________________________________________________
_ As Peyton Fahrquhar 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."
He was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in his
wrist apprised him that he was trying to free his hands. He
gave the struggle his attention, as an idler might observe
the feat of a juggler, without interest in the outcome. What
splendid effort! -- what magnificent, what superhuman
strength! Ah, that was a fine endeavor! Bravo! The cord
fell away; his arms parted and floated upward, the hands
dimly seen on each side in the growing light. He watched
them with a new interest as first one and then the other
pounced upon the noose at his neck. They tore it away and
thrust it fiercely aside, its undulations resembling those of
a water snake. "Put it back, put it back!" He thought he
shouted these words to his hands, for the undoing of the
noose had been succeeded by the direst pang that he had yet
experienced. His neck ached horribly; his brain was on fire,
his heart, which had been fluttering faintly, gave a great
leap, trying to force itself out at his mouth. His whole
body was racked and wrenched with an insupportable anguish!
But his disobedient hands gave no heed to the command. They
beat the water vigorously with quick, downward strokes,
forcing him to the surface. He felt his head emerge; his
eyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest expanded
convulsively, and with a supreme and crowning agony his lungs
engulfed a great draught of air, which instantly he expelled
in a shriek!
He was now in full possession of his physical senses. They
were, indeed, preternaturally keen and alert. Something in
the awful disturbance of his organic system had so exalted
and refined them that they made record of things never before
perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and heard their
separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on
the bank of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves
and the veining of each leaf -- he saw the very insects upon
them: the locusts, the brilliant bodied flies, the gray
spiders stretching their webs from twig to twig. He noted
the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a million
blades of grass. The humming of the gnats that danced above
the eddies of the stream, the beating of the dragon flies'
wings, the strokes of the water spiders' legs, like oars
which had lifted their boat -- all these made audible
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; in a
moment the visible world seemed to wheel slowly round,
himself the pivotal point, and he saw the bridge, the fort,
the soldiers upon the bridge, the captain, the sergeant, the
two privates, his executioners. They were in silhouette
against the blue sky. They shouted and gesticulated,
pointing at him. The captain had drawn his pistol, but did
not fire; the others were unarmed. Their movements were
grotesque and horrible, their forms gigantic.
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
gray eye and remembered having read that gray eyes were
keenest, and that all famous marksmen had them.
Nevertheless, this one had missed.
A counter-swirl had caught Fahrquhar and turned him half
round; he was again looking at 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
tranquility in the men -- with what accurately measured
interval fell those cruel words:
"Company! . . . Attention! . . . Shoulder arms! . . . Ready!
. . . Aim! . . . Fire!"
Fahrquhar dived -- dived as deeply as he could. The water
roared in his ears like the voice of Niagara, yet he heard
the dull 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
downstream -- 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 an 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 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
AEolian harps. He had not wish to perfect his escape -- he
was content to remain in that enchanting spot until retaken.
A whiz and a 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, famished. 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
golden 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 forwards 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 Fahrquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck,
swung gently from side to side beneath the timbers of the
Owl Creek bridge.
THE END.
An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge, by Ambrose Bierce. _
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