An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge

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 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 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 acclivity 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 of the slope between the bridge and fort were the spectators--a

single company of infantry in line, at "parade rest," the butts of the 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 thirtyfive 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 mustache 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 judgment 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 a

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

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 thrust 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.