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An Occurence at Owl Creek Bridge
AN OCCURRENCE
AT OWL CREEK BRIDGE
by Ambrose
Bierce
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 ties
supporting
the rails 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 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 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
slope topped with a stockade of vertical tree
trunks,
loopholed for rifles, with a single embrasure
through which
protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon
commanding
the bridge. Midway up the slope between the
bridge and
fort were the spectators -- a single company of
infantry in
line, at "parade rest," the butts of their 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.
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 moustache 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
judgement 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
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. He
awaited each
new 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 trust 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
Fahrquhar 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 nature, which it is
unnecessary
to relate here, had prevented him from taking
service with
that gallant army which had fought the
disastrous
campaigns ending with the fall of Corinth, and he
chafed 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 wartime. Meanwhile he
did what he
could. No service was too humble for him to
perform in
the aid of the South, no adventure to 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 that all is fair in
love and war.
One evening
while Fahrquhar 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.
Fahrquhar 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 hanged. I saw the order."
"How far is
it to the Owl Creek bridge?" Fahrquhar asked.
"About thirty
miles."
"Is there no
force on this side of 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 Fahrquhar, 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
tinder."
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.
III
As Peyton
Fahrquhar 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 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
fullness --
of congestion. These sensations were
unaccompanied
by thought. The intellectual part of his
nature was
already effaced; 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, 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 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 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 keen and alert. Something in
the awful
disturbance of his organic system had so exalted
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 -- he saw the very insects upon
them: the
locusts, the brilliant bodied flies, the gray
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 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 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
gray eye and
remembered having read that gray eyes were
keenest, and
that all famous marksmen had them.
Nevertheless,
this one had missed.
A
counter-swirl had caught Fahrquhar and turned him half
round; he was
again looking at 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
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, and enforcing
tranquility
in the men -- with what accurately measured
interval fell
those cruel words:
"Company! . .
. Attention! . . . Shoulder arms! . . . Ready!
. . . Aim! .
. . Fire!"
Fahrquhar
dived -- dived as deeply as he could. The water
roared in his
ears like the voice of Niagara, yet he heard
the dull
thunder of the volley 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
downstream --
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
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
splash within two yards of him was followed by a
loud, rushing
sound, DIMINUENDO, 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 an 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. 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 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 light shone through the spaces among their
trunks and
the wind made in their branches the music of
AEolian
harps. He had not wish to perfect his escape -- he
was content
to remain in that enchanting spot until retaken.
A whiz and a
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; 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, famished. 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 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 joy, an attitude of
matchless
grace and dignity. Ah, how beautiful she is! He
springs
forwards 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
Fahrquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck,
swung gently
from side to side beneath the timbers of the
Owl Creek
bridge.
The End
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