The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce — Volume 2: In the Midst of Life: Tales of Soldiers and Civilians

To any but a singularly self-possessed man the apparition of an officer of the military forces, formidably clad, bearing in one hand a sheathed sword and in the other a cocked revolver, and rushing in furious pursuit, is no doubt disquieting to a high degree; upon the man to whom the pursuit was in this instance directed it appeared to have no other effect than somewhat to intensify his tranquillity.  He might easily enough have escaped into the forest to the right or the left, but chose another course of action—­turned and quietly faced the captain, saying as he came up:  “I reckon ye must have something to say to me, which ye disremembered.  What mout it be, neighbor?”

But the “neighbor” did not answer, being engaged in the unneighborly act of covering him with a cocked pistol.

“Surrender,” said the captain as calmly as a slight breathlessness from exertion would permit, “or you die.”

There was no menace in the manner of this demand; that was all in the matter and in the means of enforcing it.  There was, too, something not altogether reassuring in the cold gray eyes that glanced along the barrel of the weapon.  For a moment the two men stood looking at each other in silence; then the civilian, with no appearance of fear—­with as great apparent unconcern as when complying with the less austere demand of the sentinel—­slowly pulled from his pocket the paper which had satisfied that humble functionary and held it out, saying: 

“I reckon this ’ere parss from Mister Hartroy is—­”

“The pass is a forgery,” the officer said, interrupting.  “I am Captain Hartroy—­and you are Dramer Brune.”

It would have required a sharp eye to observe the slight pallor of the civilian’s face at these words, and the only other manifestation attesting their significance was a voluntary relaxation of the thumb and fingers holding the dishonored paper, which, falling to the road, unheeded, was rolled by a gentle wind and then lay still, with a coating of dust, as in humiliation for the lie that it bore.  A moment later the civilian, still looking unmoved into the barrel of the pistol, said: 

“Yes, I am Dramer Brune, a Confederate spy, and your prisoner.  I have on my person, as you will soon discover, a plan of your fort and its armament, a statement of the distribution of your men and their number, a map of the approaches, showing the positions of all your outposts.  My life is fairly yours, but if you wish it taken in a more formal way than by your own hand, and if you are willing to spare me the indignity of marching into camp at the muzzle of your pistol, I promise you that I will neither resist, escape, nor remonstrate, but will submit to whatever penalty may be imposed.”

The officer lowered his pistol, uncocked it, and thrust it into its place in his belt.  Brune advanced a step, extending his right hand.

“It is the hand of a traitor and a spy,” said the officer coldly, and did not take it.  The other bowed.

“Come,” said the captain, “let us go to camp; you shall not die until to-morrow morning.”

He turned his back upon his prisoner, and these two enigmatical men retraced their steps and soon passed the sentinel, who expressed his general sense of things by a needless and exaggerated salute to his commander.