鹰溪桥上 An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge
安布罗斯·比尔斯/Ambrose Bierce
安布罗斯·比尔斯（Ambrose Bierce，1842-1914）美国恐怖、灵异小说家，出生于美国俄亥俄州梅格斯县一个贫苦农民家庭。他参加过美国南北战争，这段不平凡的经历为他以后的文学创作打下了坚实的基础。战争结束后，他开始了一个编辑兼作家的忙碌生涯。他早期的作品主要是随笔和讽刺短诗，也包括一些小说。他的人生观比较悲观，被人们称为“辛辣比尔斯”。主要的代表作品有《魔鬼辞典》《士兵和百姓的故事》。
Ⅰ
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 feel 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 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 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.
III
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.
That was many years ago. If asked today I should answer less confidently.
一
亚拉巴马州北部的一座铁路桥上站着一个人，他正俯视着桥下20英尺处的奔腾流水。这个人的双手背在身后，手腕被绳子绑着。一根绞索紧紧地套住他的脖子，另一端系在他的头上一根结实的枕木上，中间的一段则松松地低垂到他的膝前。几块木板散搁在铺着铁轨的枕木上，他和他的行刑队就站在枕木上面。一位联邦军军士和他指挥的两名士兵组成了行刑队，那位军士看起来像是和平时期的一个代理警长。一位身穿戎装、腰佩武器的上尉军官站在这个临时搭起的平台上。桥两端各有一名哨兵，他们持枪而立，左臂横在胸前，枪垂靠在左肩前，机枪抵在臂上。表面看来，这个姿势一本正经，其实极不自然，因为整个身体都非常笔直。这两个哨兵对桥中心发生的一切漠不关心，他们的职责仿佛只是把守横在桥上的那块平台。
除了一个哨兵外，桥的一头没有人，铁路径直向前延伸了一百码，进入树林，接着拐了个弯就消失不见了。远处肯定还有哨所。河的另一面是一片开阔地，一排木栅栏竖立在平缓的斜坡上，木栅栏上面挖了步枪射击孔，还有一个炮口，炮筒从里面伸出来，控制着整个桥面。一些旁观者站在桥和碉堡间的斜坡上——一队步兵在那里“稍息”，枪托拄地，枪口稍微后倾，靠在右肩上，他们双手交叠地放在枪上。队伍的右侧站着一位中尉，他的指挥刀刀尖着地，左手按在右手上。除了桥中央的四个人外，其他人都一动不动地站着。那队步兵以僵滞的目光漠然地注视着铁桥。那两名哨兵面对河岸，看起来仿佛装饰铁桥的雕像似的。上尉双手抱在胸前，站在那里，默不作声地看着下属干活，不作任何指示。死神好像达官显贵，当他到来时，大家必须以礼相迎，尊为上宾，就连和他亲密的人也包括在内。依照军规，尊敬就预示着静穆和肃立。
从外表来看，那个即将被处以绞刑的人大约35岁，是个平民。他的服装表明他是个种植园主。他品貌端正，鼻梁高挺，嘴巴坚毅，前额宽阔，乌黑的头发向后梳拢，从耳后一直披到他那件合体的外套领子上。他有着硬直的短髭和山羊胡子，但并非连鬓胡子，深灰色的大眼睛流露出慈祥的表情。超乎想象的是：一个脖子上套有绞索的人竟然会呈现出这样的表情。很明显，他并非什么卑鄙的刺客。反正军规对形形色色的人的绞刑都有明文规定，绅士也包括在内。
一切都已准备就绪，那两个兵士抽掉各自脚下的木板，站到两旁。中士转过身来向上尉敬礼，并迅速站到他的身后，上尉也随之挪开一步。此刻，桥上只剩下那个受刑的人和中士，他们分别站在横跨三根枕木的一块长木板的两端。那个平民站的一端即将碰到第四根枕木了。刚开始时，木板是靠上尉的体重维持平衡的，这时中士站在了上面。一旦上尉发出信号，中士迅速移开，木板就会倾斜，那受刑人就会从两根枕木间坠落下去。在那个受刑人看来，这样一来倒也干净利落。他的脸和眼睛都没有被蒙住，眼睁睁地望着自己站立的那块“摇摇晃晃的立足点”，过了一会儿，他将视线移到脚下，看着湍急的、打着漩涡的流水。忽然，他看到水中有一段翻腾的木头，他的视线也随之漂流而下。水中的木头流得多慢啊！河水也流得那么费劲！
他闭上眼睛，想最后一次想想自己的妻子和儿女。在朝阳的映照下，河水被染成了金黄色，远处，河岸两旁雾气腾腾，那座碉堡，那些士兵，还有那段旋转着的木头——这里的一切都令他不能集中思想。此刻，他的心里才感到一种新的不安。因为正是一种尖锐、清晰的金属撞击声把他对亲人的思念扰乱了。这声音就像是铁匠的锤子似的，敲打着铁砧，有着一样高亢激越的音色，他既无法塞耳不听，也理解不了。他猜不到那是什么声音，远在天边抑或近在眼前——然而仿佛又远又近。它的反复出现是有规律的，然而缓慢时就像丧钟一般。他不耐烦地等着下一次的敲击，一种莫名其妙的恐惧朝他迎面扑来。随着敲击间歇的延长，那声音变得强烈而尖锐。他感觉自己的耳膜仿佛被一把尖刀戳痛，让他感到烦乱。他唯恐自己会惊声尖叫。他所听到的，只不过是自己手表发出的滴答声。
他睁开双眼，再一次看了看脚下的河水。“如果我能挣脱双手，”他想到，“我就能够甩掉绞索，跳入河中。我就能潜水躲避枪弹，全力游到对岸，冲入那片树林，再逃回家去。上帝保佑，如今我的家还没有被他们占领，我的妻了和儿女距离占领军还远着呢。”
这些用文字记录的思想，不像出自这个即将逝去的人的头脑，反而像是从外界闪进去的。这时，上尉对中士点了点头，中士往后退了一步。
二
贝顿·法夸出身于亚拉巴马家族，这是个历史悠久、受人尊敬的家族。作为一位殷实的种植园主，他和别的庄园主一样，热心于政治。自然最初也是主张南方应该脱离联邦，并且大力支持南方的事业。因为他那傲慢的性格（这里就不再多说了），他未能加入那支曾经在各种残酷战役中殊死战斗的勇敢军队，那些战役最终以科林斯镇的失陷而结束。由于才华得不到施展，他烦闷至极。他迫切希望有一天他的能力能得以施展，像士兵那样有用武之地。他也渴望能出人头地。他认为，这种机会一定会到来，并且和战争中机会均等是一个道理。并且，他还全力以赴，只要是对南方有利的，不管什么低贱的事他都乐意去做。只要与他这样一个在内心深处实在是军人本色的平民性格相符，不管有多危险他都乐意承担。对于那条露骨的格言——爱情和战争都是不择手段的——他深信不疑。
一天傍晚，法夸和妻子正坐在家门口一条自制的长凳上，只见一个穿灰色军服的士兵骑马来到门前，想讨点水喝。法夸太太非常乐意用自己白净的双手为士兵效劳。当她去端水的时候，她的丈夫靠近那个满身尘土的骑手，急切地向他打探前线的消息。
“北方佬正忙着抢修铁路，”那个士兵说，“准备再发动一次进攻。他们已经抵达鹰溪桥，并修复了这座桥，在河的北岸，他们还筑起了一道栅栏。他们的指挥官还下令：凡是企图破坏铁路、铁路桥梁、隧道和火车的人，一经俘获，就地绞死。我亲眼见到过这些通告，贴得到处都是。”
“鹰溪桥距离这个地方有多远？”法夸问。
“大约30英里。”
“河岸上有没有军队呢？”
“桥这边有一个哨兵，距离这里的半英里处的铁路线上只有一个哨所。”“如果一个人——一个平民，一个熟悉绞刑的人——能躲过那个哨所，并且骗过那个哨兵，”法夸笑着说，“他能做些什么呢？”
士兵思考了一会儿答道：“一个月前我在那里时，留意到去年冬天的大水将河里漂浮着的大量的木头都积在这一头的桥墩下了。现在那些木头像麻绳一样干，只要有一点火星就会燃烧。”
法夸太太取来了水。士兵一饮而尽，他彬彬有礼地向她致谢，然后对她的丈夫鞠了一躬，骑上马飞奔而去。一小时后，夜幕降临，那位骑兵又从种植园经过，这一次是向北，奔向他来的方向。原来他是北方联军的探子。
三
当贝顿·法夸垂直从桥上坠下去时，他已经没有知觉了，仿佛死了一般。过了很长时间，他才被喉咙口的一阵剧痛从毫无知觉的状态中惊醒过来，紧接着是一阵窒息感。阵阵疼痛从他的颈脖开始，一直延伸到四肢以及身体的每一个细胞。疼痛似乎顺着一张精密的网络，闪电般地扩散到全身；疼痛又仿佛一条条火舌，让他觉得灼热难耐。他只是感觉脑袋发胀，像被什么东西塞满了似的。这些感觉都与思维毫无瓜葛，因为他的思维功能已经遭到毁灭。唯一幸存的是感觉，但是这种感觉把人折磨得异常痛苦。他似乎觉得，一切都在旋转，自己就像一颗熊熊燃烧着的核心，被亮闪闪的云雾包围着。他还像一个巨大的钟摆，围着一个巨大的弧圈不停地晃动。一时间，他周围的亮光猛地冲击过来，紧接着是一阵水溅声，在他的耳鼓里轰轰作响，一切又都变得阴冷而黑暗。思维的功能得以恢复。他知道，自己已掉入河中，因为绳子断了。这时，他感觉呼吸顺畅，脖子上的那根绞索早已勒得他透不过气来，现在又恰巧挡着河水灌进肺里。在河底被吊死——这种想法在他看来实在荒谬。黑暗中，他睁开了眼睛，看到头顶上有一束光亮，然而这束光那么遥远，摸也摸不到。他依然在下沉，因为他看到头顶上的亮光渐渐微弱，最终变成了一丝微光。紧接着，这丝微光变得亮了起来，他清楚自己正在向上浮，因为他感觉舒服多了，然而他无法相信这一点。“被吊着淹死倒也不错，”他心想，“然而被枪毙并不是我希望的。不！我不想被枪毙，那样太不公平。”
他对自己干什么毫不知情，然而手腕上的剧痛告诉他，他正在试着挣开双手。仿佛一个闲人在观赏杂耍演员的表演而对其结果漠不关心一样，他眼睁睁地看着自己挣扎。这一努力太令人惊叹了！多么了不起，多么惊人的力量啊！太棒了！啊，他成功了！绳子松了，双臂分开向上浮了起来。在越来越强的亮光中，这两只手清晰可见。他带着一种崭新的兴趣望着，一只手，然后是另一只手，他用力抓住脖子上的绳子，然后又用力将它扔在一边。绳子在水中上下摆动，就像一条水蛇。“套上绳子，重新套上！”他感觉自己正对着双手喊，因为绳子解开后，是一阵他从未感到的剧痛。他的脖子痛极了，脑袋就像烧着了似的，那颗一直在轻轻跳动着的心猛然跳了一下，仿佛要从口中蹦出来。他浑身疼痛，像散了架似的。然而，那两只不听使唤的手没有遵从他的命令。它们快速而有力地朝下划着水，他游出了水面。他感觉自己的头先露了出来，太阳刺得他看不到任何东西，胸脯急剧地起伏着，伴随着一阵剧烈的难以忍受的疼痛，一大口空气被吸了进来。然而不一会儿，他又一声尖叫，把它吐了出来！
此刻，他已经完全控制了自己的各种感官。实际上，这些感官还很敏锐。他置身于一种令人恐惧的紊乱之中，也不知是什么东西促进并改善了他的感官，使他觉察到许多以前从未觉察到的东西。他感觉到了脸上的水波，听到了它们拍打时发出的“哗哗”声。他看了看河岸上的树林，看到一棵棵树，看到树叶和每片叶子上的脉络，也看到树叶上的小虫子，有蝗虫、金身苍蝇，还有树枝间的褐色蜘蛛，它们正忙于织网。在成千上万片草叶上，五颜六色的露珠一闪一闪的。水波上，蠓虫在尽情歌舞，蜻蜓扇动着翅膀，水蜘蛛划动双腿，好像船桨在推动小舟——这一切合成了一支清晰的乐曲。一条鱼从他的眼皮底下“嗖”地游了过去，他听到了鱼身分水的“沙沙”声。
此时，他已经从水下露了出来，脸向下游。过了一会儿，这个看得见的世界似乎围着他缓缓旋转起来，他自己成了轴心。他看到了小桥、碉堡，看到了站在桥上的士兵、上尉、中士，两名哨兵——他的行刑队。在蔚蓝色天空的映衬下，他们的轮廓清晰可见。他们朝着他高声喊叫，指手画脚。上尉已经将手枪拔了出来，只是没有开火，其他人都没带武器。他们的动作古怪而可怕，他们的身影也出奇得大。
忽然，他听到一声枪响，有什么东西在距离他有脑袋几英寸的水面上轰然爆炸，溅了他满脸水。紧接着，又是一声，他看到其中一个哨兵正举着枪，枪筒里冒出一缕青烟。他在水里看到桥上的那个人正死死地盯着自己。他看到这是一只灰色的眼睛，他记得曾经在哪本书上读到过，说灰眼睛是最厉害的，凡是著名的射手都拥有一双灰眼睛。不过，这只灰眼睛没有击中目标。
一个回旋的浪头推着法夸旋转了半圈，他又一次看了看碉堡对面的林子。一个响亮而尖锐的嗓音，在他的身后单调而有规律地喊着，越过水面，清晰异常，透过并淹没了周围的所有声响，包括他耳边汩汩的流水声。虽然法夸并非军人，但他常常在军营出入，清楚这种从容不迫、不紧不慢、喉音浓重的腔调有着怎样可怕的意义。岸上的那位中尉现在不再袖手旁观了。他的声音多么冷酷无情！平稳的语调像是要逼着士兵们保持镇静。他一板一眼地喊出这样几个残酷的字眼：
“全体……注意……举枪……准备……瞄准……放！”
法夸向下潜去，尽力向下潜。河水响在耳边，仿佛尼亚加拉瀑布一般轰鸣，可他还是听到了排枪沉闷的轰响。他再次浮上水面，看到很多亮晶晶的小铁屑，又扁又平，一点一点地沉没了下去。有几片碰到了他的脸和手，然后又落下，接着往下沉。有一片夹在他的衣领里，火辣辣的，难受极了，他猛地将它扔了出去。
等他露出水面，大口喘气时，他才知道在水下已经待了很长时间。他发现自己身处很远的下游。与刚才的地方相比，这里安全多了。大部分士兵都已经上好了枪膛，从枪管里抽出来的通条在阳光下闪闪发光，在空中翻了翻，“嗖”的一下又被插进了鞘套。两名哨兵又开枪了，这一次他们不是执行命令，但也没有射中。
这一切都让这个被追捕者在回头时看在眼里。现在他正顺着水流努力地游着。他的头脑像四肢一样充满力量，此刻正在以闪电般的速度思索着。
他想：“这位长官不会再犯同样的错误了。齐射还不是像点射一样容易躲避嘛。或许他现在已经下令让士兵随便开枪了。上帝啊，我可躲不过那么多子弹啊！”
在距离他不到两码的地方，忽然可怕地溅起了河水，然后是一阵尖啸，随后慢慢减弱。这响声听上去仿佛又由空中飞回碉堡去了，最后“轰”的一声爆炸，打乱了河底的宁静。河水像一条掀起的被单，将他的脑袋盖住，把他整个裹了起来。他什么也看不到，也喘不过气来。大炮也参与了进来。他摇了摇头，抖掉脸上的水，听见一颗打偏了的炮弹正“嗖嗖”地从他的身旁飞过。过了一会儿，远处的树林里便响起了“噼里啪啦”的树枝折断的声音。
“他们不会再这样打了，”他心想，“下一次他们就要打葡萄弹了。我必须死死地盯着这个炮口，硝烟会给我提示，炮声来得太迟，总是落在炮弹的后面。这门炮真是不错啊。”
忽然之间，他感觉自己正在快速地旋转，像极了一只陀螺。河水、河岸、树林、此刻在远处的桥、碉堡和士兵都乱作一团，看也看不清。周围的一切都五颜六色，他看到只是一条条在水平线上旋转着的光纹。原来他刚才是陷进了一个漩涡，漩涡激烈地盘旋向前，把他搞得晕头转向。过了一会儿，他被水流抛在一片碎石堆上，这里是河的右岸，也是南岸。他正好被一块隆起的地方掩蔽起来，不被敌人察觉。这猛然间的停顿，再加上一只手被碎石擦破，使他有了喘息的机会。他激动地流下了泪水，将手指插进沙子里，一把一把地洒到身上，嘴里还轻轻地感谢它。这沙子看上去像钻石，像红宝石，像绿宝石，像他能想象到的世上一切美丽的东西。河岸上的树和大花园里的植物一样，他留意到，它们整整齐齐地排列着，他又深深地嗅了一下树上的花香。一束奇异的玫瑰红光彩穿过树干的空隙一闪一闪的。树枝上，轻风吹奏出悦耳的声音，仿佛风琴在弹奏。他不想再逃了，只想在这个景色迷人的地方停留下来，就是再次被捕，他也无怨无悔。
在他头顶上的树枝间，葡萄弹在“嗖嗖”、“嘎嘎”不停地响着，把他从梦幻中惊醒。那些糊涂的炮手胡乱放了一通，算是欢送。他猛地跳了起来，冲上斜坡，一头钻进了树林。
他走了整整一天，只是依靠太阳的移动来确定方向。这片林子似乎无边无际，连绵不断，甚至连一条樵夫的小径也看不到。他还不知道自己居住的地方竟然这么荒芜。眼前的景象真有点神秘。
夜幕降临，他又累又饿，双脚疼痛。然而，一想起家中的妻子和儿女，他又向前走去。终于，他找到了一条路。他知道沿着这条路准能走回家。这条路宽阔笔直，和城里的大街一样，但看起来却未曾有人走过。路两旁没有农田，周围也不见有人居住，就连使人想起此地还有人烟的狗叫声也听不到。漆黑的树干形成一道笔直的墙，竖在道路两旁，慢慢延伸到地平线上，交汇成一个点，仿佛透视课上画的图案似的。他抬起头来，透过树缝看见闪闪的星星。这些星星看起来陌生极了，并且还很奇怪地组合地一起。他确信它们之所以这样组合，其中必定有神秘和邪恶的意义。道路两旁的树林里充斥着怪异的声响，在这些声响中，他一次又一次地清楚地听到有人在用一种奇怪的语言轻声说话。
脖子痛极了，他用手摸了摸，才知道脖子已经肿得厉害。他知道绞索磨破了他的脖子，并留下了一圈紫色痕迹。他感觉双眼充血，再也合不上了。他口渴得要命，连舌头也肿了，他把舌头从牙齿间吐了出来，想借凉风来降温。这条毫无人烟的大道上，草坪是多么柔软啊！此刻，他再也感觉不到脚下有什么路了！
确信无疑的是，尽管浑身疼痛难忍，他走着走着就进入了梦乡。或许他刚从一阵谵妄中苏醒过来，因为他现在看到的是另一番景象。此时他正站在自己的家门口。眼前的景象还都是他离开家时的模样，在晨曦的映照下，显得明亮而美丽。他一定走了整整一夜。他推开门，走上宽敞的白色甬道，只见一件女人的裙衫迎面走来，他的妻子容光焕发，娴静而甜蜜，此时她正在从前廊走下来迎接他。她微笑地站在台阶下等待，拥有着无与伦比的优雅和尊严。啊，她是多么美丽啊！他张开双臂，向前奔去。正要抱住她时，他只感觉脖子根上遭到重重的一击。一道耀眼的白光在他的四周闪耀，紧接着是一声巨响，仿佛是大炮的轰鸣——忽然之间，一切又都归于沉寂，消失在夜色中！
贝顿·法夸离开了人世。他的尸体以及那个折断了的脖子，在鹰溪桥的枕木下缓缓地飘来**去。
这个故事发生在许多年前。如果现在有人问我，我叙述的就不会这么坦然了。
词汇笔记
executioner[,?ks?'kju??n?]n.行刑者，死刑执行者
An executioner is a person who carries out the death sentence.
刽子手是执行死刑的人。
stockade[stɑ'ked]n.（防御用的）栅栏，围桩
At length I thought I might return towards the stockade.
我终于觉得可以折回来向木寨方向走去了。
hemp[hemp]n.大麻；长纤维的植物；大麻烟卷
Hemp is a stiff fiber that,
大麻是一种硬质纤维，
evade[?'ved]v.逃避，躲避；避开；规避；逃脱
She turned and gazed at the river, evading his eyes.
她转身凝视着那条河，避开他的目光
小试身手
这个人的双手背在身后，手腕被绳子绑着。
依照军规，尊敬就预示着静穆和肃立。
他睁开双眼，再一次看了看脚下的河水。
A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below.
stand upon：依靠；视……如何而定；坚持；主张
……vertical in front of the left shoulder……
in front of：在……前面；当着……的面；面前