"An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" 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.

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 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 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 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 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 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.

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 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 Farquhar 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!"

Farquhar 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 Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung

gently from side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek bridge.