[adapted]

by
Ambrose Bierce

I

A man stood on a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down at the fast-moving water twenty feet below. His hands were tied behind his back with a cord. A rope was around his neck, attached to a strong wooden beam above him. The loose end of the rope hung down to his knees.

Some loose boards were placed across the railway tracks, forming a platform for him and the men carrying out his execution—two soldiers from the Federal army, led by a sergeant who might have been a deputy sheriff before the war. A short distance away on the same platform stood an officer in uniform, armed with a weapon. He was a captain.

At each end of the bridge, a soldier stood guard, holding his rifle in a formal position. The rifle was straight up in front of the left shoulder, with the hammer resting on the soldier’s forearm, which was held across the chest. This stiff and unnatural position made them stand very straight. These two guards did not seem to be involved in what was happening in the middle of the bridge. Their job was only to block access to the bridge’s walkway.

Beyond one of the guards, no other people were visible. The railroad stretched straight into the forest for about a hundred yards before curving out of sight. There was likely a military post further ahead. On the other side of the stream, the land was open and sloped upward, leading to a stockade made of tree trunks standing upright. The stockade had small openings for riflemen and one larger opening where the barrel of a brass cannon pointed directly at the bridge.

Halfway up the slope, between the bridge and the fort, stood a group of spectators—a company of infantry soldiers. They were lined up at “parade rest,” with the butts of their rifles on the ground, the barrels leaning slightly backward against their right shoulders, and their hands crossed over the rifle stocks. A lieutenant stood at the right end of the line, his sword resting on the ground with his left hand placed on top of his right.

Except for the four men at the center of the bridge, no one moved. The soldiers in the company stood motionless, staring at the bridge with blank expressions. The sentinels, standing guard at the ends of the bridge, looked like statues. The captain stood with his arms folded, watching his men work, but saying nothing.

Death is treated with dignity, and when it is expected, it must be met with respect. Even those most familiar with it follow strict military rules—remaining silent and still as a sign of honor.

The man about to be hanged was around thirty-five years old. He was a civilian, as his clothing suggested—he dressed like a planter. His features were well-shaped: a straight nose, a firm mouth, and a broad forehead. His long, dark hair was combed straight back, falling behind his ears and reaching the collar of his well-fitted frock coat. He had a mustache and a pointed beard but no side whiskers. His eyes were large, dark gray, and had a kind expression—something unexpected in a man standing at the edge of death. Clearly, he was not an ordinary criminal. The military had rules allowing for the hanging of many kinds of people, and even gentlemen were not exempt.

Once everything was ready, the two soldiers stepped aside, each pulling away the plank they had been standing on. The sergeant turned to the captain, saluted, and then stepped back to stand directly behind him. The captain moved one step to the side.

Now, only the condemned man and the sergeant stood on opposite ends of a single plank. The plank rested across three wooden ties of the bridge, but the end under the civilian’s feet barely reached a fourth tie. Before, the captain’s weight had kept the plank steady. Now, it was the sergeant’s weight holding it in place. At the captain’s signal, the sergeant would step away, the plank would tilt, and the condemned man would fall between the wooden beams. The method was simple and effective.

His face was not covered, nor were his eyes blindfolded. He looked down at the unsteady plank beneath him, then let his gaze drift to the rushing water far below. A piece of floating wood caught his attention, and his eyes followed it as it moved downstream.

How slowly it seemed to drift. What a lazy river!

He closed his eyes, trying to focus his last thoughts on his wife and children. The golden water, the mist along the riverbanks, the fort, the soldiers, and the drifting piece of wood had all distracted him.

But now, he noticed something new. A sound cut through his thoughts. It was sharp, metallic, and clear—like a blacksmith’s hammer striking an anvil. It had the same ringing tone. He could not tell if it was far away or very close—it seemed to be both. The sound came at regular intervals, slow like the tolling of a death bell.

Each time it rang, he waited anxiously, feeling nervous without knowing why. The silent moments between the sounds grew longer and longer, making him feel desperate. But as the gaps stretched, the sound itself became louder and sharper, stabbing into his ears like a knife. He was afraid he would scream. Then, he suddenly realized what it was—the ticking of his watch.

He opened his eyes and looked down at the water again. “If I could just free my hands,” he thought, “I could pull the noose off and jump into the river. If I dive deep enough, I can avoid the bullets. If I swim hard, I can reach the shore, escape into the forest, and make my way home. My home is still outside enemy territory. My wife and children are safe—for now.”

These thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant. The captain gave a nod to the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside.

II

Peyton Farquhar was a wealthy planter from a well-known and respected Alabama family. As a slave owner and a politician, he strongly supported the South in the war. Like many others, he believed in secession and was deeply loyal to the Confederate cause.

For reasons not explained here, he had been unable to join the Confederate army, which had fought many hard battles before losing at Corinth. This frustrated him. He longed to be part of the war, to take action, to live the exciting life of a soldier, and to earn honor. He believed that his chance would come, as it did for many in times of war.

In the meantime, he helped however he could. No task was too small if it supported the South. No mission was too dangerous, as long as it suited a civilian who saw himself as a soldier at heart. He believed in the idea that “all is fair in love and war,” even if that idea was sometimes dishonest.

One evening, Farquhar and his wife sat on a wooden bench near the entrance of their land. A soldier wearing a gray uniform rode up to the gate and asked for a drink of water. Mrs. Farquhar gladly brought him some, serving him with her own hands. While she went to get the water, her husband eagerly walked up to the dusty soldier and asked for news from the battlefield.

“The Yankees are fixing the railroads,” said the man, “and they are preparing for another attack. They have reached the Owl Creek bridge, repaired it, and built a fort on the north bank. The commander has given an order—it is posted everywhere—saying that any civilian caught messing with the railroad, its bridges, tunnels, or trains will be hanged immediately. I saw the order myself.”

“How far is it to the Owl Creek bridge?” Farquhar asked.

“About thirty miles.”

“Is there no army on this side of the creek?”

“Only a small guard post half a mile away on the railroad, and one soldier standing guard at the bridge.”

“Suppose a man—a civilian who knows about hanging—managed to sneak past the guard post and outsmart the soldier,” said Farquhar, smiling. “What could he do?”

The soldier thought for a moment. “I was there a month ago,” he said. “I noticed that last winter’s flood left a lot of driftwood piled up against the wooden support at one end of the bridge. It is dry now and would catch fire easily.”

Just then, Mrs. Farquhar returned with the water. The soldier drank, thanked her politely, nodded to her husband, and rode away. An hour later, after nightfall, he passed by the plantation again, heading north—the same direction he had come from. He was a Federal scout.

III

As Peyton Farquhar fell straight down through the bridge, he lost consciousness. For a moment, he felt as if he were already dead.

Then, after what seemed like ages, he suddenly woke up. A sharp pain pressed against his throat, and he felt like he was suffocating. Terrible pain shot from his neck down through his entire body. It felt like streams of burning fire racing through his veins, pulsing so fast that he could hardly bear it. His head felt heavy and swollen, as if it would burst.

He had no thoughts—only pain. His mind had stopped working, and all he could do was feel. And the feeling was pure torment. He realized he was moving. He felt surrounded by a glowing cloud, with himself at the center, burning like fire. He swung back and forth, like the heavy weight of a giant clock.

Then, suddenly, everything changed. A bright light shot upward, and he heard a loud splash. His ears filled with a roaring noise, and everything became cold and dark. His ability to think returned. He understood—the rope had broken! He had fallen into the river!

The noose around his neck was still tight, but at least it kept the water from filling his lungs. To die by hanging at the bottom of a river! The thought seemed ridiculous to him. He opened his eyes in the darkness and saw a small glimmer of light far above. But it seemed so distant, so impossible to reach. He was still sinking. The light grew fainter and fainter until it was almost gone.

Then, it started to get brighter again. He realized he was rising toward the surface. Strangely, he did not want to. The water felt peaceful, and he was finally comfortable. “To be hanged and drowned—that is not so bad,” he thought. “But I do not want to be shot. No, I will not be shot. That is not fair.”

He was not aware that he was trying to free his hands, but a sharp pain in his wrist told him he was. He focused on the struggle, watching it as if he were only an observer, like someone watching a juggler perform a trick, without caring about the result. What a great effort!—what amazing, almost superhuman strength! Ah, that was an excellent attempt! Bravo! The cord fell away; his arms separated and floated upward. In the growing light, he could faintly see his hands on either side. He watched them with new interest as they moved—first one, then the other—grabbing the noose around his neck. They tore it away and threw it aside. It twisted in the water like a snake.

“Put it back, put it back!” He thought he had shouted these words to his hands. Because as soon as the noose was gone, he felt the worst pain yet. His neck ached terribly. His head burned as if it were on fire. His heart, which had been weakly fluttering, suddenly jumped, as if trying to force itself out of his mouth. His whole body was being torn apart by unbearable pain! But his hands did not listen. They kept moving, beating the water strongly, pushing him upward. He felt his head break the surface. The sunlight blinded his eyes. His chest expanded violently, and with one final, unbearable pain, he took a huge breath of air—then let it out in a loud scream!

He was now fully aware of his body. In fact, his senses were sharper than ever before. Something about what had happened to him had made everything seem clearer, stronger, more alive. He could feel the tiny ripples of water on his face and even hear the separate sounds they made as they touched him. He looked at the forest on the riverbank and saw every tree, every leaf, even the veins in the leaves. He saw the tiny insects crawling on them—the locusts, the bright-colored flies, the gray spiders spinning their webs between twigs.

He noticed the rainbow colors in the dewdrops on the blades of grass—millions of them. He heard the soft humming of gnats dancing above the water. He heard the rapid flapping of dragonflies’ wings. He even heard the tiny splashes of water spiders as they moved across the surface, their legs acting like oars lifting a tiny boat. A fish swam just below him, and he could hear the sound of its body cutting through the water.

He had come to the surface facing downstream. For a moment, the world seemed to turn slowly around him, as if he were at its center. Then he saw the bridge, the fort, and the soldiers standing on the bridge. He saw the captain, the sergeant, and the two privates—his executioners. Against the bright blue sky, they appeared as dark shapes. They were shouting and waving their arms, pointing at him. The captain had pulled out his pistol but had not fired. The others had no weapons. Their movements looked strange and terrifying, their bodies seeming larger than life.

Suddenly, he heard a sharp gunshot, and something hit the water just inches from his head, splashing his face with water. A second shot rang out. He saw one of the guards on the bridge holding his rifle up to his shoulder, a thin cloud of blue smoke rising from the barrel. In that moment, as he floated in the river, he locked eyes with the soldier aiming at him. The man had gray eyes. Farquhar remembered reading that gray-eyed men were the best shooters and that all the greatest marksmen had them. Still, this one had missed.

The river’s current spun Farquhar halfway around. Now, he was looking again at the forest on the opposite bank. Then, behind him, a voice rang out—clear, cold, and steady. It cut through all other sounds, even the splashing of the water in his ears. Farquhar had never been a soldier, but he had spent enough time near military camps to recognize that slow, drawn-out command. The lieutenant on the shore was taking control. His voice was calm, emotionless—giving the soldiers a sense of order and discipline. Each word was spoken with careful timing, firm and final.

“Attention, company! . . . Shoulder arms! . . . Ready! . . . Aim! . . . Fire!”

Farquhar dived—he dived as deep as he could. The water roared in his ears like a great waterfall, yet he could still hear the muffled thunder of the soldiers’ gunfire. As he swam upward, he saw bright pieces of metal in the water—bullets that had been flattened by impact, drifting slowly downward. Some of them brushed against his face and hands before continuing their descent. One got stuck between his collar and neck. It was hot, and he quickly pulled it out.

As he broke through the surface, gasping for air, he realized he had been underwater for a long time. The current had carried him farther downstream, bringing him closer to safety. The soldiers had nearly finished reloading. He saw their metal ramrods flash in the sunlight as they were pulled from the barrels, spun in the air, and pushed back into place. The two sentinels fired again, but their shots missed.

Farquhar saw all of this over his shoulder as he swam hard with the current. His mind raced just as fast as his arms and legs. He thought quickly, like lightning.

“The officer won’t make the same mistake twice,” he reasoned. “Dodging one round of bullets is easy, but he has probably already ordered them to fire at will. God help me—I can’t dodge them all!”

A huge splash exploded in the water just a few feet away. A loud rushing noise followed, growing quieter as it traveled back toward the fort. Then, with a deep, rumbling explosion, it shook the river itself to its depths!

A wave of water rose over him, crashed down, and covered him completely! It blinded him, choked him! The cannon had joined the fight. As he shook his head, trying to clear himself from the swirling water, he heard the cannonball flying ahead. A moment later, it crashed into the trees, breaking branches deep in the forest.

“They won’t make that mistake again,” he thought. “Next time, they’ll use grape shot—small iron balls that spread out. I must watch the cannon closely. The smoke will warn me before it fires. The sound of the shot comes too late—it travels slower than the bullet. That is a powerful gun.”

Suddenly, the river pulled him into a violent spin—turning him around and around like a spinning top. The water, the riverbanks, the forest, the bridge, the fort, and the soldiers—all of it blurred together. He could no longer see shapes, only streaks of color spinning in circles around him. He had been caught in a whirlpool. It twisted him rapidly while also pulling him downstream. The speed made him dizzy and sick. Then, in an instant, he was thrown onto the gravel at the base of the river’s left bank—the southern side. A rocky point stuck out from the shore, hiding him from his enemies. The sudden stop, along with the rough scrape of his hand on the gravel, brought him back to his senses. Overcome with joy, he began to weep.

He dug his fingers into the sand, grabbing handfuls and tossing them over himself. He blessed the ground out loud. To him, the sand sparkled like diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. Everything looked beautiful beyond imagination. The trees on the bank seemed like giant plants in a perfect garden. He noticed how neatly they were arranged, and he smelled the sweet fragrance of their flowers. A strange, pinkish light shone between their trunks, and the wind in their branches played soft, musical notes, like an Aeolian harp. He had no desire to run. No need to complete his escape. He was happy to stay in this magical place, even if it meant being captured again.