Alonzo Cushing at Gettysburg Held the Line with Faith

Nov 12 , 2025

Alonzo Cushing at Gettysburg Held the Line with Faith

Blood. Smoke. The thunder of cannon fire tearing the July air at Gettysburg. Brevet Lieutenant Colonel Alonzo Cushing sat astride that hell, his slender frame unmoved by the searing pain in his body. Three wounds. Bleeding out beside his limbered gun. And still—he ordered the gun crews to fire. This wasn’t just duty. It was defiance at the gates of death.

The Blood-Drenched Son of Wisconsin

Born January 1838 near Delafield, Wisconsin, Alonzo Cushing carried a midwestern grit rooted in deep conviction. A West Point graduate, class of 1861, he entered the war as an artillery officer with a rigid code: honor above all, faith through the storm. Raised in a Christian home, his belief wasn’t mere comfort—it was armor. Letters reveal a man who saw his commission as a sacred calling, a stewardship of life and liberty.

The quiet before Gettysburg was a crucible in itself. He trained, drilled, and prepared his battery at Fort Washington and the Shenandoah Valley, eyes always scanning for the cost of war. “I fear not the blow, but the cause that may fail,” he once wrote—a testament to the fusion of faith and duty threading through his veins.

The Furnace of July 3, 1863

Little Round Top—an unyielding ridge of shattered rocks and hellfire. The Union's left flank was crumbling under fierce Confederate assault during the Battle of Gettysburg. Cushing’s battery was positioned there, anchored on a rocky knoll overlooking the field.

Despite the chaos, he kept a calm born from steel and prayer. His guns fired relentlessly against the surging Rebels. Mid-fight, a bullet tore through his shoulder, then another lodged in his abdomen. His horse fell, dragging him down—but he refused to retreat.

One eyewitness, 1st Lieutenant Frederick E. Haldeman, recalled seeing Cushing, “though wounded and helpless, still giving orders to the men to keep firing.” Blood mingled with dust on his face. His command was unyielding: the battery's fire was a desperate cornerstone holding that flank, halting Confederate forces from breaking the Union line.

When a final mortal wound struck—piercing his genitals—Cushing grasped his saber with a last surge, rallying his men for the charge. Minutes later, he slumped and breathed his last, a sentinel to the end.

His sacrifice blunted the blow that might have shattered the Union Army’s left, turning the tide on that third, fateful day.

Recognition Forged in Valor

For nearly 150 years, his extraordinary heroism was recognized quietly—commemorations here and there—but never with the nation’s highest honor. It wasn’t until 2014 that the Medal of Honor was posthumously awarded, ratified by President Barack Obama.

The citation reads:

“While under heavy enemy fire during Pickett’s Charge, then First Lieutenant Cushing gallantly maintained his artillery position on the endangered Union left flank, despite receiving multiple mortal wounds.”

Commanders remembered him as courageous, unwavering, a man who held the line when all seemed lost. Medal of Honor recipient Colonel Joshua Chamberlain, a comrade-in-arms on Little Round Top, expressed profound respect for Cushing's sacrifice, underscoring how his artillery fire saved countless lives.

Enduring Legacy: The Blade Not Broken

Alonzo Cushing’s story slices through time with ruthless clarity. His battlefield scars are not just wounds of flesh but imprints on the soul of American valor.

His stand is a prescription for grit under duress—the raw, honest truth of sacrifice without guarantee. He teaches that courage isn’t the absence of fear or pain; it’s the relentless decision to keep fighting when hope is bleeding out.

“For I am already being poured out as a drink offering, and the time of my departure has come.” —2 Timothy 4:6

Cushing’s legacy is the unspoken covenant between those who bear arms and those who wait. It is the witness that freedom’s price is eternal vigilance, paid in blood and bone.

He was the man who held the gun, the line, and the faith until the dimming light was snuffed. The battle was not just about ground lost and won, but about hearts hardened and redeemed.

The smoke clears, but his echo roars still. For every soldier who stands sentry on the edge of darkness, Alonzo Cushing proves that valor never dies—it endures, baptized in sacrifice, sealed in honor.