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The Project Gutenberg Etext of An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge
[This was the #1 rated Twilight Zone epidose of all time]
#2 in our Ambrose Bierce series
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Bierce, Ambrose - An Occurrence At Owl Creek Bridge.txt
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by Ambrose Bierce
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 trust 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.
II
Peyton Fahrquhar was a well to do planter, of an old and
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Bierce, Ambrose - An Occurrence At Owl Creek Bridge.txt
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."
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:
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