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The Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge
The Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge
Ambrose
Bierce
I
A man stood
upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty
feet below. The man's hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord.
A rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross-timber
above his head and the slack fell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards
laid upon the sleepers[1] supporting the metals of
the railway supplied a footing for him and his executioners--two private
soldiers of the Federal army, directed by a sergeant who in civil life may have
been a deputy sheriff. At a short remove upon the same temporary platform was
an officer in the uniform of his rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel[2] at each end of the bridge
stood with his rifle in the position known as "support," that is to
say, vertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer[3]
resting on the forearm thrown straight across the chest--a formal and unnatural
position, enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It did not appear to be the
duty of these two men to know what was occurring at the center of the bridge;
they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot planking that traversed it.
Beyond one
of the sentinels nobody was in sight; the railroad ran straight away into a
forest for a hundred yards, then, curving, was lost to view. Doubtless there
was an outpost farther along. The other bank of the stream was open ground--a
gentle acclivity[4] topped with a stockade of
vertical tree trunks, loopholed for rifles, with a
single embrasure[5] through which protruded
the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the bridge.
Midway of the slope between the bridge and fort were the spectators--a single
company of infantry in line, at "parade rest," the butts of the
rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly backward against the right
shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. A lieutenant stood at the right of
the line, the point of his sword upon the ground, his left hand resting upon
his right. Excepting the group of four at the center of the bridge, not a man
moved. The company faced the bridge, staring stonily, motionless. The
sentinels, facing the banks of the stream, might have been statues to adorn the
bridge. The captain stood with folded arms, silent, observing the work of his subordinates,
but making no sign. Death is a dignitary who when he comes announced is to be
received with formal manifestations of respect, even by those most familiar
with him. In the code of military etiquette silence and fixity are forms of deference[6].
The man who
was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five years of age. He
was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit, which was that of a planter.
His features were good--a straight nose, firm mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed
straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well-fitting frock
coat. He wore a mustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were
large and dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one would hardly have expected
in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently this was no vulgar assassin. The
liberal military code makes provision for hanging many kinds of persons, and
gentlemen are not excluded.
The
preparations being complete, the two private soldiers stepped aside and each
drew away the plank upon which he had been standing. The sergeant turned to the
captain, saluted and placed himself immediately behind that officer, who in
turn moved apart one pace. These movements left the condemned man and the
sergeant standing on the two ends of the same plank, which spanned three of the
cross-ties of the bridge. The end upon which the
civilian stood almost, but not quite, reached a fourth. This plank had been
held in place by the weight of the captain; it was now held by that of the
sergeant. At a signal from
the former, the latter would step aside, the plank would tilt and
the condemned man go down between two ties. The arrangement commended itself to
his judgment as simple and effective. His face had not been covered nor his
eyes bandaged. He looked a moment at his "unsteadfast footing," then
let his gaze wander to the swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath
his feet. A piece of dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes
followed it down the current. How slowly it appeared to move, What a sluggish stream!
He closed
his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife and children. The
water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding mists under the banks at
some distance down the stream, the fort, the soldiers, the
piece of drift--all had distracted him. And now he became conscious of a new
disturbance. Striking through the thought of his dear ones was a sound which he
could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like
the stroke of a blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil; it had the same ringing
quality. He wondered what it was, and whether immeasurably distant or near by--it seemed both. Its recurrence was regular, but as
slow as the tolling of a death knell[7]. He awaited each stroke
with impatience and--he knew not why--apprehension. The intervals of silence
grew progressively longer, the delays became maddening. With their greater
infrequency the sounds increased in strength and sharpness. They hurt his ear
like the thrust of a knife; he feared he would shriek. What he heard was the
ticking of his watch.
He unclosed
his eyes and saw again the water below him. "If I could free my
hands," he thought, "I might throw off the noose and spring into the
stream. By diving I could evade the bullets and, swimming vigorously, reach the
bank, take to the woods and get away home. My home, thank God, is as yet
outside their lines; my wife and little ones are still beyond the invader's
farthest advance."
As these
thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed into the doomed
man's brain rather than evolved from it the captain nodded to the sergeant. The
sergeant stepped aside.
II
Peyton
Farquhar was a well-to-do planter, of an old and highly respected Alabama
family. Being a slave owner and like other slave owners a politician, he was
naturally an original secessionist and ardently devoted to the Southern cause.
Circumstances of an imperious[8] nature, which it is
unnecessary to relate here, had prevented him from taking service with the
gallant army that had fought the disastrous campaigns ending with the fall of
Corinth, and he chafed[9] under the inglorious
restraint, longing for the release of his energies, the larger life of the
soldier, the opportunity for distinction. That opportunity, he felt, would
come, as it comes to all in war time. Meanwhile he did what he could. No
service was too humble for him to perform in aid of the South, no adventure too
perilous for him to undertake if consistent with the character of a civilian
who was at heart a soldier, and who in good faith and without too much
qualification assented to at least a part of the frankly villainous dictum[10] that all is fair in love
and war.
One evening
while Farquhar and his wife were sitting on a rustic bench near the entrance to
his grounds, a gray-clad soldier rode up to the gate and asked for a drink of water.
Mrs. Farquhar was only too happy to serve him with her own white hands. While
she was fetching the water her husband approached the dusty horseman and
inquired eagerly for news from the front.
"The
Yanks are repairing the railroads," said the man, "and are getting
ready for another advance. They have reached the Owl Creek bridge,
put it in order and built a stockade on the north bank. The commandant has
issued an order, which is posted everywhere, declaring that any civilian caught
interfering with the railroad, its bridges, tunnels or trains will be summarily[11] hanged. I saw the
order."
"How
far is it to the Owl Creek bridge?" Farquhar
asked.
"About
thirty miles."
"Is
there no force on this side the creek?"
"Only
a picket post half a mile out, on the railroad, and a single sentinel at this
end of the bridge."
"Suppose
a man--a civilian and student of hanging--should elude the picket post and
perhaps get the better of the sentinel," said Farquhar, smiling,
"what could he accomplish?"
The soldier
reflected. "I was there a month ago," he replied. "I observed
that the flood of last winter had lodged a great quantity of driftwood against
the wooden pier at this end of the bridge. It is now dry and would burn like tow[12]."
The lady had
now brought the water, which the soldier drank. He thanked her ceremoniously,
bowed to her husband and rode away. An hour later, after nightfall, he repassed
the plantation, going northward in the direction from which he had come. He was
a Federal scout[13].
III
As Peyton
Farquhar fell straight downward through the bridge he lost consciousness and
was as one already dead. From this state he was awakened--ages later, it seemed
to him--by the pain of a sharp pressure upon his throat, followed by a sense of
suffocation. Keen, poignant[14] agonies seemed to shoot
from his neck downward through every fiber of his body and limbs. These pains appeared
to flash along well-defined lines of ramification and to beat with an
inconceivably rapid periodicity. They seemed like streams of pulsating fire
heating him to an intolerable temperature. As to his head, he was conscious of
nothing but a feeling of fulness--of congestion.
These sensations were unaccompanied by thought. The intellectual part of his
nature was already effaced[15]; he had power only to
feel, and feeling was torment. He was conscious of motion. Encompassed in a
luminous cloud, of which he was now merely the fiery heart, without material
substance, he swung through unthinkable arcs of oscillation[16], like a vast pendulum.
Then all at once, with terrible suddenness, the light about him shot upward
with the noise of a loud splash; a frightful roaring was in his ears, and all
was cold and dark. The power of thought was restored; he knew that the rope had
broken and he had fallen into the stream. There was no additional
strangulation; the noose about his neck was already suffocating him and kept the
water from his lungs. To die of hanging at the bottom of a river!--the idea
seemed to him
ludicrous. He opened his eyes in the darkness and saw above him a
gleam of light, but how distant, how inaccessible! He was still sinking, for
the light became fainter and fainter until it was a mere glimmer. Then it began
to grow and brighten, and he knew that he was rising toward the surface--knew
it with reluctance, for he was now very comfortable. "To be hanged and
drowned," he thought? "that is not so bad;
but I do not wish to be shot. No; I will not be shot; that is not fair."
He was not
conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in his wrist apprised him that he was
trying to free his hands. He gave the struggle his attention, as an idler[17] might observe the feat of
a juggler, without interest in the outcome. What splendid effort!--what
magnificent, what superhuman strength! Ah, that was a fine endeavor! Bravo! The
cord fell away; his arms parted and floated upward, the hands dimly seen on
each side in the growing light. He watched them with a new interest as first
one and then the other pounced upon the noose at his neck. They tore it away
and thrust it fiercely aside, its undulations resembling those of a water
snake. "Put it back, put it back!" He thought he shouted these words
to his hands, for the undoing of the noose had been succeeded by the direst pang[18] that he had yet
experienced. His neck ached horribly; his brain was on fire; his heart, which
had been fluttering faintly, gave a great leap, trying to force itself out at
his mouth. His whole body was racked and wrenched with an insupportable
anguish! But his disobedient hands gave no heed to the command. They beat the
water vigorously with quick, downward strokes, forcing him to the surface. He
felt his head emerge; his eyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest expanded
convulsively, and with a supreme and crowning agony his lungs engulfed a great
draught of air, which instantly he expelled in a shriek!
He was now
in full possession of his physical senses. They were, indeed, preternaturally[19] keen and alert. Something
in the awful disturbance of his organic system had so exalted[20] and refined them that
they made record of things never before perceived. He felt the ripples upon his
face and heard their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on
the bank of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the veining of
each leaf--saw the very insects upon them: the locusts, the brilliant-bodied
flies, the grey spiders stretching their webs from twig to twig. He noted the
prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a million blades of grass. The
humming of the gnats that danced above the eddies[21] of the stream, the
beating of the dragon flies' wings, the strokes of the water-spiders' legs,
like oars which had lifted their boat--all these made audible music. A fish
slid along beneath his eyes and he heard the rush of its body parting the
water.
He had come
to the surface facing down the stream; in a moment the visible world seemed to
wheel slowly round, himself the pivotal point, and he saw the bridge, the fort,
the soldiers upon the bridge, the captain, the sergeant, the two privates, his
executioners. They were in silhouette against the blue sky. They shouted and
gesticulated, pointing at him. The captain had drawn his pistol, but did not
fire; the others were unarmed. Their movements were grotesque and horrible,
their forms gigantic.
Suddenly he
heard a sharp report[22] and something struck the
water smartly within a few inches of his head, spattering his face with spray.
He heard a second report, and saw one of the sentinels with his rifle at his
shoulder, a light cloud of blue smoke rising from the muzzle. The man in the
water saw the eye of the man on the bridge gazing into his own through the sights
of the rifle. He observed that it was a grey eye and remembered having read
that grey eyes were keenest, and that all famous marksmen had them.
Nevertheless, this one had missed.
A counter-swirl
had caught Farquhar and turned him half round; he was again looking into the
forest on the bank opposite the fort. The sound of a clear, high voice in a
monotonous singsong now rang out behind him and came across the water with a
distinctness that pierced and subdued all other sounds, even the beating of the
ripples in his ears. Although no soldier, he had frequented camps enough to
know the dread significance of that deliberate, drawling, aspirated[23] chant; the lieutenant on
shore was taking a part in the morning's work. How coldly and pitilessly--with
what an even, calm intonation, presaging[24], and enforcing
tranquility in the men--with what accurately measured intervals fell those
cruel words:
"Attention,
company! . . Shoulder arms! . . . Ready! . . . Aim! .
. . Fire!"
Farquhar
dived--dived as deeply as he could. The water roared
in his ears like the voice of Niagara, yet he heard the dulled thunder of the volley[25] and, rising again toward
the surface, met shining bits of metal, singularly flattened, oscillating slowly downward. Some of them touched him on the
face and hands, then fell away, continuing their
descent. One lodged between his collar and neck; it was uncomfortably warm and
he snatched it out.
As he rose
to the surface, gasping for breath, he saw that he had been a long time under
water; he was perceptibly farther down stream nearer
to safety. The soldiers had almost finished reloading; the metal ramrods
flashed all at once in the sunshine as they were drawn from the barrels, turned
in the air, and thrust into their sockets. The two sentinels fired again,
independently and ineffectually.
The hunted
man saw all this over his shoulder; he was now swimming vigorously with the
current. His brain was as energetic as his arms and legs; he thought with the
rapidity of lightning.
The
officer," he reasoned, "will not make that martinet's[26] error a second time. It
is as easy to dodge a volley as a single shot. He has probably already given
the command to fire at will. God help me, I cannot dodge them all!"
An appalling
plash within two yards of him was followed by a loud, rushing sound, diminuendo[27], which seemed to travel
back through the air to the fort and died in an explosion which stirred the
very river to its deeps!
A rising
sheet of water curved over him, fell down upon him, blinded him, strangled him! The cannon had taken a hand in the game. As
he shook his head free from the commotion of the smitten water he heard the
deflected shot humming through the air ahead, and in an instant it was cracking
and smashing the branches in the forest beyond.
"They
will not do that again," he thought; "the next time they will use a charge of grape[28]. I must keep my eye upon
the gun; the smoke will apprise me--the report arrives too late; it lags behind
the missile. That is a good gun."
Suddenly he
felt himself whirled round and round--spinning like a top. The water, the
banks, the forests, the now distant bridge, fort and men--all were commingled
and blurred. Objects were represented by their colors only; circular horizontal
streaks of color--that was all he saw. He had been caught in a vortex and was
being whirled on with a velocity of advance and gyration that made him giddy
and sick. In a few moments he was flung upon the gravel at the foot of the left
bank of the stream--the southern bank--and behind a projecting point which
concealed him from his enemies. The sudden arrest of his motion, the abrasion
of one of his hands on the gravel, restored him, and he wept with delight. He
dug his fingers into the sand, threw it over himself in handfuls and audibly
blessed it. It looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; he could think of
nothing beautiful which it did not resemble. The trees upon the bank were giant
garden plants; he noted a definite order in their arrangement, inhaled the
fragrance of their blooms. A strange, roseate[29] light shone through the
spaces among their trunks and the wind made in their branches the music of Ζolian harps[30]. He had no wish to
perfect his escape--was content to remain in that enchanting spot until
retaken.
A whiz and
rattle of grapeshot among the branches high above his head roused him from his
dream. The baffled cannoneer had fired him a random
farewell. He sprang to his feet, rushed up the sloping bank, and plunged into
the forest.
All that day
he traveled, laying his course by the rounding sun. The forest seemed interminable[31]; nowhere did he discover
a break in it, not even a woodman's road. He had not known that he lived in so
wild a region. There was something uncanny in the revelation.
By nightfall
he was fatigued, footsore, famishing. The thought of his wife and children
urged him on. At last he found a road which led him in what he knew to be the
right direction. It was as wide and straight as a city street, yet it seemed
untraveled. No fields bordered it, no dwelling anywhere. Not so much as the
barking of a dog suggested human habitation. The black bodies of the trees
formed a straight wall on both sides, terminating on the horizon in a point,
like a diagram in a lesson in perspective. Overhead, as he looked up through
this rift in the wood, shone great golden stars
looking unfamiliar and grouped in strange constellations. He was sure they were
arranged in some order which had a secret and malign[32] significance. The wood on
either side was full of singular noises, among which--once, twice, and
again--he distinctly heard whispers in an unknown tongue.
His neck was
in pain and lifting his hand to it found it horribly swollen. He knew that it
had a circle of black where the rope had bruised it. His eyes felt congested;
he could no longer close them. His tongue was swollen with thirst; he relieved
its fever by thrusting it forward from between his teeth into the cold air. How
softly the turf had carpeted the untraveled avenue--he could no longer feel the
roadway beneath his feet!
Doubtless,
despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking, for now he sees
another scene--perhaps he has merely recovered from a delirium. He stands at
the gate of his own home. All is as he left it, and all bright and beautiful in
the morning sunshine. He must have traveled the entire night. As he pushes open
the gate and passes up the wide white walk, he sees a flutter of female
garments; his wife, looking fresh and cool and sweet, steps down from the
veranda to meet him. At the bottom of the steps she stands waiting, with a
smile of ineffable[33] joy, an attitude of
matchless grace and dignity. Ah, how beautiful she is! He springs forward with
extended arms. As he is about to clasp her he feels a stunning blow upon the
back of the neck; a blinding white light blazes all about him with a sound like
the shock of a cannon--then all is darkness and silence!
Peyton
Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently from side to side
beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek bridge.
Copyright thiesmeyer.net 2015
[1] Sleepers N. (pl) Railroad crossties
[2] Sentinel
N. One who keeps guard
[3] Hammer N. Part of the gun
that ignites the powder charge
[4] Acclivity
N. An upward slope as of a hill
[5] Embrasure
N. A flared opening for a gun in a wall or parapet
[6] Deference N. Courteous
respect
[7] Knell N. Tolling of a bell;
slow and solemn (usually at funeral)
[8] Imperious Adj. Arrogantly
overbearing
[9] Chafed V.
To become irritated
[10] Dictum N.
A popular saying or maxim
[11] Summarily Adv. Performed
speedily and without ceremony
[12] Tow N. Corse fibers of hemp
or flax (highly combustible)
[13] Federal
Scout N. A Union spy
[14] Poignant Adj. Physically
painful
[15] Effaced V. Erased
[16] Oscillation
N. The act of swinging back and forth
[17] Idler N. Observer
[18] Pang N.
A sudden and sharp spasm of pain
[19] Preternaturally Adv.
Surpassing the normal or ordinary; supernatural
[20] Exalted V. Heightened
[21] Eddies N. (pl) cross currents in a river or stream, usually circular
[22] Report N.
An explosive sound
[23] Aspirated
V. A breathy sort of speech
[24] Presaging V. Acting as a
warning
[25] Volley N.
A number of bullets discharged at once
[26] Martinet
N. A rigid military disciplinarian (enforcer of rules)
[27] Diminuendo Adj. Gradually
decreasing in loudness
[28] Charge of Grape N.
Grapeshot; rocks, glass, and bits of iron as projectiles
[29] Roseate Adj. Reddish; rosy
[30] Ζolian
harps N. (pl) A musical instrument played by the
wind
[31] Interminable Adj. Endless
[32] Malign Adj. Evil in nature;
malevolent
[33] Ineffable Adj. Too great to
be expressed in words