Winston Armstrong sat proudly atop his black stallion, lording over the slaves on his family’s tobacco plantation. He enjoyed riding about in the fields, cracking his whip, instilling fear in the slaves and keeping them in line. As a diversion, he frequented the Old Buck Tavern with his cohorts, getting drunk on Kentucky bourbon, taunting women and intimidating younger boys.

He was the oldest of Joshua Armstrong’s four children; doted on by his mother, adored by his brother, Wallace, and his two sisters. He adorned himself in the finest and most colorful outfits. His family was not the wealthiest in the region, but Winston acted as if they were.

Winston’s father, Joshua, had been a Major in the Mexican War, and was considered one of the finest officers; tough, but also fair and just, earning the respect and admiration of his battalion. After the war, he returned home to manage his plantation, raise his family and keep the slaves productive. The biggest nuisance he faced from time to time was having to restrain Winston from being too harsh on the slaves.
“A contented slave will yield better results than a beaten one, Winston. Learn to control your aggression toward them and you’ll get more out of them.”

“But father, we have to show them who is in charge. Without the whip, they’ll just be lazy.”
“Have more faith in them, son. You can show them that you’re in command without being cruel. I learned in the war that a brave soldier doesn’t have to bully his men to get them to follow orders.”

One week after Fort Sumter was attacked, Joshua Armstrong received a letter from General Robert E. Lee requesting his presence in Richmond, Virginia. Armstrong fought valiantly under Lee in the Mexican War and welcomed the opportunity to serve under him in the Civil War.
“Major Armstrong, what a pleasure it is to see you again. I remember your exemplary record under my previous command. Time is short, so allow me to get right to the point. I want you to accept a commission as Lieutenant Colonel and lead the Third Infantry Battalion of our Southern Army. I have faith in you and have every confidence that you will be victorious. I also hope that you can enlist your son, Winston, to join our cause. I know it will be a strain on your family, but I’m sure your family will be able to manage the plantation.”
“General, it will be my honor and privilege to serve under you again. My son, Winston, is already eighteen years of age and will also be proud to enlist. He has had some leadership experience on our plantation and, with your consent, sir, I would like to appoint him to the rank of corporal. My younger son, Wallace, is only fourteen years old. I shall leave the plantation in his hands under my wife’s capable direction and the cooperation of the overseers until I can return.”
“How soon can you be ready, Colonel Armstrong? Will three days be sufficient?”
“I’ll be ready the day after tomorrow, sir.”

Loretta Armstrong kissed her husband affectionately, then wrapped her arms tightly around her son, as if never wanting to let him leave. “Winston, my darling son,” she uttered through tears, “I know you’re a brave young man and will make us all proud. You will be careful, though, won’t you?”
“Don’t worry, mother,” he responded, throwing back his shoulders with pride. “I’m not afraid of those Yankee dogs. They’re the ones who will have to be afraid of us. I will make you proud.”

He raised his trusty Fayetteville rifle and smiled confidently. “We’ll chase them all the way up to Canada if we have to.”
She hugged her husband again and put her head against his chest. “Joshua, my love,” she sighed, “you be careful as well. I know that you will lead our Southern boys to victory.”
“Don’t worry, my dear. We’ll be fine. I will need you to guide Wallace and help him understand how to manage the plantation. I don’t want us to lose our tobacco harvest while I’m gone. Keep a close eye on the lad.”
“Of course, darling. And don’t forget to keep an eye on Winston as well.”
Joshua and Winston walked shoulder to shoulder toward their horses, which had been saddled and bridled by Cody, the house butler. He handed the reins to them as they hoisted themselves into their saddles. “God bless you, Massa Armstrong. Yo’ bess be careful, too, Massa Winston.”
“Goodbye, Cody. Take care of Mrs. Armstrong.” Colonel Armstrong said, leaning down and patting Cody on the shoulder. Taking a final look over their shoulders, they waved farewell to Mrs. Armstrong and the three remaining children as father and son rode off together in search of battle against the Northern invaders.

Joshua Armstrong spent the first two weeks of July 1861 organizing his raw recruits, trying to instill army discipline and instructing them in hand-to-hand combat. The task was not easy, as many of them were young, inexperienced and were not familiar with the rigors of combat. He raised his bayonet in front of his troops and hollered, “What’s this for?”
“To kill Yankees,” they yelled back in unison.
“That’s the spirit,” Colonel Armstrong exclaimed. “Are you all ready?”
A resounding “YES SIR!” his men thundered once again.

Winston was assigned to the third platoon in Company C, Third Infantry Battalion, where he led a squad of eleven riflemen. They trained for most of the day, enduring harsh conditions under the searing heat of the summer sun. “I’m not here to be liked, men. I’m here to train you to be fighting soldiers,” he shouted.

Word reached Company C that Union soldiers had left Washington, D.C. to attack the railroad station at Manassas, Virginia. Companies A and B were immediately dispatched to defend it. They were pushed back initially, but when Companies C and D were called in from their reserve positions, they drove back the Northern Army and achieved their first victory, known as The Battle of Bull Run. It was the largest and bloodiest battle in the United States history up to that point. Both Union and Confederate casualties were heavy.
Winston was an experienced tavern brawler before the war. He and his rough-and-tumble buddies were bloodied on occasion, but they often left their adversaries in worse condition. Some even had to be carried away on stretchers. The battle at Manassas, however, forced him to face a horror the likes of which he had never encountered in the local pubs. He lost control of his stomach as he witnessed men lying with arms and legs blown off, heads shattered like eggshells, blood and intestines strewn on the ground. He leaned on his rifle and vomited uncontrollably. For the first time in his life, he felt total and utter fear…the fear of pain, of dismemberment and, above all, of dying. He was not alone in his terror. Many of his men reacted similarly as they dragged their dead off the battlefield and lifted them onto wagons to be taken to the rear and ultimately, to the cemetery. Their feelings were ameliorated somewhat by the fact that they were able to celebrate winning the first battle of the war. Victorious, they marched back to camp proudly, albeit with heavy hearts.
Winston strutted through camp that evening, attempting to dispel the terror and doubt that raced through every fiber of his being. What the devil am I doing here? I don’t want to die! “Hey, Winston,” one of his squad members called, startling him. “How’re ya doin’? Pretty rough out there, eh?”
“Yeah, it sure was. How’re the others holding up?”
“Pretty fair, I reckon.”
He continued for a while longer, chatting and sharing rationed drinks with the men, attempting to appreciate the stillness of the woods, away from the blast of guns firing, canons roaring and men screaming in pain…the dreadful commotion of battle. He paid special attention to the more pleasant sounds of the forest: chirping crickets, croaking frogs, and the gurgling water in the nearby creek. He heaved a heavy sigh, returned to his tent and fell asleep, dreaming about his more peaceful – and easier – life on the plantation.

Over the course of the next several months, Winston’s outfit engaged in several skirmishes and some heavier engagements with the enemy. Company C stood watch in October 1861 at the blockade of the Potomac, during which time three of his men were ambushed and killed while on patrol. More and more, he witnessed his men die in combat. He observed others lose their minds and run away, only to be caught, returned to camp, and executed as deserters. His nerves were constantly on edge and he often displayed periods of involuntary twitching. He tried to drown his fears with alcohol at every opportunity.
At the beginning of April 1862, Companies C and D of the Third Infantry Battalion were diverted to Pittsburgh Landing in Tennessee to take part in a surprise attack on General Grant’s Union forces. The initial drive was effective, but the Union soldiers’ counterattack drove the Confederate forces back. In the bloody Battle of Shiloh, Winston again watched his men fall, one after another, under the weight of the Union army’s strength and firepower. His company suffered extreme losses and was on the verge of being completely decimated. He could hear the whine of bullets as they whizzed past his head, then the thud as they struck his men. Their shrieks of pain pierced his ears, making him cringe and cower. He ducked behind a downed tree felled by cannon shells and buried his head in his hands. He shuddered at the thunder of artillery exploding nearby, tossing men into the air and blowing them to pieces. I can’t take this anymore, his mind screamed. Fear embraced him once again. This time, it controlled him. I don’t want to die here. I’ve got to get away.
“Where’s Corporal Armstrong going?” one of his men yelled as they watched him run to the rear.
“Hey, Winston…get back here,” called another.
“Let him go, that coward. He’ll get what’s comin’ to him later,” said a third man.
Winston fled into the woods behind the lines. He hid under brambles and bushes for three days, eating whatever wild berries he could find and drinking water from streams. When his hunger finally got the best of him, when he could no longer handle living like a feral animal, he came out of hiding and approached a cabin on the outskirts of Pittsburgh Landing.

“Why, young man,” the woman said as she opened the door, “you look sickly. You’d best come in and sit a while.”
“Thank you, ma’am,”
“Henry, come ovah, heah,” she called to her husband.
Henry looked at Winston. “Wha’s your name, boy?”
“Name’s not important. Have you got anything I can eat?”
“You a soldier? You look like a soldier. Why are you here all alone?”
“My outfit was wiped out over at Shiloh. I managed to escape.”
“Molly, git the boy sump’n to eat.”
The woman filled a bowl with possum soup from the kettle that was hanging in the fireplace and gave it to Winston, along with a piece of bread. “Set rat cheer, at the table,” she said. “You can lie down, after.”
As he devoured the soup and bread, the man looked at Winston, perplexed. “So, you ran away?”
“No. Well, not really,” he groaned. “I’ve been in so many battles in the past year, and seen so many of my men get torn apart and butchered by the North. We were overrun by the Yankees. I didn’t wanna die. I just couldn’t take it anymore. You can understand, can’t you? Please understand. I’m not a coward, really, I’m not. I just need a break, that’s all.”
“Well, don’t you worry none,” the woman reassured him. “You’re safe now. You can sleep here tonight if you want.”
“Thank you so much, ma’am. I’ll be on my way in the morning.”
“Henry, fetch some blankets for the boy. He can sleep on the chair over to the fireplace.”
Having slept no more than a few hours during the three days after running away, Winston fell into a deep slumber almost instantly.
“Ah can’t abide no army deserters,” Henry whispered. “Molly, Ah want you ta make sure he stays rat cheer while ah’m gone.”
An hour later, Henry returned with Captain McIntyre and two armed soldiers who had been camped at the other end of the town. “Wake up, soldier,” the captain barked as he shook Winston’s shoulder. He was handcuffed and brought back to the officer’s base camp, where he

was bound to a tree. In the morning, he was brought into Captain McIntyre’s tent. “What’s your name, soldier, and what outfit were you with?”
“My name is Corporal Winston Armstrong, sir. I was with Company C, Third Infantry Battalion, fighting at Shiloh. We were being slaughtered.”
“I recognize that, son. But you must understand that you’ve committed a most egregious transgression during battle. Desertion is an act of cowardice. You know what the penalty for it is, don’t you?”
“Sir, I’m…I’m not a coward,” he stammered. “I just needed a break. Just for a short while, that’s all. I’ll go back. Please, sir, you must believe me.”
“Soldier, that will be up to a court-martial to decide.”
Winston was placed under heavy guard. The following day, he was transported ten miles to the rear to Third Battalion Headquarters and placed in the stockade along with two other deserters.
Word of Corporal Winston Armstrong’s desertion under fire traveled quickly up the chain of command. “That’s impossible!” declared Colonel Armstrong. “There must be some mistake. My son is not a deserter or a coward.”
“Sir, I know this is difficult to take,” Major Murphy lamented. “I’m just reporting what I learned. Perhaps you want to investigate this yourself. But I must also inform you that a general court-martial is being prepared to try your son. I’m sorry, sir.”
“Thank you, Major. I’ll take it from here.”
The trial was held two days later. It took only one hour for the military tribunal to reach their guilty verdict and decide the fate of Corporal Winston Armstrong. The punishment for cowardly desertion under fire was known by everyone: death by hanging. The sentence had to be approved by the Battalion Commander…Colonel Joshua Armstrong.

Sitting alone in a cordoned-off section of the stockade, chained to a post by a leg iron, Winston could not stop trembling. His stomach rumbled, but his nausea prevented him from eating the gruel and rice on the tin plate that was left for him. He could not eradicate the perpetual echo of the court’s guilty verdict that rang endlessly in his mind. I’m not a coward, he continued to tell

himself. I’m not a coward. I just needed a short break, that’s all. Why couldn’t they understand that?
His execution was to be carried out the following morning. He sat alone in his cell, still unable to eat or even sleep. The guards posted in front of the stockade could hear him weep. “Ah cain’t blame him fer cryin,” one of them said, “knowin’ that he’s gonna hang soon.”
“To hell with him,” the other said. “That’s what he deserves for runnin’ away while the other men stayed on fightin’.”
The first guard looked up from the desk, immediately snapped to attention and saluted as the superior officer approached. “Open the door and leave us alone,” the officer commanded quietly.
“Yes, Colonel.”
Colonel Armstrong approached his son as he lay on a bed of straw on the wooden floor. He knelt and touched his son’s shoulder, startling him, as he had just begun to doze off. “Father!” Winston quavered. “Father, I’m scared, but I’m not a coward. Can’t you help me?” he pleaded, bursting into tears.
His father placed his hands on his son’s shoulders and pulled him close, hugging him tightly. “Son, I know you’re frightened. I realize the state of mind you were in when you left the battle. I can understand it. I see it all the time. War does things to a man that he would never experience in his normal life. I know that you are not a coward.”
“Thank you for believing me father. But what is to become of me now?” They’ve already pronounced sentence on me. I’m going to be hanged tomorrow morning.” He sobbed loudly. “I don’t want to die.”
“Do not worry, Winston. I’ve taken care of everything. You will not be hanged. I’ve arranged it with General Beauregard, a good friend of mine. He understands and will commute your sentence. You will be discharged and sent home tomorrow.”
“Oh, Father, thank you, thank you, God bless you.”
“But, Winston, there is the matter of everyone else thinking that you are a coward. You must do something to prove them wrong.”
“What is it, father? Just tell me what I must do.”
“What I want you to do, son, is show them all how brave you are. I want you to make me

proud. You must walk up the steps of the scaffold confidently, with your head held high, showing them how courageous a soldier you truly are. You must show them how brave you can be, even when the noose is placed around your neck. You mustn’t show any signs of fear. I shall be there, right alongside of you. I will then stop the execution and read aloud the commutation of your sentence given by General Beauregard. I shall remove the noose and escort you to your horse and hand you the discharge papers and send you on your way. I promise that your mother, brother and sisters will be waiting for you at home, welcoming you with open arms. Do you think you can do exactly as I have instructed?”
Winston hugged his father. “Oh, yes father. I shall do all that you have told me to do.”
“You’ll be brave and make me proud, right?”
“Of course I will, father. You can depend on me.”
“I shall see you again in the morning. Now rest, Winston. He moved the plate of fried chicken toward his son. Try to eat. It will give you strength.” Feeling confident in his father’s love and connections, he bolted down his meal and fell asleep quickly, for the first time in weeks.

The early morning sunlight gleamed through the stockade window, casting its beams on the prisoner who slept on his bed of straw. The guard approached and shook him awake. “A bowl of porridge for you, Corporal. That is, if you’re hungry.”
“Indeed I am. Give it here.”
Winston sat up, took the bowl and emptied it quickly. The guard watched as Winston gobbled down his breakfast in only a few gulps. “They’re ready for you, Corporal.” Mindful of his father’s instructions from the night before, he snapped to attention. “Lead the way,” he said proudly.
He stepped gallantly up the steps of the scaffold while Company C’s third platoon watched stone faced. Sergeant Judson guided him to the trap door as a soldier performed a solitary drum roll. He saw his father standing near the lever that would open the door and cause him to fall through. His father approached and whispered, “Don’t worry son, it’s all taken care of. You’ll be free in just another moment.”
Frightened, but mustering all the appearance of bravery he could, he stood at attention while a soldier attempted to place a black bag over his head. “No!” he announced, smiling as he turned toward his father, “I won’t need that mask.”
Colonel Armstrong smiled proudly at his son despite the tears beginning to drown his eyes. He walked down the scaffold steps and stood in the front row of the company. Then he gave the command: “Attention!” His men immediately snapped to the position of respect. He then brought his right arm up to the brim of his cap, saluting his son, who stood firmly and bravely at attention. Winston returned the salute proudly.
The thunk of the trap door opening was all that Colonel Armstrong heard after he did an immediate about face and pushed his way toward the rear hiding the tears cascading down his cheeks.
Unbeknownst to Corporal Winston Armstrong, his father’s salute was also a signal to Sergeant Judson, who pulled the lever that had unlatched the trap door. The noose broke Winston Armstrong’s neck, killing him instantly as he fell through the opening in the floor of the scaffold.
There was no ceremony, no rifles firing into the air. The army fulfilled its duty, obeying the verdict given by the court-martial, in accordance with its policy for deserters.
Colonel Armstrong walked away, removed his handkerchief from his back pocket and dried his tears. The following morning, he resigned his commission and returned home to his family to let them know that Winston died a proud soldier in battle.