So, there he was, standing on this railroad bridge, which, I have to say, was not exactly the most scenic spot for a public hanging. Northern Alabama, apparently. Though, if you’re going to be dramatically executed, I suppose the location is secondary to, you know, the whole being executed part. Twenty feet down was this “swift water.” Swift, they called it. To me, it just looked like water. Water that was probably full of… well, river things. I didn’t want to dwell on the river things.
This guy, and I’m assuming he was a guy, though from my vantage point (hypothetical, of course, as I wasn’t actually there, just picturing it, like a morbid diorama in my head), he was all tied up. Hands behind his back, wrists corded. Neck, naturally, had the rope. Standard issue execution kit, I suppose. The rope went up to some “stout cross-timber.” Stout. A good, solid, stout timber. You want stout in your hanging timbers. Slack in the rope, they mentioned, down to his knees. That seems… excessive? Like, is that for dramatic effect? Or just bad knot-tying?
He was standing on “loose boards” laid on the train track ties. Loose boards. On a bridge. Over swift water. It all sounded terribly OSHA non-compliant, even for the 1860s. And his executioners, plural, because apparently, you need two people to kick out a plank? Two “private soldiers,” they were, from the “Federal army.” Federal. Sounds official. And a sergeant, directing them. Apparently, this sergeant, in his “civil life,” might have been a “deputy sheriff.” Which, I guess, is supposed to make him sound like a seasoned professional in the death-dealing business? Like, “Oh, a deputy sheriff? Well, then, he’s practically a hanging sommelier.”
And then, just a little bit away, on the same rickety platform, was an officer. A captain, no less. Uniformed and armed. Because, you know, you never know when a hanging might get… rowdy? Like the condemned man is going to suddenly pull a shiv and take everyone down with him? Though, he was tied up. Maybe it was for the soldiers. Keep them in line. “Soldiers! If you don’t kick that plank with gusto, I will shoot you!”
Sentinels at each end of the bridge. Sentinels. Sounds so grand. They were standing with rifles, in “support.” Which, apparently, is a position. Vertical rifle in front of the left shoulder, hammer on the forearm, thrown across the chest. “Formal and unnatural position.” Yes, thank you, narrator, I gathered that. It sounds like something you’d see in a terribly choreographed historical pageant at a struggling amusement park. “Enforcing an erect carriage of the body.” Well, good for them. Posture is important, even when witnessing a man being hanged.
Apparently, these sentinels weren’t supposed to be paying attention to the actual hanging part. Their job was just to “blockade the two ends of the foot planking.” Blockade. Like they were guarding… what? The bridge from… escapees? From… other sentinels? It all seemed a bit convoluted.
Beyond one sentinel, nobody. Just railroad tracks disappearing into the forest. A hundred yards, then a curve, and poof, gone. “Doubtless there was an outpost farther along.” Doubtless. Always with the “doubtless.” It sounds so… doubtful. Like, “We hope there’s an outpost. Otherwise, this whole operation is just… doubtful.”
The other bank was “open ground.” “Gentle slope.” Topped with a stockade. Of “vertical tree trunks.” Loopholed for rifles. Because, again, you never know when a hanging might turn into a… firefight? A single embrasure for a “brass cannon.” Brass. Fancy. Commanding the bridge. Because, of course, you need to command a bridge where you are actively hanging someone. Just to make sure nobody… I don’t know, un-hangs them?
Midway up the slope, the “spectators.” A “single company of infantry in line.” At “parade rest.” Butts of rifles on the ground, barrels inclining back, hands crossed on the stock. Like they were waiting for a particularly boring bus. A lieutenant stood at the right, sword point on the ground, left hand resting on his right. Very symmetrical. Very… staged.
Except for the hanging quartet, nobody moved. The company stared stonily. Motionless. The sentinels, facing away from the action, “might have been statues.” Statues adorning a hanging bridge. Charming. The captain, “folded arms, silent, observing.” Like he was critiquing the performance. “Needs more… oomph when you kick the plank, soldiers!”
“Death is a dignitary,” the narrator declared, suddenly getting all philosophical. “Who when he comes announced is to be received with formal manifestations of respect.” Right. Because death just loves formality. And respect. Especially when it involves being hanged on a rickety bridge in Alabama. “In the code of military etiquette silence and fixity are forms of deference.” Well, in my code of etiquette, maybe a nice fruit basket would be more appropriate. But, you know, different strokes for different folks. Especially when one of those strokes is… a noose.