An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge Page #2

								


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 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 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."
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