“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.” General Ewell Is Hit by a Bullet General Gordon gives an account of an amusing incident of the first day: “Late in the afternoon of this first day’s battle, when the firing had greatly decreased along most of the lines, General Ewell and I were riding through the streets of Gettysburg. In a previous battle he had lost one of his legs, but prided himself on the efficiency of the wooden one which he used in its place. As we rode together, a body of Union soldiers, posted behind some dwellings and fences on the outskirts of the town, suddenly opened a brisk fire. A number of Confederates were killed or wounded, and I heard the ominous thud of a minie ball as it struck General Ewell at my side. I quickly asked: ‘Are you hurt, sir?’ ‘No, no,’ he replied; ‘I’m not hurt. But suppose that ball had struck you: we would have had the trouble of carrying you off the field, sir. You see how much better fixed I am for a fight than you are. It don’t hurt a bit to be shot in a wooden leg.’