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
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.
 II

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.
 III

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.