Enlisted on February 15, 1863 as a Private in the 2nd Massachusetts Cavalry, Company E. Deserted on January 24, 1864 at Vienna, Virginia. Shot for desertion on February 7, 1864 at Vienna, Virginia.
William E. "Pony" Ormsby "aided by only eight of Mosby's men, [attacked] the rear guard of a scouting party from his own regiment when it passed through Aldie... In this one-sided fighting the deserter was captured, taken back to camp, and his fate decided by a drumhead court-martial.
Men who were witnesses set down in diary and letter the details of the chilly, cloudy winter's day on which "Pony" died as a warning to others who might have in mind escaping the boredom of camp life by fleeing to the Rebel irregulars. It was an occasion engraved upon their memories. By unit, soldiers of the thirteenth and sixteenth New York Cavalry and of Ormsby's own regiment were marched into an open field near their camp at Vienna, led by the youthful Colonel Charles R. Lowell ... The young colonel alone was enough to convince the private in the ranks that the decision handed down by their emergency court would be identical with the verdict of any court, no matter how great its dignity... Under [Lowell's] watchful eyes the men marched out into the field, each solemn-faced and visualizing himself in the shoes of poor Ormsby. By long practice they formed a hollow square - double lines on three sides, the fourth left open as the objective point of operations. Then came the regimental band, moving slowly and playing a dirge as it paraded in front of the brigade. Behind the musicians rolled an ambulance, drawn by members of the firing squad and bearing a crude coffin on which sat the condemned [Ormsby]. To the center of the square the vehicle was rolled, and there "Pony" jumped to the ground and helped unload the heavy box.
The band brought the dirge to a close and instruments were lowered, and then the regimental adjutant marched stiffly to the center of the square and read the findings of the court. There was dead silence after his last words faded out, a tense period of waiting as if someone were expected to give a reply. The seconds ticked off slowly, painfully, with the breathless slowness of minutes, in a quietude so deep that the click of a trigger would have violated the lull with the sharpness of a rifle blast. Men in ranks, their cheek muscles as still as marble, swallowed hard. Good old "Pony", a lovable guy, a real pal.
A voice cracked on the air, a sergeant barking orders; and like automatons, members of the firing squad swung about, stepped forward, and split into two platoons of ten men each. Somewhere among their twenty guns was a blank cartridge.
Lowell now spoke in a manner that belied his youthful face, his words coming in a tone marked for its solemnity and calmness; 'William E. Ormsby, do you have anything to say to your fellow soldiers at this moment of your last stay on earth?'
It was then that "Pony" showed courage that might have brought him medals if properly applied. He bent over and rapped on the coffin, striking it three sharp blows with his bare knuckles. The soldiers standing there in the ranks counted each one of them. Then he straightened, smartly erect, as if at attention, and a wry grin wrinkled the smoothness of his face. 'That box is mighty hard men. Hope you put some shavings or something inside.' The remark fell flat, greeted only by deep silence, and he changed his attitude in mute apology. Speaking slowly, voice steady, he recounted the deed for which he had been tried, admitted his error, and justified his punishment, pointing by way of demonstration to the paper heart pinned to his coat as a bull's-eye. 'Farewell, comrades!' he concluded, and bowed his head while a chaplain muttered a prayer. That ended, he took a seat upon the coffin, unassisted, folded his arms behind him, and gave the order to fire...
Those who cared noted that it was four minutes past noon."
Bio by: Stonewall
William E. "Pony" Ormsby "aided by only eight of Mosby's men, [attacked] the rear guard of a scouting party from his own regiment when it passed through Aldie... In this one-sided fighting the deserter was captured, taken back to camp, and his fate decided by a drumhead court-martial.
Men who were witnesses set down in diary and letter the details of the chilly, cloudy winter's day on which "Pony" died as a warning to others who might have in mind escaping the boredom of camp life by fleeing to the Rebel irregulars. It was an occasion engraved upon their memories. By unit, soldiers of the thirteenth and sixteenth New York Cavalry and of Ormsby's own regiment were marched into an open field near their camp at Vienna, led by the youthful Colonel Charles R. Lowell ... The young colonel alone was enough to convince the private in the ranks that the decision handed down by their emergency court would be identical with the verdict of any court, no matter how great its dignity... Under [Lowell's] watchful eyes the men marched out into the field, each solemn-faced and visualizing himself in the shoes of poor Ormsby. By long practice they formed a hollow square - double lines on three sides, the fourth left open as the objective point of operations. Then came the regimental band, moving slowly and playing a dirge as it paraded in front of the brigade. Behind the musicians rolled an ambulance, drawn by members of the firing squad and bearing a crude coffin on which sat the condemned [Ormsby]. To the center of the square the vehicle was rolled, and there "Pony" jumped to the ground and helped unload the heavy box.
The band brought the dirge to a close and instruments were lowered, and then the regimental adjutant marched stiffly to the center of the square and read the findings of the court. There was dead silence after his last words faded out, a tense period of waiting as if someone were expected to give a reply. The seconds ticked off slowly, painfully, with the breathless slowness of minutes, in a quietude so deep that the click of a trigger would have violated the lull with the sharpness of a rifle blast. Men in ranks, their cheek muscles as still as marble, swallowed hard. Good old "Pony", a lovable guy, a real pal.
A voice cracked on the air, a sergeant barking orders; and like automatons, members of the firing squad swung about, stepped forward, and split into two platoons of ten men each. Somewhere among their twenty guns was a blank cartridge.
Lowell now spoke in a manner that belied his youthful face, his words coming in a tone marked for its solemnity and calmness; 'William E. Ormsby, do you have anything to say to your fellow soldiers at this moment of your last stay on earth?'
It was then that "Pony" showed courage that might have brought him medals if properly applied. He bent over and rapped on the coffin, striking it three sharp blows with his bare knuckles. The soldiers standing there in the ranks counted each one of them. Then he straightened, smartly erect, as if at attention, and a wry grin wrinkled the smoothness of his face. 'That box is mighty hard men. Hope you put some shavings or something inside.' The remark fell flat, greeted only by deep silence, and he changed his attitude in mute apology. Speaking slowly, voice steady, he recounted the deed for which he had been tried, admitted his error, and justified his punishment, pointing by way of demonstration to the paper heart pinned to his coat as a bull's-eye. 'Farewell, comrades!' he concluded, and bowed his head while a chaplain muttered a prayer. That ended, he took a seat upon the coffin, unassisted, folded his arms behind him, and gave the order to fire...
Those who cared noted that it was four minutes past noon."
Bio by: Stonewall
Enlisted on February 15, 1863 as a Private in the 2nd Massachusetts Cavalry, Company E. Deserted on January 24, 1864 at Vienna, Virginia. Shot for desertion on February 7, 1864 at Vienna, Virginia.
William E. "Pony" Ormsby "aided by only eight of Mosby's men, [attacked] the rear guard of a scouting party from his own regiment when it passed through Aldie... In this one-sided fighting the deserter was captured, taken back to camp, and his fate decided by a drumhead court-martial.
Men who were witnesses set down in diary and letter the details of the chilly, cloudy winter's day on which "Pony" died as a warning to others who might have in mind escaping the boredom of camp life by fleeing to the Rebel irregulars. It was an occasion engraved upon their memories. By unit, soldiers of the thirteenth and sixteenth New York Cavalry and of Ormsby's own regiment were marched into an open field near their camp at Vienna, led by the youthful Colonel Charles R. Lowell ... The young colonel alone was enough to convince the private in the ranks that the decision handed down by their emergency court would be identical with the verdict of any court, no matter how great its dignity... Under [Lowell's] watchful eyes the men marched out into the field, each solemn-faced and visualizing himself in the shoes of poor Ormsby. By long practice they formed a hollow square - double lines on three sides, the fourth left open as the objective point of operations. Then came the regimental band, moving slowly and playing a dirge as it paraded in front of the brigade. Behind the musicians rolled an ambulance, drawn by members of the firing squad and bearing a crude coffin on which sat the condemned [Ormsby]. To the center of the square the vehicle was rolled, and there "Pony" jumped to the ground and helped unload the heavy box.
The band brought the dirge to a close and instruments were lowered, and then the regimental adjutant marched stiffly to the center of the square and read the findings of the court. There was dead silence after his last words faded out, a tense period of waiting as if someone were expected to give a reply. The seconds ticked off slowly, painfully, with the breathless slowness of minutes, in a quietude so deep that the click of a trigger would have violated the lull with the sharpness of a rifle blast. Men in ranks, their cheek muscles as still as marble, swallowed hard. Good old "Pony", a lovable guy, a real pal.
A voice cracked on the air, a sergeant barking orders; and like automatons, members of the firing squad swung about, stepped forward, and split into two platoons of ten men each. Somewhere among their twenty guns was a blank cartridge.
Lowell now spoke in a manner that belied his youthful face, his words coming in a tone marked for its solemnity and calmness; 'William E. Ormsby, do you have anything to say to your fellow soldiers at this moment of your last stay on earth?'
It was then that "Pony" showed courage that might have brought him medals if properly applied. He bent over and rapped on the coffin, striking it three sharp blows with his bare knuckles. The soldiers standing there in the ranks counted each one of them. Then he straightened, smartly erect, as if at attention, and a wry grin wrinkled the smoothness of his face. 'That box is mighty hard men. Hope you put some shavings or something inside.' The remark fell flat, greeted only by deep silence, and he changed his attitude in mute apology. Speaking slowly, voice steady, he recounted the deed for which he had been tried, admitted his error, and justified his punishment, pointing by way of demonstration to the paper heart pinned to his coat as a bull's-eye. 'Farewell, comrades!' he concluded, and bowed his head while a chaplain muttered a prayer. That ended, he took a seat upon the coffin, unassisted, folded his arms behind him, and gave the order to fire...
Those who cared noted that it was four minutes past noon."
Bio by: Stonewall
William E. "Pony" Ormsby "aided by only eight of Mosby's men, [attacked] the rear guard of a scouting party from his own regiment when it passed through Aldie... In this one-sided fighting the deserter was captured, taken back to camp, and his fate decided by a drumhead court-martial.
Men who were witnesses set down in diary and letter the details of the chilly, cloudy winter's day on which "Pony" died as a warning to others who might have in mind escaping the boredom of camp life by fleeing to the Rebel irregulars. It was an occasion engraved upon their memories. By unit, soldiers of the thirteenth and sixteenth New York Cavalry and of Ormsby's own regiment were marched into an open field near their camp at Vienna, led by the youthful Colonel Charles R. Lowell ... The young colonel alone was enough to convince the private in the ranks that the decision handed down by their emergency court would be identical with the verdict of any court, no matter how great its dignity... Under [Lowell's] watchful eyes the men marched out into the field, each solemn-faced and visualizing himself in the shoes of poor Ormsby. By long practice they formed a hollow square - double lines on three sides, the fourth left open as the objective point of operations. Then came the regimental band, moving slowly and playing a dirge as it paraded in front of the brigade. Behind the musicians rolled an ambulance, drawn by members of the firing squad and bearing a crude coffin on which sat the condemned [Ormsby]. To the center of the square the vehicle was rolled, and there "Pony" jumped to the ground and helped unload the heavy box.
The band brought the dirge to a close and instruments were lowered, and then the regimental adjutant marched stiffly to the center of the square and read the findings of the court. There was dead silence after his last words faded out, a tense period of waiting as if someone were expected to give a reply. The seconds ticked off slowly, painfully, with the breathless slowness of minutes, in a quietude so deep that the click of a trigger would have violated the lull with the sharpness of a rifle blast. Men in ranks, their cheek muscles as still as marble, swallowed hard. Good old "Pony", a lovable guy, a real pal.
A voice cracked on the air, a sergeant barking orders; and like automatons, members of the firing squad swung about, stepped forward, and split into two platoons of ten men each. Somewhere among their twenty guns was a blank cartridge.
Lowell now spoke in a manner that belied his youthful face, his words coming in a tone marked for its solemnity and calmness; 'William E. Ormsby, do you have anything to say to your fellow soldiers at this moment of your last stay on earth?'
It was then that "Pony" showed courage that might have brought him medals if properly applied. He bent over and rapped on the coffin, striking it three sharp blows with his bare knuckles. The soldiers standing there in the ranks counted each one of them. Then he straightened, smartly erect, as if at attention, and a wry grin wrinkled the smoothness of his face. 'That box is mighty hard men. Hope you put some shavings or something inside.' The remark fell flat, greeted only by deep silence, and he changed his attitude in mute apology. Speaking slowly, voice steady, he recounted the deed for which he had been tried, admitted his error, and justified his punishment, pointing by way of demonstration to the paper heart pinned to his coat as a bull's-eye. 'Farewell, comrades!' he concluded, and bowed his head while a chaplain muttered a prayer. That ended, he took a seat upon the coffin, unassisted, folded his arms behind him, and gave the order to fire...
Those who cared noted that it was four minutes past noon."
Bio by: Stonewall
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