The Guilty Deserter

(By Brigadier General George H. Gordon, 1861)

The somber narrative unfolds with the receipt of six soldiers, each bearing the weight of a death sentence for the egregious crime of desertion. These men, condemned by military tribunal, were slated for execution at Warrenton Junction, Virginia. The stage was set for a grim spectacle: a field designated as the execution ground, coffins meticulously crafted, and the chilling pronouncement of their impending doom echoing in the air. However, fate, in the form of a sudden military maneuver, intervened, postponing the executions for a week. During this reprieve, five of the condemned were recommended to the President for a pardon, a sliver of hope piercing the darkness.

Yet, for the sixth soldier, deemed a ringleader in the act of desertion, the sentence remained unchanged. The division received orders to assemble once more, this time to witness the final moments of his life. The crushing weight of this reality was communicated to the condemned man. The chaplain, a beacon of solace in the face of death, performed his last rites, and the firing party, a group of men tasked with ending a life, was meticulously selected. Just as the machinery of death seemed poised to grind forward, another order arrived, commanding a march at five o’clock the following morning. It threatened to disrupt the execution once more, but, as fate would have it, the execution proceeded as planned.

This resolute convict, accompanied by the sturdiest of troops, marched with unwavering fortitude towards Greenwich, Virginia, his own coffin a constant, grim companion for fifteen arduous miles. The march represented his final earthly journey, culminating in his last hour. A field near the camp was chosen, and preparations commenced for the grim ceremony. It was then that a local planter, hearing of the field’s intended use, approached the General with a mix of concern and morbid curiosity. "Is it true, General," he inquired with affected earnestness, "that you are going to shoot one of your men today?" Without waiting for confirmation, he continued, "Now, my dear sir, you mustn’t think any worse of me if I say this executing is a dreadful thing! And yet it is an incident of the war; why, sir, it is historical, and—bless my soul, sir!—I want to see it, and if you do not think it improper, I should like to take my little boys with me."

The General, taken aback by the planter’s peculiar request, granted his wish with a simple, "If you are so inclined, you may." And inclined he was. The planter, complete with an umbrella tucked under his arm, a linen coat draped over his shoulders, a small dog trotting before him, and his three young children (aged six, eight, and ten) by his side, secured a prime viewing spot, arriving first and lingering until the very end.

The narrator recalls a past fascination with a crude print depicting a military execution. The image, forever etched in his memory, portrayed the condemned kneeling beside his open grave, the stark coffin, the blindfolded victim, the platoon of soldiers with leveled muskets, the looming word of command, and, in the distance, a lone horseman racing toward the scene, a pardon clutched in his hand. The question of whether the rider arrived in time lingered, a constant source of morbid fascination.

However, the execution at Greenwich was no mere fantasy. It was a stark reality, devoid of any romanticized coloring. A somber duty weighed heavily upon the General, and there would be no reprieve. The appointed hour arrived, and the division assembled on three sides of a hollow square, the fourth side open to reveal a freshly dug grave and the raw earth piled beside it. A mournful procession approached, its slow, silent advance amplifying the gravity of the occasion.

At the forefront of the procession was a firing party of six soldiers, their faces betraying little emotion. Behind them, an ambulance carried the condemned man, seated upon his own coffin, his arms bound, and his gaze fixed downward. The provost guard followed, completing the somber ensemble. The ranks of soldiers stood motionless, their eyes fixed on the condemned man, the focal point of this tragic scene.

Assisted to the ground, the soldier watched as his coffin was placed beside the grave. He then knelt upon it, awaiting his fate. The only sounds were the mournful prayer and the solemn pronouncements of the death sentence. Not a single man stirred as the bandage, a symbol of finality, was placed over the eyes of the unfortunate soldier, forever shutting out the last vestiges of sunlight. Pity and hope were absent. The sharp commands, "Ready, aim!" cut through the air, followed by the agonizing suspense before the ringing volley shattered the silence.

For a fleeting moment, the soldier remained erect, still kneeling on his coffin. Then, his body succumbed to the force of the bullets, collapsing over the edge of his final resting place. As the troops marched back to their encampments, they passed in column by the corpse. Death, in its stark reality, had left its indelible mark on the soldier’s face. The General reflected on the profound transformation, struggling to reconcile the rigid form before him with the human being who had once felt passion and succumbed to weakness. The Guilty Deserter had paid the ultimate price.

Once the troops departed and the field was cleared, a small burial party lowered the body into the grave, filled it with earth, and covered the slight mound with a green sod. They left the scene of this tragedy alone with the dead. Among the six guns of the firing party, only five were loaded, ensuring that no one could definitively identify who fired the blank. However, only four guns were discharged, and of those, only two bullets found their mark – one piercing his arm, the other striking his breast near his heart. He died instantly, without a struggle.

He left no final words, save for a last-minute plea, uttered as the reality of his fate sank in, to speak with General Meade or the narrator. This request, however, was denied. The General was simply executing the will of General Meade, who had remained resolute in his decision. The law had been broken, and ultimately, the law was vindicated. The story of The Guilty Deserter serves as a chilling reminder of the harsh realities of war.

This harrowing account, "The Guilty Deserter," offers a glimpse into the brutal realities of military justice during the Civil War, highlighting the unwavering application of the law even in the face of human suffering. The description of The Guilty Deserter and the circumstances surrounding his execution paints a vivid picture of the era, revealing the harshness of military discipline and the emotional toll it took on those tasked with carrying it out.

The Guilty Deserter, as a historical document, provides insight into the social attitudes toward desertion and the perceived need for strict punishment to maintain order within the ranks. The presence of the local planter and his children at the execution underscores the complex relationship between civilians and the military during wartime, a morbid fascination coexisting with a sense of duty and historical significance. The text, "The Guilty Deserter," emphasizes the finality and the solemnity of death.

(Compiled and edited by Kathy Alexander/Legends of America, updated July 2023.)

Notes and Author: This tale was written by Brigadier General George H. Gordon, who served in the Civil War, seeing action in the Shenandoah Valley campaign in 1861, and the next year was a commander at Cedar Mountain and Chantilly. He was also a leader in the Antietam and Suffolk Campaigns. After the war, he resumed his law practice, as well as acting as an author and historian. The Guilty Deserter was included as a chapter in Albert Bushnell Hart’s book, The Romance of the Civil War, published in 1896. The text as it appears here, however, is not verbatim, as it has been edited.

Also See:

Civil War (main page)

Historical Accounts of American History

Soldiers & Officers In American History

Virginia Civil War Campaigns