severe, sacrifices made by troops from other states.

The author systematically works through the events of July 1863, beginning with the first day’s engagement. He highlights the critical role played by Pettigrew’s brigade, noting that their performance was both elegant and decisive, yet frequently omitted from common histories. As the narrative reaches the third day—the day of the famous assault—the author pivots to a granular examination of the charge itself. He contends that the line of battle was not a monolith, but a series of separate commands, each facing distinct and devastating fire. He argues that Pettigrew’s men, having marched further and remained under fire for a longer duration than their counterparts, suffered proportionately higher losses.

The arc of the argument is built upon a cold, statistical foundation. The author provides tables of regimental deaths to prove that casualties are the only true measure of a unit's endurance. By comparing the losses of North Carolina, Mississippi, and Tennessee brigades against those of the Virginia division, he attempts to deflate the legend of Pickett’s "lance-head of steel." He asserts that the Virginia division’s reputation was bolstered by their proximity to the centers of communication in Richmond, allowing them to shape public perception to their advantage, while the quieter, perhaps more stoic, contributions of other states were relegated to the margins.

The story concludes with a final indictment of how war histories were "manufactured." The author confronts the common belief that the charge failed solely due to a lack of support for Pickett, arguing instead that the failure was a collective misfortune for which no single unit can be scapegoated. He explicitly calls out the "humbuggery" of historians like Swinton and others who accepted the Richmond narrative without verifying official records. The book ends not with a plea for reconciliation, but with a firm insistence that if history is to be honest, it must recognize that "death is the test" of a soldier’s merit, and by that standard, the North Carolinians stand as peers to any.

How It Unfolds

The argument is set The author establishes the central conflict: the disparity between the romanticized, Virginia-centric accounts of the war and the grim, recorded reality of the casualties suffered by other Confederate states. He frames this as a struggle for truth against the "trash" that passes for historical record.

The evidence is presented Through a series of detailed statistical breakdowns, the author contrasts the death tolls of various regiments. He uses these figures to show that North Carolina’s losses were consistently higher, thereby challenging the premise that Pickett’s men were the primary victims of the assault.

The critique of historiography The text turns toward the media and historians of the time, accusing them of bias and deliberate omission. By referencing the influence of Richmond editors, the author explains how a false narrative became the standard version of events.

The final assessment The author concludes by emphasizing the importance of official records over anecdotal glory. He asserts that the "high water mark" was a matter of battlefield physics and circumstance, not the exclusive heroic achievement of one specific division.

The People

General James Johnston Pettigrew serves as the book's ideal figure, a "knight" and "elegant scholar" whose memory the author seeks to vindicate. He represents the unsung, high-quality leadership of the North Carolina troops who fought with distinction but were denied their due credit.

General George E. Pickett appears as the reluctant symbol of a manufactured reputation. The author does not necessarily attack the soldiers themselves, but rather the myth that transformed their division into an untouchable emblem of the Confederacy. He views this elevation as an "ungenerous" act of promotion by Virginia leadership, including General Longstreet, who the author characterizes as an able but politically savvy commander who rewarded his own men with favorable press.

The anonymous North Carolina soldier is the true protagonist of the work. Represented by collective accounts of their courage at Gettysburg, these men are portrayed as steady, resilient, and unfairly maligned. The author depicts them as soldiers who did not need the vanity of newspaper praise to know their own worth, unlike those who, according to the author, "prided themselves upon that misfortune" of surrender.

In Its Own Voice

“To those people who do not know how the trash which passes for Southern history was manufactured, the motives which actuated the writers, and how greedily at first everything written by them about the war, was read, it is not so astonishing that a libel containing so much ignorance, narrowness and prejudice as the above should have been printed in a respectable publication.”

(The author introduces the concept that Southern history was a product of bias rather than objective record-keeping.)

“It is not precisely those who know how to kill,” says Dragomiroff, “but those who know how to die, who are all-powerful on a field of battle.”

(The author uses this quote to define his primary metric for measuring the worth of a military unit.)

What It's Really About

At its heart, this is a book about the ownership of history. The author is deeply concerned with how the victors of the post-war narrative—specifically Virginia's political and intellectual elite—utilized their influence to craft a version of the Civil War that served their own provincial pride. The central argument is that memory is not neutral; it is a tool used to elevate some while burying the contributions of others. By focusing on the specific carnage at Gettysburg, the author exposes the underlying question: how many lives and deeds have been effectively erased by those who controlled the printing presses? It is a demand for a democratic distribution of historical credit based on factual sacrifice rather than regional myth-making.

Why Read It Today

Readers interested in the mechanics of historical revisionism will find this book a fascinating study. It provides a rare look at the post-Civil War "culture war," where veterans fought just as fiercely over their reputations as they once did on the battlefield. The prose is sharp, indignant, and unapologetic, giving the reader a visceral sense of the bitterness felt by those who believed their sacrifices were being forgotten.

However, the book is not easy reading. It is a polemic from a specific time and place, and its reliance on dense statistical lists and internal Confederate politics can be challenging for those not already familiar with the Order of Battle at Gettysburg. The author’s tone is intensely partisan, and his disdain for the "Richmond editors" and the "maudlin sentimentalists" of his era is palpable. You will encounter the period’s rigid focus on state loyalty and the often-grim obsession with casualty counts as the ultimate proof of character. It is a document of its era—an uncompromising, defensive, and deeply personal attempt to fix a historical record that the author felt was irrevocably broken. If you can move past the technical lists and the specific, dated grievances, you will find a raw, human desire to ensure that the dead are remembered not for their myths, but for the reality of where they fell.