[adapted]

by
Ambrose Bierce

I

Captain Parrol Hartroy stood at the front post of his guard, talking in a low voice with the guard. This post was on a road that cut through the captain’s camp, which was a half mile behind, though the camp could not be seen from there. The officer seemed to be giving the soldier some instructions — was perhaps only asking if all was quiet in front.

As the two stood talking a man came toward them from the direction of the camp, whistling without care, and was at once stopped by the soldier. He was clearly not a soldier — a tall person, roughly dressed in the home-made cloth of yellow gray, called “butternut,” which was the only clothes men wore in the last days of the Confederacy.

On his head was a soft felt hat, once white, from under which hung a lot of messy hair, which seemed never to have been touched by either scissors or a comb.

The man’s face was quite noticeable; a wide forehead, high nose, and thin cheeks, the mouth could not be seen in the full dark beard, which seemed as messy as the hair.

The eyes were large and had that steadiness and fixed attention which so often show a thoughtful mind and a will that is not easily turned from its purpose — so say those face-readers who have that kind of eyes.

Overall, this was a man people would probably notice, and he would probably notice them. He carried a walking-stick just cut from the forest and his old boots made of cow skin were white with dust.

“Show your pass,” said the Northern soldier, a little more firmly than he thought was needed because he was being watched by his commander, who stood with folded arms and watched from the side of the road.

“I thought you’d remember me, General,” said the traveler calmly, while taking out the paper from the pocket of his coat. There was something in his tone — perhaps a small hint of irony — which made his raising of the man who stopped him to high rank less pleasant to that good soldier than promotion usually is. “You all have to be pretty particular, I think,” he added, in a more friendly tone, as if making a small apology for being stopped.

After reading the pass, with his gun resting on the ground, the soldier handed the paper back without a word, put his gun on his shoulder, and returned to his leader. The civilian went on in the middle of the road, and when he had gone a few yards into the Confederacy around him started whistling again and was soon out of sight beyond a bend in the road, which at that point went into a thin forest.

Suddenly the officer took his arms away from his chest, took a revolver from his belt and jumped forward and ran in the same direction, leaving his guard at his post with his mouth open in surprise. After loudly cursing everything in sight and saying he would be damned, that gentleman went back to the blank look which is thought to be right for a state of alert military attention.

II

Captain Hartroy had his own command. His force was made up of a company of foot soldiers, a group of horse soldiers, and a group of big guns, sent away from the army they belonged to, to guard an important pass in the Cumberland Mountains in Tennessee. It was a high officer’s command held by a regular officer promoted from the common soldiers, where he had served quietly until he was “noticed.”

His position was one of great danger; to defend it was a big responsibility and he had wisely been given equal power to decide, even more necessary because of his distance from the main army, the poor state of his communications and the lawless behavior of the enemy’s soldiers who were not regular, all over that region.

He had strongly defended his little camp, which included a village of six houses and a country store, and had collected a large amount of supplies. To a few local people who were known to be loyal, with whom it was good to trade, and whose help in different ways he sometimes used, he had given written passes that let them inside his lines.

It is easy to understand that using this special permission to help the enemy might cause serious trouble. Captain Hartroy had given an order saying that anyone who did this would be shot at once.

While the guard had been checking the man’s pass the captain had looked closely at the man. He thought he looked familiar and at first he was sure he had given him the pass that the guard accepted. It was not until the man was out of sight and hearing that he remembered who the man was. With quick, soldier-like decision the officer took action on this discovery.

III

To any but a very calm man the sight of an officer of the army, in full uniform, carrying in one hand a sword in its case and in the other a revolver ready to shoot, and running in an angry chase, is no doubt very upsetting; to the man who was being chased in this case it seemed to do nothing but make him a little more calm.

He could easily have escaped into the forest to the right or the left, but chose another way — turned and quietly looked at the captain, saying as he came closer: “I guess you must have something to say to me, which you forgot. What might it be, neighbor?”

But the “neighbor” did not answer, being busy with the unfriendly act of pointing a pistol ready to fire at him.

“Give up,” said the captain as calmly as being a little out of breath from hard work allowed, “or you die.”

There was no threat in the way of this demand; that was all in the demand itself and in the ways of forcing it. There was, too, something not very comforting in the cold gray eyes that looked along the barrel of the gun.

For a moment the two men stood looking at each other in silence; then the man, showing no fear — just as calm as when obeying the less strict demand of the guard — slowly took from his pocket the paper that had satisfied that simple guard and held it out, saying:

“I think this here pass from Mr. Hartroy is — ”

“The pass is fake,” the officer said, not letting the other finish. “I am Captain Hartroy — and you are Dramer Brune.”

It would have needed a careful eye to see the slight paleness of the man’s face at these words, and the only other sign showing their meaning was a loosening on purpose of the thumb and fingers holding the false paper, which, falling to the road, not noticed, was rolled by a soft wind and then lay still, with a layer of dust, as if in shame for the lie that it carried. A moment later the man, still looking calm into the barrel of the pistol, said:

“Yes, I am Dramer Brune, a Confederate spy, and your prisoner. I have with me, as you will soon see, a plan of your fort and its guns, a list of where your men are and their number, a map of the ways to the fort, showing the positions of all your guard posts. My life is really yours, but if you want it taken in a more proper way than by your own hand, and if you are willing to save me from the shame of walking into camp with your pistol pointed at me, I promise you that I will not resist, not try to escape, and not complain, but will accept whatever punishment may be given.”

The officer lowered his gun, made it safe, and put it into its place in his belt. Brune took a step forward, holding out his right hand.

“It is the hand of someone who is not loyal and a spy,” said the officer in a cold way, and did not take it. The other bent forward.

“Come,” said the captain, “let us go to camp; you will not die until tomorrow morning.”

He turned his back on his prisoner, and these two strange men went back the way they came and soon passed the guard, who showed his general feeling about things with a salute that was not needed and too big to his commander.

IV

Early on the morning after these events the two men, the man who had caught the other and the prisoner, sat in the captain’s tent. A table was between them on which lay, among a number of letters, official and private, which the captain had written during the night, the papers found on the spy that showed he was guilty. That man had slept through the night in a tent next to it, without a guard. Both had eaten breakfast and were now smoking.

“Mr. Brune,” said Captain Hartroy, “you probably do not understand why I knew who you were, even though you were in disguise, or how I knew your name.”

“I have not tried to learn, Captain,” the prisoner said with quiet pride.

“Still I would like you to know — if the story will not upset you. You will see that my knowledge of you goes back to the fall of 1861. At that time you were a private in an Ohio unit — a brave and trusted soldier. To the surprise and sadness of your officers and fellow soldiers you left your army and went over to the enemy. Soon afterward you were caught in a small fight, recognized, tried by a military court and sentenced to be shot. While waiting for the sentence to be carried out you were kept, without chains, in a freight car standing on a side track of a railway.”

“At Grafton, Virginia,” said Brune, pushing the ash from his cigar with the little finger of the hand that held it, and not looking up.

“At Grafton, Virginia,” the captain repeated. “One dark and stormy night a soldier who had just returned from a long, tiring march was told to guard you. He sat on a cracker box inside the car, near the door, his gun loaded and the knife on the gun in place. You sat in a corner and his orders were to kill you if you tried to get up.”

“But if I asked to stand up he might call the guard’s corporal.”

“Yes. As the long quiet hours passed the soldier gave in to the needs of his body: he himself got the death penalty by sleeping at his guard post.”

“You did.”

“What! you know who I am? you have known me the whole time?”

The captain had stood up and was walking across the floor of his tent, clearly excited. His face was red, the gray eyes had lost the cold, cruel look that they had shown when Brune had seen them above the pistol barrel; they had softened a lot.

“I knew you,” said the spy, with his usual calm, “the moment you faced me, asking me to give up. In this situation it would not be right for me to speak of these things. I am maybe a traitor, surely a spy; but I do not want to seem like someone begging.”

The captain had stopped in his walk and was facing his prisoner. There was a strange roughness in his voice as he spoke again.

“Mr. Brune, no matter what your conscience lets you be, you saved my life at what you must have thought was the cost of your own. Until I saw you yesterday when my guard stopped you I believed you were dead — I thought that you had suffered the death that, because of my own crime, you could easily have escaped. You only had to step from the car and leave me to take your place before the firing squad. You had a great kindness. You felt sorry for my tiredness. You let me sleep, watched over me, and as the time came near for the relief guard to come and find me in my crime, you gently woke me. Ah, Brune, Brune, that was well done — that was great — that — ”

The captain could not speak; the tears were running down his face and shone on his beard and his chest. He sat down again at the table, hid his face in his arms, and cried. Everything else was quiet.

Suddenly the clear call of a horn was heard playing the “assembly.” The captain jumped and raised his wet face from his arms; it had turned very pale. Outside, in the sunlight, were heard the movement of the men getting into line; the voices of the sergeants calling the names; the tapping of the drummers as they tightened their drums. The captain spoke again:

“I should have told the truth about my fault to tell the story of your great kindness; it might have gotten you a pardon. A hundred times I decided to do so, but shame stopped me. Besides, your punishment was fair and right. Well, Heaven forgive me! I said nothing, and my army unit was soon after sent to Tennessee and I never heard about you.”

“It was all right, sir,” said Brune, without showing feeling; “I escaped and went back to my side — the Confederate side. I would like to add that before leaving the Federal army without permission I had seriously asked to leave, because my beliefs had changed. They answered me with punishment.”

“Ah, but if I had taken the punishment for my crime — if you had not kindly given me the life that I took without thanks you would not be again in the shadow and nearness of death.”

The prisoner moved a little and a look of worry came to his face. One could also say that he was surprised. At that moment a lieutenant, the assistant officer, came to the tent opening and saluted. “Captain,” he said, “the unit is ready.”

Captain Hartroy had become calm again. He turned to the officer and said: “Lieutenant, go to Captain Graham and say that I order him to take command of the unit and line it up outside the wall. This gentleman is a man who ran away from the army and a spy; he will be shot to death in front of the soldiers. He will go with you, not tied and not guarded.”

While the military assistant waited at the door the two men inside the tent stood up and gave each other polite bows, Brune leaving immediately.