AN OCCURRENCE AT OWL CREEK BRIDGE

AN OCCURRENCE AT OWL CREEK BRIDGE
by Ambrose Bierce
THE MILLENNIUM FULCRUM EDITION, 1988
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 feel 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.