The Project Gutenberg eBook of An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge, by Ambrose Bierce

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An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge

by Ambrose Bierce

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I

A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into theswift water twenty feet below. The man’s hands were behind his back, thewrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached toa stout cross-timber above his head and the slack fell to the level of hisknees. Some loose boards laid upon the ties supporting the rails of the railwaysupplied a footing for him and his executioners—two private soldiers ofthe Federal army, directed by a sergeant who in civil life may have been adeputy sheriff. At a short remove upon the same temporary platform was anofficer in the uniform of his rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel at eachend 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—aformal and unnatural position, enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It didnot appear to be the duty of these two men to know what was occurring at thecenter of the bridge; they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot plankingthat traversed it.

Beyond one of the sentinels nobody was in sight; the railroad ran straight awayinto a forest for a hundred yards, then, curving, was lost to view. Doubtlessthere was an outpost farther along. The other bank of the stream was openground—a gentle slope topped with a stockade of vertical tree trunks,loopholed for rifles, with a single embrasure through which protruded themuzzle of a brass cannon commanding the bridge. Midway up the slope between thebridge and fort were the spectators—a single company of infantry in line,at “parade rest,” the butts of their rifles on the ground, thebarrels inclining slightly backward against the right shoulder, the handscrossed upon the stock. A lieutenant stood at the right of the line, the pointof his sword upon the ground, his left hand resting upon his right. Exceptingthe group of four at the center of the bridge, not a man moved. The companyfaced the bridge, staring stonily, motionless. The sentinels, facing the banksof the stream, might have been statues to adorn the bridge. The captain stoodwith folded arms, silent, observing the work of his subordinates, but making nosign. Death is a dignitary who when he comes announced is to be received withformal manifestations of respect, even by those most familiar with him. In thecode of military etiquette silence and fixity are forms of deference.

The man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five yearsof age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit, which was that ofa planter. His features were good—a straight nose, firm mouth, broadforehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed straight back, fallingbehind his ears to the collar of his well fitting frock coat. He wore amoustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were large and darkgray, and had a kindly expression which one would hardly have expected in onewhose neck was in the hemp. Evidently this was no vulgar assassin. The liberalmilitary code makes provision for hanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemenare not excluded.

The preparations being complete, the two private soldiers stepped aside andeach drew away the plank upon which he had been standing. The sergeant turnedto the captain, saluted and placed himself immediately behind that officer, whoin turn moved apart one pace. These movements left the condemned man and thesergeant standing on the two ends of the same plank, which spanned three of thecross-ties of the bridge. The end upon which the civilian stood almost, but notquite, reached a fourth. This plank had been held in place by the weight of thecaptain; it was now held by that of the sergeant. At a signal from the formerthe latter would step aside, the plank would tilt and the condemned man go downbetween two ties. The arrangement commended itself to his judgement as simpleand effective. His face had not been covered nor his eyes bandaged. He looked amoment at his “unsteadfast footing,” then let his gaze wander tothe swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath his feet. A piece ofdancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes followed it down thecurrent. How slowly it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream!

He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife andchildren. The water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding mists underthe banks at some distance down the stream, the fort, the soldiers, the pieceof drift—all had distracted him. And now he became conscious of a newdisturbance. Striking through the thought of his dear ones was sound which hecould neither ignore nor understand, a sharp, distinct, metallic percussionlike the stroke of a blacksmith’s hammer upon the anvil; it had the sameringing quality. He wondered what it was, and whether immeasurably distant ornear by— it seemed both. Its recurrence was regular, but as slow as thetolling of a death knell. He awaited each new stroke with impatienceand—he knew not why—apprehension. The intervals of silence grewprogressively longer; the delays became maddening. With their greaterinfrequency the sounds increased in strength and sharpness. They hurt his earlike the thrust of a knife; he feared he would shriek. What he heard was theticking of his watch.

He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. “If I could freemy hands,” he thought, “I might throw off the noose and spring intothe stream. By diving I could evade the bullets and, swimming vigorously, reachthe bank, take to the woods and get away home. My home, thank God, is as yetoutside their lines; my wife and little ones are still beyond theinvader’s farthest advance.”

As these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed intothe doomed man’s brain rather than evolved from it the captain nodded tothe sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside.

II

Peyton Farquhar was a well to do planter, of an old and highly respectedAlabama family. Being a slave owner and like other slave owners a politician,he was naturally an original secessionist and ardently devoted to the Southerncause. Circumstances of an imperious nature, which it is unnecessary to relatehere, had prevented him from taking service with that gallant army which hadfought the disastrous campaigns ending with the fall of Corinth, and he chafedunder the inglorious restraint, longing for the release of his energies, thelarger 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 hecould. No service was too humble for him to perform in the aid of the South, noadventure too perilous for him to undertake if consistent with the character ofa civilian who was at heart a soldier, and who in good faith and without toomuch qualification assented to at least a part of the frankly villainous dictumthat all is fair in love and war.

One evening while Farquhar and his wife were sitting on a rustic bench near theentrance to his grounds, a gray-clad soldier rode up to the gate and asked fora drink of water. Mrs. Farquhar was only too happy to serve him with her ownwhite hands. While she was fetching the water her husband approached the dustyhorseman and inquired eagerly for news from the front.

“The Yanks are repairing the railroads,” said the man, “andare 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 hasissued an order, which is posted everywhere, declaring that any civilian caughtinterfering with the railroad, its bridges, tunnels, or trains will besummarily 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 of the creek?”

“Only a picket post half a mile out, on the railroad, and a singlesentinel at this end of the bridge.”

“Suppose a man—a civilian and student of hanging—should eludethe picket post and perhaps get the better of the sentinel,” saidFarquhar, 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 ofdriftwood against the wooden pier at this end of the bridge. It is now dry andwould burn like tinder.”

The lady had now brought the water, which the soldier drank. He thanked herceremoniously, bowed to her husband and rode away. An hour later, afternightfall, he repassed the plantation, going northward in the direction fromwhich he had come. He was a Federal scout.

III

As Peyton Farquhar fell straight downward through the bridge he lostconsciousness and was as one already dead. From this state he wasawakened—ages later, it seemed to him—by the pain of a sharppressure upon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocation. Keen, poignantagonies seemed to shoot from his neck downward through every fiber of his bodyand limbs. These pains appeared to flash along well defined lines oframification and to beat with an inconceivably rapid periodicity. They seemedlike streams of pulsating fire heating him to an intolerable temperature. As tohis head, he was conscious of nothing but a feeling of fullness—ofcongestion. These sensations were unaccompanied by thought. The intellectualpart of his nature was already effaced; he had power only to feel, and feelingwas torment. He was conscious of motion. Encompassed in a luminous cloud, ofwhich he was now merely the fiery heart, without material substance, he swungthrough unthinkable arcs of oscillation, like a vast pendulum. Then all atonce, with terrible suddenness, the light about him shot upward with the noiseof a loud splash; a frightful roaring was in his ears, and all was cold anddark. The power of thought was restored; he knew that the rope had broken andhe had fallen into the stream. There was no additional strangulation; the nooseabout 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 himludicrous. He opened his eyes in the darkness and saw above him a gleam oflight, but how distant, how inaccessible! He was still sinking, for the lightbecame fainter and fainter until it was a mere glimmer. Then it began to growand brighten, and he knew that he was rising toward the surface—knew itwith reluctance, for he was now very comfortable. “To be hanged anddrowned,” he thought, “that is not so bad; but I do not wish to beshot. 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 himthat he was trying to free his hands. He gave the struggle his attention, as anidler 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 andfloated upward, the hands dimly seen on each side in the growing light. Hewatched them with a new interest as first one and then the other pounced uponthe noose at his neck. They tore it away and thrust it fiercely aside, itsundulations resembling those of a water snake. “Put it back, put itback!” He thought he shouted these words to his hands, for the undoing ofthe 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 beenfluttering 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 hisdisobedient hands gave no heed to the command. They beat the water vigorouslywith quick, downward strokes, forcing him to the surface. He felt his heademerge; his eyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest expanded convulsively,and with a supreme and crowning agony his lungs engulfed a great draught ofair, 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 hisorganic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record of thingsnever before perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and heard theirseparate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on the bank of thestream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the veining of eachleaf—he saw the very insects upon them: the locusts, the brilliant bodiedflies, the gray spiders stretching their webs from twig to twig. He noted theprismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a million blades of grass. Thehumming of the gnats that danced above the eddies of the stream, the beating ofthe dragon flies’ wings, the strokes of the water spiders’ legs,like oars which had lifted their boat—all these made audible music. Afish slid along beneath his eyes and he heard the rush of its body parting thewater.

He had come to the surface facing down the stream; in a moment the visibleworld seemed to wheel slowly round, himself the pivotal point, and he saw thebridge, the fort, the soldiers upon the bridge, the captain, the sergeant, thetwo privates, his executioners. They were in silhouette against the blue sky.They shouted and gesticulated, pointing at him. The captain had drawn hispistol, but did not fire; the others were unarmed. Their movements weregrotesque and horrible, their forms gigantic.

Suddenly he heard a sharp report and something struck the water smartly withina few inches of his head, spattering his face with spray. He heard a secondreport, and saw one of the sentinels with his rifle at his shoulder, a lightcloud of blue smoke rising from the muzzle. The man in the water saw the eye ofthe man on the bridge gazing into his own through the sights of the rifle. Heobserved that it was a gray eye and remembered having read that gray eyes werekeenest, and that all famous marksmen had them. Nevertheless, this one hadmissed.

A counter-swirl had caught Farquhar and turned him half round; he was againlooking at the forest on the bank opposite the fort. The sound of a clear, highvoice in a monotonous singsong now rang out behind him and came across thewater with a distinctness that pierced and subdued all other sounds, even thebeating of the ripples in his ears. Although no soldier, he had frequentedcamps enough to know the dread significance of that deliberate, drawling,aspirated chant; the lieutenant on shore was taking a part in themorning’s work. How coldly and pitilessly—with what an even, calmintonation, presaging, and enforcing tranquility in the men—with whataccurately measured interval fell those cruel words:

“Company!… Attention!… Shoulder arms!… Ready!…Aim!… Fire!”

Farquhar dived—dived as deeply as he could. The water roared in his earslike the voice of Niagara, yet he heard the dull thunder of the volley and,rising again toward the surface, met shining bits of metal, singularlyflattened, oscillating slowly downward. Some of them touched him on the faceand hands, then fell away, continuing their descent. One lodged between hiscollar 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 longtime under water; he was perceptibly farther downstream—nearer to safety.The soldiers had almost finished reloading; the metal ramrods flashed all atonce 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 andineffectually.

The hunted man saw all this over his shoulder; he was now swimming vigorouslywith the current. His brain was as energetic as his arms and legs; he thoughtwith the rapidity of lightning:

“The officer,” he reasoned, “will not make thatmartinet’s error a second time. It is as easy to dodge a volley as asingle shot. He has probably already given the command to fire at will. Godhelp me, I cannot dodge them all!”

An appalling splash within two yards of him was followed by a loud, rushingsound, DIMINUENDO, which seemed to travel back through the air to the fort anddied in an explosion which stirred the very river to its deeps! A rising sheetof water curved over him, fell down upon him, blinded him, strangled him! Thecannon had taken an hand in the game. As he shook his head free from thecommotion of the smitten water he heard the deflected shot humming through theair ahead, and in an instant it was cracking and smashing the branches in theforest beyond.

“They will not do that again,” he thought; “the next timethey will use a charge of grape. I must keep my eye upon the gun; the smokewill 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. Thewater, the banks, the forests, the now distant bridge, fort and men, all werecommingled and blurred. Objects were represented by their colors only; circularhorizontal streaks of color—that was all he saw. He had been caught in avortex and was being whirled on with a velocity of advance and gyration thatmade him giddy and sick. In few moments he was flung upon the gravel at thefoot of the left bank of the stream—the southern bank—and behind aprojecting point which concealed him from his enemies. The sudden arrest of hismotion, the abrasion of one of his hands on the gravel, restored him, and hewept with delight. He dug his fingers into the sand, threw it over himself inhandfuls and audibly blessed it. It looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; hecould think of nothing beautiful which it did not resemble. The trees upon thebank were giant garden plants; he noted a definite order in their arrangement,inhaled the fragrance of their blooms. A strange roseate light shone throughthe spaces among their trunks and the wind made in their branches the music ofAEolian harps. He had not wish to perfect his escape—he was content toremain in that enchanting spot until retaken.

A whiz and a rattle of grapeshot among the branches high above his head rousedhim from his dream. The baffled cannoneer had fired him a random farewell. Hesprang 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 forestseemed interminable; nowhere did he discover a break in it, not even awoodman’s road. He had not known that he lived in so wild a region. Therewas something uncanny in the revelation.

By nightfall he was fatigued, footsore, famished. The thought of his wife andchildren urged him on. At last he found a road which led him in what he knew tobe the right direction. It was as wide and straight as a city street, yet itseemed untraveled. No fields bordered it, no dwelling anywhere. Not so much asthe barking of a dog suggested human habitation. The black bodies of the treesformed 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 throughthis rift in the wood, shone great golden stars looking unfamiliar and groupedin strange constellations. He was sure they were arranged in some order whichhad a secret and malign significance. The wood on either side was full ofsingular noises, among which—once, twice, and again—he distinctlyheard whispers in an unknown tongue.

His neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it found it horribly swollen. Heknew that it had a circle of black where the rope had bruised it. His eyes feltcongested; 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 thecold air. How softly the turf had carpeted the untraveled avenue—he couldno longer feel the roadway beneath his feet!

Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking, for nowhe sees another scene—perhaps he has merely recovered from a delirium. Hestands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left it, and all bright andbeautiful in the morning sunshine. He must have traveled the entire night. Ashe pushes open the gate and passes up the wide white walk, he sees a flutter offemale garments; his wife, looking fresh and cool and sweet, steps down fromthe veranda to meet him. At the bottom of the steps she stands waiting, with asmile of ineffable joy, an attitude of matchless grace and dignity. Ah, howbeautiful she is! He springs forwards with extended arms. As he is about toclasp her he feels a stunning blow upon the back of the neck; a blinding whitelight blazes all about him with a sound like the shock of a cannon—thenall is darkness and silence!

Peyton Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently from sideto side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek bridge.

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