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Short Story Writers essay
← "Those Winter Sundays"Sir Gawain’s Biography →

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A chilly morning indeed it was, the wind briskly swept through the forest causing the leaves to bend gently to let it pass. On the bridge stood a man, motionless, as if cast out of stone, he looked down into the waters that violently smashed upon the rocky banks, several feet below. The wrists of this man were bound with a cord and a rope firmly fastened round his neck. The rope was then tied to one of the rails with the rest of the rope forming a stack next to him. A loose board was laid upon the sleepers that supported the metals that formed the railway, and on them stood the man and his executioners (Magill 23).

Clearly, the man had committed a crime that carried a death sentence; all he did was staring blankly at the angry waters down below. The man was in his late thirties judging from his stature and face; he had quite a good body indeed and could have been a fine knight, if given a chance. His nose was relatively straight, a broad forehead and a firm mouth. His hair was dark and neatly combed to gently cascade his straight back. He donned a well-fitting frock coat which matched his mustache and the pointed bead. His face, however, showed some wee bits of tenderness and a kind expression least expected from a person who has committed this caliber of offence (Watson 42).

At the other side of the river bank stood an open field, gently topped with a stockade of trunks that had been loop holed for arms. The muzzle of heavy brass cannon protruded from among the trunks, and sufficiently covered the bridge in case of an unexpected event. Just across along the slopes, between the castle and the bridge, stood the spectators, a single file of an infantry at ‘parade rest’ keenly following the events going on at the bridge. Their Lieutenant was at the end of the file with the tip of his sword lightly grazing the bare ground, his hands crossed over his heavy chest muscles. Everything was so silent. and the chill stamping its command and death looming somewhere in the shadows with a prey on sight (Magill 23).

Having made every required detail of preparation, the captain, still stone faced as ever, finally spoke the coldest of words to ever sink into a man’s heart. “Step off the plank Commander” he roared. The plank had supported both the commander and the man, the two men stood at the far end of the plank, and thus, balanced by their weights. If the commander stepped off, the plank would topple and the man would only hung with the rope round his neck, wrists bound behind his back, an execution by hanging (Watson 42).

The silence of the man made the commander hesitate a bit, what do you mean this man can’t speak a thing? It is a matter of death? All he did was gazing at violent waters that had started to froth. The captain cleared his throat, the directive was crystal clear, the man had to be hanged and no negotiations about it. From the look in the commander’s eye, everyone could tell he wanted to hear more from this man, but unfortunately there was no more time to waste, he stepped away from the plank (Magill 23).

Faster than any of the soldiers on the bridge could catch a glimpse of, not even the captain could draw his gun fast enough to stop the man from performing an acrobatic back flip in the air. He jerked his head back, just in time to get clear off the loop on the noose and drive straight into the waters below. The commander saw all this with his mouth wide agape, “this is straight from Hollywood!” he muttered. The man aimed for the whirlpool, because of the rocks must have been swept away by the strong waves (Watson 42).

As he plunged into the water, loud bangs pierced his ears like sword thrusts, explosions followed and echoes ricocheted from the riverbed, he had to survive. Bits of shiny metal whizzed past him into the darkness below, others grazed his back causing a sharp pain that spread all over his body like a wild fire gutting down a grass thatched crib. His powerful strokes parted the water as he dived deeper. The wild sounds died down as the darkness engulfed him, his chest constricted from the pressure and his brain pounded and throbbed, as if appealing to be let out. He must have been down there for an eternity, and when he finally resurfaced, he was being fished out of the water by his jubilant kinsmen downstream (Magill 23).

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Related essays

  1. Sir Gawain’s Biography
  2. Analysis of "Act Without Words"
  3. "Those Winter Sundays"
  4. French Satire "Candide"

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