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My Thoughts & Feelings:
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A man is standing on a bridge,
about to be hanged.
just before the hanging
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A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama,
looking down into the swift water twenty feet below. The
man’s wrists were tied behind his back. A rope encircled his
neck. It was attached to a sturdy wooden beam above his head.
He and his executioners—two soldiers of the Federal army,
directed by a sergeant—stood on some loose boards laid across
the railroad ties. An armed officer stood nearby on the same
boards. His uniform showed that he was a captain. A guard
holding a rifle stood at each end of the bridge. Aß
Beyond one of the guards nobody was in sight. The railroad
ran into a forest for a hundred yards, then curved and was lost to
view. The other bank of the stream was open ground that sloped
upward toward a fort made of tree trunks. There were small holes
in the trunks for rifles and a larger opening for a brass cannon.
Between the bridge and the fort were the spectators—a company
of soldiers standing in a line. Except for the group at the center of
the bridge, no one moved. The company faced the bridge, staring.
The guards facing the banks of the stream stood like statues. The
captain stood with folded arms, observing the work of his
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subordinates.1 Death is a dignitary who, when he arrives, must be
given a formal greeting even by those most familiar with him. In
the military, silence and stillness are forms of respect. Bß
The man who was being hanged looked about thirtyfive years of age. He was dressed like a plantation owner.
His features were good—a straight nose, firm mouth, broad
forehead. His long, dark hair was combed straight back, falling
behind his ears to the collar of his coat. He wore a mustache
and a pointed beard. His eyes were large and dark gray, and they
had a kind expression, which was surprising to see in someone
whose neck was in a noose. Clearly this was no vulgar assassin.
Military law allows for hanging many kinds of people, including
gentlemen.
Bß ß
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The preparations were done. The two soldiers stepped aside.
Each took away the board upon which he had been standing.
The sergeant saluted and placed himself behind the captain, as
the captain moved away. These movements left the condemned
man and the sergeant standing on the two ends of the same
board. This board was held in place by the weight of the sergeant.
At a signal from the captain, the sergeant would step aside. Then
the board would tilt and the condemned man would go down
between two ties. His eyes and face had not been covered. He
let his gaze wander to the swirling water of the stream beneath
his feet. A piece of driftwood caught his attention. How slowly
it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream! Cß
He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife
and children. The water, the fort, the soldiers, the driftwood—all
had distracted him. And now, disrupting the thought of his dear
ones, there was a sharp, metallic noise like a blacksmith’s hammer.
He wondered what it was, and whether it was far away or nearby. It
seemed to be both. The sound repeated again and again, as slowly
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as a funeral bell. He nervously awaited each stroke. The silence
between them grew longer. At the same time the sounds increased
in strength and sharpness. They hurt his ear like the thrust of a
knife. What he heard was the ticking of his watch.
He opened his eyes and saw the water below. “If I could free
my hands,” he thought, “I might throw off the noose and jump
into the stream. By diving I could escape the bullets. Then I
could swim to the shore and run home through the woods.”
As these thoughts flashed into the doomed man’s brain, the
captain nodded to the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside. Dß
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Peyton Farquhar was a wealthy planter. He came from an old
and highly respected Alabama family. Like other slave owners, he
was a secessionist2 and devoted to the Southern cause. However,
he had not been able to serve with the brave Southern army as it
fought its disastrous battles. He longed for the life of a soldier and
the chance for glory. That chance, he felt, would come to him, as
it comes to all in wartime. Meanwhile, he did what he could. No
service was too humble for him to perform to help the South, no
adventure too dangerous. He felt that at heart he was a soldier.
One evening, a soldier wearing a gray Southern uniform rode
up and asked for a drink of water. Mrs. Farquhar was only too
happy to serve him herself. While she was fetching the water,
her husband approached the dusty horseman and asked eagerly
for news.
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“The Yanks are repairing the railroads,” said the man, “and
are getting ready for another advance. They have reached
the Owl Creek bridge and built a fort on the north bank.
The officer in charge has declared that any civilian caught
interfering with the railroad, its bridges, tunnels, or trains will
be summarily hanged. I saw the order.” Eß
“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 on the railroad a half-mile out, and one guard at this
end of the bridge.”
“Suppose a man—a civilian—should get by the force and
perhaps get the better of the guard,” said Farquhar, “what could
he accomplish?”
“I was there a month ago,” the soldier replied. “I saw that a
lot of driftwood had gotten stuck against this end of the bridge.
It is now dry and would burn easily.”
The lady brought the water. The soldier drank. He thanked
her, bowed to her husband, and rode away. An hour later, after
nightfall, he passed the plantation again, this time going north.
He was a Federal spy. Fß
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DESCRIBEßEARLIERßEVENTSß4HEßCONDEMNEDßMANß0EYTONß&ARQUHARßISßAß
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)))
As Peyton Farquhar fell down through the bridge, he lost
consciousness. Then he was awakened—it seemed like ages
later—by a sharp, painful pressure upon his throat. Intense,
poignant agonies seemed to shoot from his neck downward
through his body and limbs. These pains beat incredibly fast.
They seemed like streams of pulsating fire heating him to an
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intolerable temperature. These feelings were not accompanied
by thought. He had power only to feel, and feeling was torture.
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. The noose about his neck was suffocating
him but also keeping the water out of his lungs. To die of
hanging at the bottom of a river!—the idea seemed ridiculous.
He opened his eyes. Above him he saw a gleam of light, but how
distant! He was still sinking, for the light became fainter until
it was just a glimmer. Then it began to grow and brighten, and
he knew he was rising toward the surface. “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.” Gß
He realized that he was trying to free his hands. He gave
the struggle his attention, as someone might casually observe
a juggler. What splendid effort!—what magnificent strength!
Bravo! The cord fell away; his arms parted and floated upward.
He watched them with a new interest as they tore away the
noose on his neck and thrust it fiercely aside. It wriggled like
a water snake. Undoing the noose was followed by the worst
pain that he had experienced. His neck ached horribly. His
brain was on fire. His heart gave a great leap. His whole body
felt an unbearable agony! But his hands beat the water with
quick, downward strokes, forcing him to the surface. He felt his
head emerge. His eyes were blinded by the sunlight. His chest
expanded, and his lungs inhaled a great breath of air, which
instantly he let out in a shriek!
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He now had full awareness of his physical senses. Something
in the awful disturbance of his body had made them much
sharper than before. He felt the ripples upon his face and
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heard their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the
forest and saw the individual trees, the leaves, and the veining
of each leaf—saw the very insects upon them. The humming
of the gnats that danced above the stream, the beating of the
dragonflies’ wings, the strokes of the water-spiders’ legs—all
these made 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. As he
turned around, he saw the bridge, the fort, the soldiers on the
bridge, the captain, the sergeant, his executioners. They were
in silhouette against the blue sky. They shouted and pointed
at him. The captain drew his pistol but did not fire. The others
were unarmed. Their movements were strange and horrible.
Suddenly something struck the water within a few inches of
his head. He heard a second shot, and he saw one of the guards
with his rifle at his shoulder. A light cloud of blue smoke rose
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.
It was a gray eye. He remembered having read that all famous
marksmen had gray eyes. Nevertheless, this one had missed.
A swirl caught Farquhar and turned him half around. Now
he was looking into the forest on the bank opposite the fort. The
sound of a clear, high voice rang out behind him. He knew the
awful meaning of the chant. How coldly fell those cruel words:
“Attention, company! . . . Shoulder arms! . . . Ready! . . .
Aim! . . . Fire!”
Farquhar dived—dived as deeply as he could. He heard the
dull thunder of the shots. When he rose toward the surface, he
found shining bits of flattened metal floating slowly downward.
Some of them touched him as they fell. Hß
As he rose, gasping for breath, he saw that he had moved
farther downstream and nearer to safety. The soldiers had almost
finished reloading. The two guards fired again, but with no effect.
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The hunted man saw all this over his shoulder. He was now
swimming vigorously. His brain was as energetic as his arms
and legs.
“The officer,” he reasoned, “has probably already given the
command to fire at will. God help me, I cannot dodge them all!”
A terrible splash within two yards of him was followed by
a loud, rushing sound. A sheet of water fell down upon him,
blinded him, strangled him! The soldiers were using the cannon.
After bouncing off the water, the cannonball hummed through
the air and smashed branches in the forest beyond.
“I must keep my eye upon the gun,” he thought. “The smoke
will warn me.” Iß
Suddenly he felt himself spinning like a top. The water, the
forest, the now distant bridge, fort, and men—all were blurred.
He had been caught in a whirlpool and was being spun so fast
that he felt sick. In a few moments he was flung upon the gravel
on the left bank of the stream—the southern bank—where he
was hidden from his enemies. He dug his fingers into the sand,
threw handfuls of it over himself, and blessed it. It looked like
diamonds, rubies, emeralds—everything beautiful. He had no
wish to continue his escape. He was happy to remain in that
enchanting spot.
A whiz and rattle among the branches high above his head
shook him from his dream. The cannon had been fired as a
random farewell. He sprang to his feet, rushed up the sloping
bank, and plunged into the forest.
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All that day he traveled, navigating by the setting sun. The
forest seemed interminable. He had not known that he lived in
so wild a region. It was strange for him to suddenly realize this.
By nightfall he was exhausted, sore, and hungry. The thought
of his wife and children urged him on. At last he found a road
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which led in the right direction. It was as wide and straight as a
city street, yet it seemed empty. No fields or houses bordered it.
The black bodies of the trees formed a straight wall on both sides.
Overhead shone great golden stars that looked unfamiliar and
were grouped together strangely. He was sure he could read some
evil, secret meaning in their arrangement.
His neck was in pain and horribly swollen. He knew that it
had a circle of black where the rope had bruised it. He could no
longer close his swollen eyes. His tongue was swollen with thirst.
He tried to relieve it by thrusting it forward into the cold air. How
soft the grass felt—he could not feel the road beneath his feet!
Doubtless he had fallen asleep while walking, for now he
sees another scene. He stands at the gate of his own home. All
is as he left it, and all 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, his wife steps down to meet
him. At the bottom of the steps she stands waiting, with a smile
of joy beyond description. Ah, how beautiful she is! He springs
forward with extended arms. As he is about to embrace her, he
feels a stunning blow upon the back of the neck. A blinding
white light blazes all about him with a sound like that of a
cannon. Then all is darkness and silence!
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