A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down through the tides of the Swiftwater-22 below.

The man's hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord,

the rope closely encircled his neck, was attached to a stout cross-camber of his head.

He thought, if I could free my hands, I might throw off this noose and dive into the creek.

If I swam on the water, I would be safe from debris. If my wind held out, I could make the southern bank take to the woods and get away home.

Rating far qua, Alabama planter stood at the end of the plank.

A captain of the Union Army and a sergeant stood at the other end.

When they stepped aside, the plank would tip upward, and taking far qua, Confederate spy would slip between the tides,

to hang until death, above the muddy water of all creeps.

The captain stepped aside, pauses surged, flourishes it to a carry, sings out a command.

The man on the bank smartly spread their legs, thrust hands forward over their rifle barrels.

The sergeant on the end of the plank takes one step to the left, the plank tips forward, and taking far qua drops between the timbers of our creek bridge.

It takes longer to tell it, as you drop downward you lose consciousness.

You are as one already dead, then you awaken sharply in pain, to feel not to think just to feel.

The cutting pressure on your throat, the agonies of pulsating fire shooting from your neck downwards, to feel the fullness, the congestion, the head bursting with suffocation.

Distantly beyond, outside yourself, you hear a splash.

Remotely you sense crune, wet green dog, the rope is broken, you have fallen into the stream.

Come, Peyton, take care of this.

The rope, giving, again, try once more.

That's it.

You must breathe when you come to the service, you breathe quickly, for if they haven't hanged you, and they fail to drown them.

You can't let them shoot you.

...