CHAPTER II

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_ Peyton Fahrquhar 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 to 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 Fahrquhar 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. Fahrquhar 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?" Fahrquhar 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 Fahrquhar, 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. _

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