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 rope. A rope closely and jurgled his neck. It
was attached to a stout cross temper above his head, and the slight 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 share 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.
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 acclivity topped
with a stock aid of vertical tree trunks, loop holed for rifles with a
single embrasure through which protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon. Commanding the bridge
midway of the slope between bridge and the fort were the spectators, A single
company of infantry in line at parade, rest the buds of the rivals on
the ground, the barrels inclining slightly backward against the right shoulder, the hands
crossed upon the stock. A lieutenant stood in the right of the lane,
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 statutes 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, or 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 habboit, which is that of a planter. His
features were good, a straight nose, firm mouth, broad forehead from which
his long dark hair was calmed, straight back, falling behind his ears to
the collar of his well fitting frock coat. He wore a mustache and appointed
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. The Liberal Military Code makes provision for hanging many kinds of
persons, and gentlemen were not excluded. The preparations being completed, 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 moved himself immediately behind
that officer, who in turned moved apart one's space. These movements left the
condemned man and the sergeant standing on the two ends of the same plank,
which spanned three of the crossed eyes of the bridge. The end upon which
the civilian stood almost but not quite reached to 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 farmer, the latter would
step aside, the plank would tilt, and the condemned man go down between
the two ties. The arrangement commended itself to his judgment as simple and effective.
His face had not been covered, nor his eyes bandage. He looked
a moment at his unsteadfast footing, then let his gaze wander to the swirling
waters of the stream racing madly beneath his feet. A piece of dancing driftwood
caught his attention, and his eyes followed it down the stream. 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 midst upon the back 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 sharp sound which he
could neither I nor understand, A 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 nearby, it seemed both.
Its occurrence 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 interval of silence who progressively longer The delays became maddening. With their greatest
infrequency, the sounds increased in strength and sharpness. They hurt his ears like
the thrust of a knife. 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, reached the bank. Take to the
woods and get away. Home. My home, thank God, is as
yet outside their lives. My wife and little ones are still beyond the invader's
father's advance. As these thoughts, which have hereto be set down in words,
were flashed into the dune'sman's brain rather than evolved from it, the captain
nodded to the sergeant, and the sergeant stepped aside. Peyton Farquhar was a
well tonew planter of an old and highly respected Alabama family. Being a slave
owner, and like the other slave owners, a politician, it was naturally
an original secessionist and artly 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 Gallot army that had fought the disastrous campaign's 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, an 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 Farkhar 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. Missus
Farquhar was only too happy to serve him with her own white ends. 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 railroad, said the
man, and are getting ready for another advance. They have reached the ale
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 drains will be
summarily hanged. I saw the order. How far is it to the al
Creek bridge, Farkhar asked, Or 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 in this end of the bridge.
Suppose a man, a civilian, and a student of hanging should elude the
picket post and perhaps get the better of the sentinel, said Farquhar, smiling.
What would 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 drying, 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 downwards through the
bridge, he lost some consciousness, and was as one already dead from this
date. 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 agony 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 curiosity. 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, unencompassed in a luminous cloud from 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 fightful 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 strigulation. The
noose about his neck was already suffocating him, and kept the water from his
lungs. To dive. 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 distance, how inaccessible. He
was still singing, 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 appraised him that he
was trying to free his hands. He gave the struggle his attention, as
an idler might observe the feet of a juggler without interest in the outcome.
What splendid effort, what magnificent, what superhuman strength? Ah, that was
a fine endeavor. Bravo. The card 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 pulsed
upon the noose at his neck. They tore it away and thrust it fiercely
aside, his 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 news had been succeeded by the direst 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 wretched 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 expended convulsively and with a supreme and crowning agony. His lungs
engulfed a great dropped 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 ever 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 insectives 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 danked above the eddies of the stream, the beating of the dragonfly wings,
the strokes of the water spider's 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 his body parting the water. He had come
to the surface, facing down on the stream. In a moment, the
visible whorls seemed to wheel slowly round himself the pivotal point, and he saw
the bridge, the fort, the two soldiers upon the bridge, the captain,
the sergeant, the two privates, his executioners. They were in silhouette
against the blue sky. They shouted and gestillated, pointing at him. The
captain has 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, splattering 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 eye,
and remembered having read that gray eyes were keenest and that all famous marksmen
had them. Nevertheless, this one had missed a countless swirl, had called
Farquhar and turned him half around. He was again looking into the forest on
the bank opposite the fort. The sound of a clear, high voice in
a monotonous sing song 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 ear. 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 piteously,
with what an even calm intonation, presaging and enforcing tranquility in the men,
With what accurately measured intervals fell those cruel words Attention company, soldiers,
Arms ready, aim fire. Farquard dived, dived as deeply as he could.
The water roared in his ears like the voice of niagra. 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, and fell away, continuing their
descent. One lodge between his collar and his 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 furthered 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 threw rust 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 Martinette's
era a second time. It is as easy to dodge a folly 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 which seemed to travel back
through the air to the fort, and died in an explosion which stirred the
very river to his steps. A rising sheet of water curved over him,
fell down upon him, blinded him, and 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 around 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. It had been caught
in aforetex 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
bag and behind the projecting points, 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 banks were giant garden
plants. He noted a definite order in their arrangement, inhaled the fragrance of
their blooms. A strange rosette light shone through the branches among their trunks,
and the wind made in their branches the music of harps. He had no
wish to perfect his escape, was content to remain in that enchanting spot until
we taken. A whist and a rattle of grape shot among the branches high
above his head roused him from the stream. 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 woodsman 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, and famished.
Thought of his wife and children urged him on. At last he found a
road which led him to what he knew to be the right direction, and
was as wide and straight as the city street. Yet it seemed untraveled.
No fields boarded 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 woods, 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 again he distinctly heard whispers in an unknown tongue.
His neck was in pain, and lifting his hand to it, he
found it horribly swollen. He knew that it had a circle of black where
the rope had bruised it. Eli's eyes felt congested, could no longer close
them. His tongue was swollen with thirst. He relieved his 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 by his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking. For
now he sees another scene, Perhaps he had merely recovered from a delirium.
He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left
it, 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 inefftable
joy an attitude of matchless grace and dignity, and 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 his neck. A blinding white
light glazes all about him, with a sound like the shock of a cannon.
The gnaws darkness and silence. Peyton Farquhar was dead, his body with
a broken neck, swung gently from side to side beneath the tempers of the
Isle Creek Bridge. End of story.