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 grey eye and remembered
having read that grey 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 into 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 tranquillity in the
men--with what accurately measured intervals fell those cruel words:
"Attention, company! . . 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 dulled 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 down stream 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 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 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 a 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 olian harps. He had no wish to perfect his escape--
was content to remain in that enchanting spot until retaken.
A whiz and 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, famishing. 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 garden 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
forward 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.
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