Barlow’s Knoll, a short distance northeast of Gettysburg, is named in
honor of Brigadier-General Francis C. Barlow, in command of the 1st
Division of the 11th Corps. In his “Reminiscences of the Civil War,”
General Gordon describes his meeting with Barlow:
“Returning from the banks of the Susquehanna, and meeting at Gettysburg,
July 1, 1863, the advance of Lee’s forces, my command was thrown quickly
and squarely on the right flank of the Union Army. A more timely arrival
never occurred. The battle had been raging for four or five hours. The
Confederate General Archer, with a large part of his brigade, had been
captured. Heth and Scales, Confederate generals, had been wounded. The
ranking Union officer on the field, General Reynolds, had been killed,
and General Hancock was assigned to command. The battle, upon the issue
of which hung, perhaps, the fate of the Confederacy, was in full blast.
The Union forces, at first driven back, now reënforced, were again
advancing and pressing back Lee’s left and threatening to envelop it.
The Confederates were stubbornly contesting every foot of ground, but
the Southern left was slowly yielding. A few moments more and the day’s
battle might have been ended by a complete turning of Lee’s flank. I was
ordered to move at once to the aid of the heavily pressed Confederates.
With a ringing yell, my command rushed upon the line posted to protect
the Union right. Here occurred a hand-to-hand struggle. That protecting
Union line, once broken, left my command not only on the right flank,
but obliquely in rear of it.
“Any troops that were ever marshalled would, under like conditions, have
been as surely and swiftly shattered. Under the concentrated fire from
front and flank, the marvel is that they escaped. In the midst of the
wild disorder in his ranks, and through a storm of bullets, a Union
officer was seeking to rally his men for a final stand. He, too, went
down pierced by a minie ball. Riding forward with my rapidly advancing
lines, I discovered that brave officer lying upon his back, with the
July sun pouring its rays into his pale face. He was surrounded by the
Union dead, and his own life seemed to be rapidly ebbing out. Quickly I
dismounted and lifted his head. I gave him water from my canteen, and
asked his name and the character of his wounds. He was Major-General
Francis C. Barlow, of New York, and of Howard’s Corps. The ball had
entered his body in front and passed out near the spinal cord,
paralyzing him in legs and arms. Neither of us had the remotest thought
that he could survive many hours. I summoned several soldiers who were
looking after the wounded, and directed them to place him upon a litter
and carry him to the shade in the rear. Before parting, he asked me to
take from his pocket a package of letters and destroy them. They were
from his wife. He had one request to make of me. That request was that,
if I lived to the end of the war and ever met Mrs. Barlow, I would tell
her of our meeting on the field of Gettysburg and his thoughts of her in
his last moments. He wished to assure me that he died doing his duty at
the front, that he was willing to give his life for his country, and
that his deepest regret was that he must die without looking upon her
face again. I learned that Mrs. Barlow was with the Union Army, and near
the battlefield. When it is remembered how closely Mrs. Gordon followed
me, it will not be difficult to realize that my sympathies were
especially stirred by the announcement that his wife was so near to him.
Passing through the day’s battle unhurt, I despatched, at its close,
under a flag of truce, the promised message to Mrs. Barlow. I assured
her that she should have safe escort to her husband’s side.
“In the desperate encounters of the two succeeding days, and the retreat
of Lee’s army, I thought no more of Barlow, except to number him with
the noble dead of the two armies who have so gloriously met their fate.
The ball, however, had struck no vital point, and Barlow slowly
recovered, though his fate was unknown to me. The following summer, in
battles near Richmond, my kinsman with the same initials, General J. B.
Gordon of North Carolina, was killed. Barlow, who had recovered, saw the
announcement of his death, and entertained no doubt that he was the
Gordon whom he had met on the field of Gettysburg. To me, therefore,
Barlow was dead; to Barlow I was dead. Nearly fifteen years passed
before either of us was undeceived. During my second term in the United
States Senate, the Hon. Clarkson Potter of New York was the member of
the House of Representatives. He invited me to dinner in Washington to
meet a General Barlow who had served in the Union Army. Potter knew
nothing of the Gettysburg incident. I had heard that there was another
Barlow in the Union Army, and supposed of course, that it was this
Barlow with whom I was to dine. Barlow had a similar reflection as to
the Gordon he was to meet. Seated at Clarkson Potter’s table, I asked
Barlow: ‘General, are you related to the Barlow who was killed at
Gettysburg?’ He replied: ‘Why, I am the man, sir. Are you related to the
Gordon who killed me?’ ‘I am the man, sir,’ I responded. No words of
mine can convey any conception of the emotions awakened by these
startling announcements. Nothing short of an actual resurrection of the
dead could have amazed either of us more. Thenceforward, until his
untimely death in 1896, the friendship between us which was born amidst
the thunders of Gettysburg was cherished by both.”