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 ties

supporting the rails 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 slope 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 up the slope between the bridge and fort

were the spectators—a single company of infantry in line, at “parade

rest,” the butts of their 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

thirty-five 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 moustache 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

judgement 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 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 new 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.