Mural Nine
GETTYSBURG
In the series painted by Francis V. Kughler for the
Institute of Government building in Chapel Hill
The Bailie of Gettysburg was perhaps the last of the great
battles fought mainly in hand-to-hand combat. Many acts of in¬
dividual and regimental bravery were performed on both sides.
It was a grim and yet. in a certain sense, a chivalrous conflict.
The charge of the Confederates on the third day of the battle is
unparalleled in history. A battle-line of 15.000 men in regimental
formation charged for almost a mile across open farmland in the
face of devastating cannon and rifle fire. This was not a wild
romantic rush of horsemen, but the slow grim plodding of de¬
termined men across tilled ground. Most of them were poorly clad
and wore shoes with cumbersome wooden soles. Leather was scarce
in the South, for the Union blockade had cut off many of their
necessities.
The objective of the charge was a long low ridge on the opposite
side of the battlefield near the center of which was a clump of
trees. In front of the ridge and all along the line of the charge
was a stone fence behind which the Union forces were waiting. The
fence at the extreme left was indented to follow the contours of a
farm, a square of which was set back at this point. It was here
that the North Carolina troops, who were part of the left wing,
came in. In order to reach the setback in the stone fence facing
them, the North Carolinians had to advance perhaps sixty feet
further than the rest of the charging Confederates. Sixty feet isn't
much ground under ordinary circumstances, but it must have
seemed like a tremendous amount of extra mileage to the battered
but still oncoming North Carolinians.
I decided that I would paint the charge at its height just before
the line broke. Then I ha.l to decide what mood I should catch on
my canvas. I could stress the horrors of war. filling the scene with
bloody and broken limbs. I could stress the exultation of the charge,
or the anguish of defeat. Finally I concluded that it would be
artistically more desirable if I painted a picture that embraced
both latter phases. To accomplish this there would have to be
some overall quality or mood that would blend these phases and
govern the technical handling. How could I determine what this
overall mood should be? Could I get into the same spirit as the
men who had charged over that battlefield so many years ago?
There was only one way to find out; I had to follow in the
footsteps of those valiant soldiers. I drove my car over to the Con¬
federate position from which the charge had been launched, got
out, and started walking across the field as fast as I could toward
the fateful clump of trees. It was not too hard to place myself in
the role. The vegetation clung to my legs as I stumbled over the
uneven ground and I could feel the stiff, unyielding wooden soles
under my feet. I could hear the bellowing of cannon and the
screams of my comrades as grape shot tore through our ranks. My
steps hastened with the rest of the line, but the ground beneath
me seemed to pass slower than ever. My rifle became very heavy
and my hearing dulled from the bursts of artillery fire. I became
an automaton with a mechanical brain, moving in a world of
which I was not a part. My sight became gla/cd and rainbow
halations appeared around the edge of things. It seemed as though
my eyes were unfocused as my brain worked divorced from the
happenings in the world about. Occasionally the clouds in my
head seemed to part in a rift through which 1 could see familiar
figures in uniform at my side and hear commands clear and alert
and meaningful. Then the clarity faded out to be replaced by the
steady plod, plod of the automaton and distant salvos of thunder.
After a long while, I became aware that the ground was sloping
sharply upward. I was moving among rocks, piled up rocks. My
mind became alert again; we must have reached the stone fence.
A burly figure in blue rose from the barricade and swung at me
with his rifle butt. I lunged forward with my bayonet. For a mo¬
ment all was dyed red then red-grey— then grey— and finally my
vision cleared.
The ridge was empty. I was standing alone on the ground where
the charge had broken, my easel still near the stone fence where
I had left it. I picked up my brush and made notes while my sensa¬
tions were fresh.
The painting is finished now. and I think I achieved my end.
The texture of carnage and death is visible everywhere in the paint¬
ing, but the sun is bright and cheerful. A sense of ceric detach¬
ment. of static electricity, of bated breath, pervades the scene.
Across the cannon in the foreground lies the grey-clad body of a
non-commissioned officer. The heavy bronze gun is searing hot
and smokes rises from his charring flesh and clothes; but I do not
think it seems gruesome. The smoke diffuses lazily into the mo¬
tionless air. Behnd the cannon the bloodless face of an unconscious
Union soldier is turned calmly to the sky.
In the foreground lie two men who have just inflicted mortal
blows on one another. The blue-clad cannoneer is still conscious
but oblivious of his own wound, lie gazes with pity at his dead
opponent and seems to be recalling someone dear to him who
looked much the same.
At the right of the painting, behind a youth who still surges for¬
ward, a bearded man is hunched in agony but he is in the shadows
thrown by the bright afternoon sun.
Across the field in the wake of the charge, a straight line of dead
marks where the North Carolina troops have passed. In the back¬
ground Union troops arc closing in on the flank of the stricken
line. The smoke from their muskets produces a scries of flower-
like puffs. All along the faltering line men arc killing and being
killed, though they arc beginning to realize that the end is at hand.
The central figure in the mural is Brigadier General James
Johnston Pettigrew. He looks frail and more like a poet than a
warrior. The men near to the general arc turned to him for leader¬
ship. He is calm and poised, for an officer does not give in to his
emotions before his men. His sword is beginning to signal "Fall
Back." The flag of the Confederacy is still held aloft by a soldier
who desperately loads his revolver to protect it to the end.
A large white cloud floats in tranquil grandeur above the battle¬
field.— Francis V. Kudu. IK.
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Fla.
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THE STATE. January 20. 1962