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

THREE INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF A MAN

George Thurston was a first lieutenant and aide-de-camp on the staff of Colonel Brough, commanding a Federal brigade.  Colonel Brough was only temporarily in command, as senior colonel, the brigadier-general having been severely wounded and granted a leave of absence to recover.  Lieutenant Thurston was, I believe, of Colonel Brough’s regiment, to which, with his chief, he would naturally have been relegated had he lived till our brigade commander’s recovery.  The aide whose place Thurston took had been killed in battle; Thurston’s advent among us was the only change in the personnel of our staff consequent upon the change in commanders.  We did not like him; he was unsocial.  This, however, was more observed by others than by me.  Whether in camp or on the march, in barracks, in tents, or en bivouac, my duties as topographical engineer kept me working like a beaver—­all day in the saddle and half the night at my drawing-table, platting my surveys.  It was hazardous work; the nearer to the enemy’s lines I could penetrate, the more valuable were my field notes and the resulting maps.  It was a business in which the lives of men counted as nothing against the chance of defining a road or sketching a bridge.  Whole squadrons of cavalry escort had sometimes to be sent thundering against a powerful infantry outpost in order that the brief time between the charge and the inevitable retreat might be utilized in sounding a ford or determining the point of intersection of two roads.

In some of the dark corners of England and Wales they have an immemorial custom of “beating the bounds” of the parish.  On a certain day of the year the whole population turns out and travels in procession from one landmark to another on the boundary line.  At the most important points lads are soundly beaten with rods to make them remember the place in after life.  They become authorities.  Our frequent engagements with the Confederate outposts, patrols, and scouting parties had, incidentally, the same educating value; they fixed in my memory a vivid and apparently imperishable picture of the locality—­a picture serving instead of accurate field notes, which, indeed, it was not always convenient to take, with carbines cracking, sabers clashing, and horses plunging all about.  These spirited encounters were observations entered in red.

One morning as I set out at the head of my escort on an expedition of more than the usual hazard Lieutenant Thurston rode up alongside and asked if I had any objection to his accompanying me, the colonel commanding having given him permission.

“None whatever,” I replied rather gruffly; “but in what capacity will you go?  You are not a topographical engineer, and Captain Burling commands my escort.”

“I will go as a spectator,” he said.  Removing his sword-belt and taking the pistols from his holsters he handed them to his servant, who took them back to headquarters.  I realized the brutality of my remark, but not clearly seeing my way to an apology, said nothing.

That afternoon we encountered a whole regiment of the enemy’s cavalry in line and a field-piece that dominated a straight mile of the turnpike by which we had approached.  My escort fought deployed in the woods on both sides, but Thurston remained in the center of the road, which at intervals of a few seconds was swept by gusts of grape and canister that tore the air wide open as they passed.  He had dropped the rein on the neck of his horse and sat bolt upright in the saddle, with folded arms.  Soon he was down, his horse torn to pieces.  From the side of the road, my pencil and field book idle, my duty forgotten, I watched him slowly disengaging himself from the wreck and rising.  At that instant, the cannon having ceased firing, a burly Confederate trooper on a spirited horse dashed like a thunderbolt down the road with drawn saber.  Thurston saw him coming, drew himself up to his full height, and again folded his arms.  He was too brave to retreat before the word, and my uncivil words had disarmed him.  He was a spectator.  Another moment and he would have been split like a mackerel, but a blessed bullet tumbled his assailant into the dusty road so near that the impetus sent the body rolling to Thurston’s feet.  That evening, while platting my hasty survey, I found time to frame an apology, which I think took the rude, primitive form of a confession that I had spoken like a malicious idiot.

A few weeks later a part of our army made an assault upon the enemy’s left.  The attack, which was made upon an unknown position and across unfamiliar ground, was led by our brigade.  The ground was so broken and the underbrush so thick that all mounted officers and men were compelled to fight on foot—­the brigade commander and his staff included.  In the mêlée Thurston was parted from the rest of us, and we found him, horribly wounded, only when we had taken the enemy’s last defense.  He was some months in hospital at Nashville, Tennessee, but finally rejoined us.  He said little about his misadventure, except that he had been bewildered and had strayed into the enemy’s lines and been shot down; but from one of his captors, whom we in turn had captured, we learned the particulars.  “He came walking right upon us as we lay in line,” said this man.  “A whole company of us instantly sprang up and leveled our rifles at his breast, some of them almost touching him.  ‘Throw down that sword and surrender, you damned Yank!’ shouted some one in authority.  The fellow ran his eyes along the line of rifle barrels, folded his arms across his breast, his right hand still clutching his sword, and deliberately replied, ‘I will not.’  If we had all fired he would have been torn to shreds.  Some of us didn’t.  I didn’t, for one; nothing could have induced me.”

When one is tranquilly looking death in the eye and refusing him any concession one naturally has a good opinion of one’s self.  I don’t know if it was this feeling that in Thurston found expression in a stiffish attitude and folded arms; at the mess table one day, in his absence, another explanation was suggested by our quartermaster, an irreclaimable stammerer when the wine was in:  “It’s h—­is w—­ay of m-m-mastering a c-c-consti-t-tu-tional t-tendency to r—­un aw—­ay.”

“What!” I flamed out, indignantly rising; “you intimate that Thurston is a coward—­and in his absence?”

“If he w—­ere a cow—­wow-ard h—­e w—­wouldn’t t-try to m-m-master it; and if he w—­ere p-present I w—­wouldn’t d-d-dare to d-d-discuss it,” was the mollifying reply.

This intrepid man, George Thurston, died an ignoble death.  The brigade was in camp, with headquarters in a grove of immense trees.  To an upper branch of one of these a venturesome climber had attached the two ends of a long rope and made a swing with a length of not less than one hundred feet.  Plunging downward from a height of fifty feet, along the arc of a circle with such a radius, soaring to an equal altitude, pausing for one breathless instant, then sweeping dizzily backward—­no one who has not tried it can conceive the terrors of such sport to the novice.  Thurston came out of his tent one day and asked for instruction in the mystery of propelling the swing—­the art of rising and sitting, which every boy has mastered.  In a few moments he had acquired the trick and was swinging higher than the most experienced of us had dared.  We shuddered to look at his fearful flights.

“St-t-top him,” said the quartermaster, snailing lazily along from the mess-tent, where he had been lunching; “h—­e d-doesn’t know that if h—­e g-g-goes c-clear over h—­e’ll w—­ind up the sw—­ing.”

With such energy was that strong man cannonading himself through the air that at each extremity of his increasing arc his body, standing in the swing, was almost horizontal.  Should he once pass above the level of the rope’s attachment he would be lost; the rope would slacken and he would fall vertically to a point as far below as he had gone above, and then the sudden tension of the rope would wrest it from his hands.  All saw the peril—­all cried out to him to desist, and gesticulated at him as, indistinct and with a noise like the rush of a cannon shot in flight, he swept past us through the lower reaches of his hideous oscillation.  A woman standing at a little distance away fainted and fell unobserved.  Men from the camp of a regiment near by ran in crowds to see, all shouting.  Suddenly, as Thurston was on his upward curve, the shouts all ceased.

Thurston and the swing had parted—­that is all that can be known; both hands at once had released the rope.  The impetus of the light swing exhausted, it was falling back; the man’s momentum was carrying him, almost erect, upward and forward, no longer in his arc, but with an outward curve.  It could have been but an instant, yet it seemed an age.  I cried out, or thought I cried out:  “My God! will he never stop going up?” He passed close to the branch of a tree.  I remember a feeling of delight as I thought he would clutch it and save himself.  I speculated on the possibility of it sustaining his weight.  He passed above it, and from my point of view was sharply outlined against the blue.  At this distance of many years I can distinctly recall that image of a man in the sky, its head erect, its feet close together, its hands—­I do not see its hands.  All at once, with astonishing suddenness and rapidity, it turns clear over and pitches downward.  There is another cry from the crowd, which has rushed instinctively forward.  The man has become merely a whirling object, mostly legs.  Then there is an indescribable sound—­ the sound of an impact that shakes the earth, and these men, familiar with death in its most awful aspects, turn sick.  Many walk unsteadily away from the spot; others support themselves against the trunks of trees or sit at the roots.  Death has taken an unfair advantage; he has struck with an unfamiliar weapon; he has executed a new and disquieting stratagem.  We did not know that he had so ghastly resources, possibilities of terror so dismal.

Thurston’s body lay on its back.  One leg, bent beneath, was broken above the knee and the bone driven into the earth.  The abdomen had burst; the bowels protruded.  The neck was broken.

The arms were folded tightly across the breast.