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 sleepers

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 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 ce

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 thirtyfive

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. 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.

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

the gallant army that 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 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

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 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.”

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

fulness–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–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 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 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 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 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

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 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 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. 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 light shone

through the spaces among their trunks and the wind made in their

branches the music of olian harps. 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; 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 garden 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

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.

Stories
One comment to “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge”
  1. This design is steller! You definitely know how to keep a reader amused. Between your wit and your videos, I was almost moved to start my own blog (well, almost…HaHa!) Great job. I really loved what you had to say, and more than that, how you presented it. Too cool!

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