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The man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently aboutthirty-five years of age. He was a civilian, if one might judgefrom his habit, which was that of a planter. His features weregood--a straight nose, firm mouth, broad forehead, from which hislong, dark hair was combed straight back, falling behind his earsto the collar of his well-fitting frock coat. He wore a mustacheand pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were large and darkgray, and had a kindly expression which one would hardly haveexpected in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently this was novulgar assassin. The liberal military code makes provision forhanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.

The preparations being complete, the two private soldiers steppedaside and each drew away the plank upon which he had been standing.The sergeant turned to the captain, saluted and placed himselfimmediately behind that officer, who in turn moved apart one pace.These movements left the condemned man and the sergeant standing onthe two ends of the same plank, which spanned three of thecross-ties of the bridge. The end upon which the civilian stoodalmost, but not quite, reached a fourth. This plank had been heldin place by the weight of the captain; it was now held by that ofthe sergeant. At a signal from the former the latter would stepaside, the plank would tilt and the condemned man go down betweentwo ties. The arrangement commended itself to his judgment assimple and effective. His face had not been covered nor his eyesbandaged. He looked a moment at his "unsteadfast footing," then lethis gaze wander to the swirling water of the stream racing madlybeneath his feet. A piece of dancing driftwood caught his attentionand his eyes followed it down the current. How slowly it appearedto move, What a sluggish stream!

He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wifeand children. The water, touched to gold by the early sun, thebrooding 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 throughthe thought of his dear ones was a sound which he could neitherignore nor understand, a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion likethe stroke of a blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil; it had the sameringing quality. He wondered what it was, and whether immeasurablydistant or near by--it seemed both. Its recurrence was regular, butas slow as the tolling of a death knell. He awaited each strokewith impatience and--he knew not why--apprehension. The intervalsof silence grew progressively longer, the delays became maddening.With their greater infrequency the sounds increased in strength andsharpness. They hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife; he fearedhe would shriek. What he heard was the ticking of his watch.

He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. "If I couldfree my hands," he thought, "I might throw off the noose and springinto the stream. By diving I could evade the bullets and, swimmingvigorously, reach the bank, take to the woods and get away home. Myhome, thank God, is as yet outside their lines; my wife and littleones are still beyond the invader's farthest advance."

As these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, wereflashed into the doomed man's brain rather than evolved from it thecaptain nodded to the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside.
II
Peyton Farquhar was a well-to-do planter, of an old and highlyrespected Alabama family. Being a slave owner and like other slaveowners a politician he was naturally an original secessionist andardently devoted to the Southern cause. Circumstances of animperious nature, which it is unnecessary to relate here, hadprevented him from taking service with the gallant army that hadfought the disastrous campaigns ending with the fall of Corinth,and he chafed under the inglorious restraint, longing for therelease of his energies, the larger life of the soldier, theopportunity for distinction. That opportunity, he felt, would come,as it comes to all in war time. Meanwhile he did what he could. Noservice was too humble for him to perform in aid of the South, noadventure too perilous for him to undertake if consistent with thecharacter of a civilian who was at heart a soldier, and who in goodfaith and without too much qualification assented to at least apart of the frankly villainous dictum that all is fair in love andwar.

One evening while Farquhar and his wife were sitting on a rusticbench near the entrance to his grounds, a gray-clad soldier rode upto the gate and asked for a drink of water. Mrs. Farquhar was onlytoe, happy to serve him with her own white hands. While she wasfetching the water her husband approached the dusty horseman andinquired eagerly for news from the front.

"The Yanks are repairing the railroads," said the man, "and aregetting ready for another advance. They have reached the Owl Creekbridge, put it in order and built a stockade on the north bank. Thecommandant 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 theorder."

"How far is it to the Owl Creek bridge?" Farquhar asked.

"About thirty miles."

"Is there no force on this side the creek?"

"Only a picket post half a mile out, on the railroad, and a singlesentinel at this end of the bridge."

"Suppose a man--a civilian and student of hanging--should elude thepicket post and perhaps get the better of the sentinel," saidFarquhar, smiling, "what could he accomplish?"

The soldier reflected. "I was there a month ago," he replied. "Iobserved that the flood of last winter had lodged a great quantityof driftwood against the wooden pier at this end of the bridge. Itis now dry and would burn like tow."

The lady had now brought the water, which the soldier drank. Hethanked her ceremoniously, bowed to her husband and rode away. Anhour later, after nightfall, he repassed the plantation, goingnorthward in the direction from which he had come. He was a Federalscout.
III
As Peyton Farquhar fell straight downward through the bridge helost consciousness and was as one already dead. From this state hewas awakened--ages later, it seemed to him--by the pain of a sharppressure upon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocation. Keen,poignant agonies seemed to shoot from his neck downward throughevery fiber of his body and limbs. These pains appeared to flashalong well-defined lines of ramification and to beat with aninconceivably rapid periodicity. They seemed like streams ofpulsating fire heating him to an intolerable temperature. As to hishead, he was conscious of nothing but a feeling of fulness--ofcongestion. These sensations were unaccompanied by thought. Theintellectual part of his nature was already effaced; he had poweronly to feel, and feeling was torment. He was conscious of motion.Encompassed in a luminous cloud, of which he was now merely thefiery heart, without material substance, he swung throughunthinkable arcs of oscillation, like a vast pendulum. Then all atonce, with terrible suddenness, the light about him shot upwardwith the noise of a loud splash; a frightful roaring was in hisears, 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 wasalready suffocating him and kept the water from his lungs. To dieof hanging at the bottom of a river!--the idea seemed to himludicrous. He opened his eyes in the darkness and saw above him agleam of light, but how distant, how inaccessible! He was stillsinking, for the light became fainter and fainter until it was amere glimmer. Then it began to grow and brighten, and he knew thathe was rising toward the surface--knew it with reluctance, for hewas 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 notbe shot; that is not fair."

He was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in his wristapprised him that he was trying to free his hands. He gave thestruggle his attention, as an idler might observe the feat of ajuggler, without interest in the outcome. What splendideffort!--what magnificent, what superhuman strength! Ah, that wasa fine endeavor! Bravo! The cord fell away; his arms parted andfloated upward, the hands dimly seen on each side in the growinglight. He watched them with a new interest as first one and thenthe other pounced upon the noose at his neck. They tore it away andthrust it fiercely aside, its undulations resembling those of awater snake. "Put it back, put it back!" He thought he shoutedthese words to his hands, for the undoing of the noose had beensucceeded by the direst pang that he had yet experienced. His neckached horribly; his brain was on fire; his heart, which had beenfluttering faintly, gave a great leap, trying to force itself outat his mouth. His whole body was racked and wrenched with aninsupportable anguish! But his disobedient hands gave no heed tothe command. They beat the water vigorously with quick, downwardstrokes, forcing him to the surface. He felt his head emerge; hiseyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest expanded convulsively,and with a supreme and crowning agony his lungs engulfed a greatdraught 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 awfuldisturbance of his organic system had so exalted and refined themthat they made record of things never before perceived. He felt theripples upon his face and heard their separate sounds as theystruck. He looked at the forest on the bank of the stream, saw theindividual trees, the leaves and the veining of each leaf--saw thevery insects upon them: the locusts, the brilliant-bodied flies,the grey spiders stretching their webs from twig to twig. He notedthe prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a million blades ofgrass. The humming of the gnats that danced above the eddies of thestream, the beating of the dragon flies' wings, the strokes of thewater-spiders' legs, like oars which had lifted their boat--allthese made audible music. A fish slid along beneath his eyes and heheard the rush of its body parting the water.

He had come to the surface facing down the stream; in a moment thevisible world seemed to wheel slowly round, himself the pivotalpoint, and he saw the bridge, the fort, the soldiers upon thebridge, the captain, the sergeant, the two privates, hisexecutioners. They were in silhouette against the blue sky. Theyshouted and gesticulated, pointing at him. The captain had drawnhis pistol, but did not fire; the others were unarmed. Theirmovements were grotesque and horrible, their forms gigantic.

Suddenly he heard a sharp report and something struck the watersmartly within a few inches of his head, spattering his face withspray. He heard a second report, and saw one of the sentinels withhis rifle at his shoulder, a light cloud of blue smoke rising fromthe muzzle. The man in the water saw the eye of the man on thebridge gazing into his own through the sights of the rifle. Heobserved that it was a grey eye and remembered having read thatgrey 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; hewas again looking into the forest on the bank opposite the fort.The sound of a clear, high voice in a monotonous singsong now rangout behind him and came across the water with a distinctness thatpierced and subdued all other sounds, even the beating of theripples in his ears. Although no soldier, he had frequented campsenough to know the dread significance of that deliberate, drawling,aspirated chant; the lieu. tenant on shore was taking a part in themorning's work. How coldly and pitilessly--with what an even, calmintonation, presaging, and enforcing tranquillity in the men--withwhat accurately measured inter vals fell those cruel words:

"Attention, company! . . Shoulder arms! . . . Ready! . . . Aim! .. . Fire!"

Farquhar dived--dived as deeply as he could. The water roared inhis ears like the voice of Niagara, yet he heard the dulled thunderof the volley and, rising again toward the surface, met shiningbits 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 hadbeen a long time under water; he was perceptibly farther downstream nearer to safety. The soldiers had almost finishedreloading; the metal ramrods flashed all at once in the sunshine asthey were drawn from the barrels, turned in the air, and thrustinto their sockets. The two sentinels fired again, independentlyand ineffectually.

The hunted man saw all this over his shoulder; he was now swimmingvigorously with the current. His brain was as energetic as his armsand legs; he thought with the rapidity of lightning.

The officer," he reasoned, "will not make that martinet's error asecond time. It is as easy to dodge a volley as a single shot. Hehas probably already given the command to fire at will. God helpme, I cannot dodge them all!"

An appalling plash within two yards of him was followed by a loud,rushing sound, diminuendo, which seemed to travel back through theair to the fort and died in an explosion which stirred the veryriver 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 thegame. As he shook his head free from the commotion of the smittenwater he heard the deflected shot humming through the air ahead,and in an instant it was cracking and smashing the branches in theforest beyond.

"They will not do that again," he thought; "the next time they willuse a charge of grape. I must keep my eye upon the gun; the smokewill apprise me--the report arrives too late; it lags behind themissile. That is a good gun."

Suddenly he felt himself whirled round and round--spinning like atop. The water, the banks, the forests, the now distant bridge,fort and men--all were commingled and blurred. Objects wererepresented by their colors only; circular horizontal streaks ofcolor--that was all he saw. He had been caught in a vortex and wasbeing whirled on with a velocity of advance and gyration that madehim giddy and sick. In a few moments he was flung upon the gravelat the foot of the left bank of the stream--the southern bank--andbehind a projecting point which concealed him from his enemies. Thesudden arrest of his motion, the abrasion of one of his hands onthe gravel, restored him, and he wept with delight. He dug hisfingers into the sand, threw it over himself in handfuls andaudibly blessed it. It looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; hecould think of nothing beautiful which it did not resemble. The treesupon the bank were giant garden plants; he noted adefinite order in their arrangement, inhaled the fragrance of theirblooms. A strange, roseate light shone through the spaces amongtheir trunks and the wind made in their branches the music ofÆolian harps. He had no wish to perfect his escape--was content toremain in that enchanting spot until retaken.

A whiz and rattle of grapeshot among the branches high above hishead roused him from his dream. The baffled cannoneer had fired hima random farewell. He sprang to his feet, rushed up the slopingbank, 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 init, not even a woodman's road. He had not known that he lived in sowild a region. There was something uncanny in the revelation.

By nightfall he was fatigued, footsore, famishing. The thought ofhis wife and children urged him on. At last he found a road whichled him in what he knew to be the right direction. It was as wideand straight as a city street, yet it seemed untraveled. No fieldsbordered it, no dwelling anywhere. Not so much as the barking of adog suggested human habitation. The black bodies of the treesformed a straight wall on both sides, terminating on the horizon ina point, like a diagram in a lesson in perspective. Overhead, as helooked up through this rift in the wood, shone great garden starslooking unfamiliar and grouped in strange constellations. He wassure they were arranged in some order which had a secret and malignsignificance. The wood on either side was full of singular noises,among which--once, twice, and again--he distinctly heard whispersin an unknown tongue.

His neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it found it horriblyswollen. He knew that it had a circle of black where the rope hadbruised it. His eyes felt congested; he could no longer close them.His tongue was swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever bythrusting it forward from between his teeth into the cold air. Howsoftly the turf had carpeted the untraveled avenue--he could nolonger feel the roadway beneath his feet!

Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep whilewalking, for now he sees another scene--perhaps he has merelyrecovered 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 morningsunshine. He must have traveled the entire night. As he pushes openthe gate and passes up the wide white walk, he sees a flutter offemale garments; his wife, looking fresh and cool and sweet, stepsdown from the veranda to meet him. At the bottom of the steps shestands waiting, with a smile of ineffable joy, an attitude ofmatchless grace and dignity. Ah, how beautiful she is! He springsforward with extended arms. As he is about to clasp her he feels astunning blow upon the back of the neck; a blinding white lightblazes all about him with a sound like the shock of a cannon--thenall is darkness and silence!

Peyton Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swunggently from side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creekbridge.