The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce | Page 8

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 plash 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 a 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 a 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 æolian harps. He had no
wish to perfect his escape--was content to remain in that enchanting
spot until retaken.
A whiz and 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, famishing. 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. Over-head, 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 he 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