The Damned Thing Read online

  Produced by David Widger

  THE DAMNED THING

  By Ambrose Bierce

  Reprinted by permission. From "In the Midst of Life," copyright, 1898,by G. P. Putnam's Sons

  I

  By THE light of a tallow candle, which had been placed on one end of arough table, a man was reading something written in a book. It was anold account book, greatly worn; and the writing was not, apparently,very legible, for the man sometimes held the page close to the flame ofthe candle to get a stronger light upon it. The shadow of the book wouldthen throw into obscurity a half of the room, darkening a number offaces and figures; for besides the reader, eight other men were present.Seven of them sat against the rough log walls, silent and motionless,and, the room being small, not very far from the table. By extending anarm any one of them could have touched the eighth man, who lay on thetable, face upward, partly covered by a sheet, his arms at his sides. Hewas dead.

  The man with the book was not reading aloud, and no one spoke; allseemed to be waiting for something to occur; the dead man only waswithout expectation. From the blank darkness outside came in, throughthe aperture that served for a window, all the ever unfamiliar noisesof night in the wilderness--the long, nameless note of a distant coyote;the stilly pulsing thrill of tireless insects in trees; strange cries ofnight birds, so different from those of the birds of day; the drone ofgreat blundering beetles, and all that mysterious chorus of small soundsthat seem always to have been but half heard when they have suddenlyceased, as if conscious of an indiscretion. But nothing of all this wasnoted in that company; its members were not overmuch addicted to idleinterest in matters of no practical importance; that was obvious inevery line of their rugged faces--obvious even in the dim light of thesingle candle. They were evidently men of the vicinity--farmers andwoodmen.

  The person reading was a trifle different; one would have said of himthat he was of the world, worldly, albeit there was that in hisattire which attested a certain fellowship with the organisms of hisenvironment. His coat would hardly have passed muster in San Francisco:his footgear was not of urban origin, and the hat that lay by him onthe floor (he was the only one uncovered) was such that if one hadconsidered it as an article of mere personal adornment he would havemissed its meaning. In countenance the man was rather prepossessing,with just a hint of sternness; though that he may have assumed orcultivated, as appropriate to one in authority. For he was a coroner. Itwas by virtue of his office that he had possession of the book in whichhe was reading; it had been found among the dead man's effects--in hiscabin, where the inquest was now taking place.

  When the coroner had finished reading he put the book into his breastpocket. At that moment the door was pushed open and a young man entered.He, clearly, was not of mountain birth and breeding: he was clad asthose who dwell in cities. His clothing was dusty, however, as fromtravel. He had, in fact, been riding hard to attend the inquest.

  The coroner nodded; no one else greeted him.

  "We have waited for you," said the coroner. "It is necessary to havedone with this business to-night."

  The young man smiled. "I am sorry to have kept you," he said. "I wentaway, not to evade your summons, but to post to my newspaper an accountof what I suppose I am called back to relate."

  The coroner smiled.

  "The account that you posted to your newspaper," he said, "differsprobably from that which you will give here under oath."

  "That," replied the other, rather hotly and with a visible flush, "is asyou choose. I used manifold paper and have a copy of what I sent. It wasnot written as news, for it is incredible, but as fiction. It may go asa part of my testimony under oath."

  "But you say it is incredible."

  "That is nothing to you, sir, if I also swear that it is true."

  The coroner was apparently not greatly affected by the young man'smanifest resentment. He was silent for some moments, his eyes upon thefloor. The men about the sides of the cabin talked in whispers, butseldom withdrew their gaze from the face of the corpse. Presently thecoroner lifted his eyes and said: "We will resume the inquest."

  The men removed their hats. The witness was sworn.

  "What is your name?" the coroner asked.

  "William Harker."

  "Age?"

  "Twenty-seven."

  "You knew the deceased, Hugh Morgan?"

  "Yes."

  "You were with him when he died?"

  "Near him."

  "How did that happen--your presence, I mean?"

  "I was visiting him at this place to shoot and fish. A part of mypurpose, however, was to study him, and his odd, solitary way of life.He seemed a good model for a character in fiction. I sometimes writestories."

  "I sometimes read them."

  "Thank you."

  "Stories in general--not yours."

  Some of the jurors laughed. Against a sombre background humor shows highlights. Soldiers in the intervals of battle laugh easily, and a jest inthe death chamber conquers by surprise.

  "Relate the circumstances of this man's death," said the coroner. "Youmay use any notes or memoranda that you please."

  The witness understood. Pulling a manuscript from his breast pockethe held it near the candle, and turning the leaves until he found thepassage that he wanted, began to read.