The Red Badge of Courage
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Stephen Crane >> The Red Badge of Courage
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He started forward slowly. He stepped as if
he expected to tread upon some explosive thing.
Doubts and he were struggling.
He would truly be a worm if any of his com-
rades should see him returning thus, the marks of
his flight upon him. There was a reply that the
intent fighters did not care for what happened
rearward saving that no hostile bayonets ap-
peared there. In the battle-blur his face would,
in a way be hidden, like the face of a cowled
man.
But then he said that his tireless fate would
bring forth, when the strife lulled for a moment,
a man to ask of him an explanation. In imagina-
tion he felt the scrutiny of his companions as he
painfully labored through some lies.
Eventually, his courage expended itself upon
these objections. The debates drained him of his
fire.
He was not cast down by this defeat of his
plan, for, upon studying the affair carefully, he
could not but admit that the objections were very
formidable.
Furthermore, various ailments had begun to
cry out. In their presence he could not persist
in flying high with the wings of war; they
rendered it almost impossible for him to see him-
self in a heroic light. He tumbled headlong.
He discovered that he had a scorching thirst.
His face was so dry and grimy that he thought
he could feel his skin crackle. Each bone of his
body had an ache in it, and seemingly threatened
to break with each movement. His feet were
like two sores. Also, his body was calling for
food. It was more powerful than a direct hunger.
There was a dull, weight like feeling in his stom-
ach, and, when he tried to walk, his head swayed
and he tottered. He could not see with distinct-
ness. Small patches of green mist floated before
his vision.
While he had been tossed by many emotions,
he had not been aware of ailments. Now they
beset him and made clamor. As he was at last
compelled to pay attention to them, his capacity
for self-hate was multiplied. In despair, he
declared that he was not like those others. He
now conceded it to be impossible that he should
ever become a hero. He was a craven loon.
Those pictures of glory were piteous things. He
groaned from his heart and went staggering off.
A certain mothlike quality within him kept
him in the vicinity of the battle. He had a great
desire to see, and to get news. He wished to
know who was winning.
He told himself that, despite his unprecedented
suffering, he had never lost his greed for a victory,
yet, he said, in a half-apologetic manner to his
conscience, he could not but know that a defeat
for the army this time might mean many favor-
able things for him. The blows of the enemy
would splinter regiments into fragments. Thus,
many men of courage, he considered, would be
obliged to desert the colors and scurry like
chickens. He would appear as one of them.
They would be sullen brothers in distress, and he
could then easily believe he had not run any
farther or faster than they. And if he himself
could believe in his virtuous perfection, he con-
ceived that there would be small trouble in con-
vincing all others.
He said, as if in excuse for this hope, that
previously the army had encountered great
defeats and in a few months had shaken off all
blood and tradition of them, emerging as bright
and valiant as a new one; thrusting out of sight
the memory of disaster, and appearing with the
valor and confidence of unconquered legions.
The shrilling voices of the people at home would
pipe dismally for a time, but various generals
were usually compelled to listen to these ditties.
He of course felt no compunctions for proposing
a general as a sacrifice. He could not tell who
the chosen for the barbs might be, so he could
center no direct sympathy upon him. The
people were afar and he did not conceive public
opinion to be accurate at long range. It was
quite probable they would hit the wrong man
who, after he had recovered from his amazement
would perhaps spend the rest of his days in writ-
ing replies to the songs of his alleged failure. It
would be very unfortunate, no doubt, but in this
case a general was of no consequence to the
youth.
In a defeat there would be a roundabout
vindication of himself. He thought it would
prove, in a manner, that he had fled early because
of his superior powers of perception. A serious
prophet upon predicting a flood should be the
first man to climb a tree. This would demon-
strate that he was indeed a seer.
A moral vindication was regarded by the
youth as a very important thing. Without salve,
he could not, he thought, wear the sore badge of
his dishonor through life. With his heart con-
tinually assuring him that he was despicable, he
could not exist without making it, through his
actions, apparent to all men.
If the army had gone gloriously on he would
be lost. If the din meant that now his army's
flags were tilted forward he was a condemned
wretch. He would be compelled to doom
himself to isolation. If the men were advancing,
their indifferent feet were trampling upon his
chances for a successful life.
As these thoughts went rapidly through his
mind, he turned upon them and tried to thrust
them away. He denounced himself as a villain.
He said that he was the most unutterably selfish
man in existence. His mind pictured the soldiers
who would place their defiant bodies before the
spear of the yelling battle fiend, and as he saw
their dripping corpses on an imagined field, he
said that he was their murderer.
Again he thought that he wished he was dead.
He believed that he envied a corpse. Thinking
of the slain, he achieved a great contempt for
some of them, as if they were guilty for thus
becoming lifeless. They might have been killed
by lucky chances, he said, before they had had
opportunities to flee or before they had been
really tested. Yet they would receive laurels
from tradition. He cried out bitterly that their
crowns were stolen and their robes of glori-
ous memories were shams. However, he still
said that it was a great pity he was not as
they.
A defeat of the army had suggested itself to
him as a means of escape from the consequences
of his fall. He considered, now, however, that it
was useless to think of such a possibility. His
education had been that success for that mighty
blue machine was certain; that it would make
victories as a contrivance turns out buttons. He
presently discarded all his speculations in the
other direction. He returned to the creed of
soldiers.
When he perceived again that it was not
possible for the army to be defeated, he tried
to bethink him of a fine tale which he could take
back to his regiment, and with it turn the expected
shafts of derision.
But, as he mortally feared these shafts, it
became impossible for him to invent a tale he felt
he could trust. He experimented with many
schemes, but threw them aside one by one as
flimsy. He was quick to see vulnerable places in
them all.
Furthermore, he was much afraid that some
arrow of scorn might lay him mentally low before
he could raise his protecting tale.
He imagined the whole regiment saying:
"Where's Henry Fleming? He run, didn't 'e?
Oh, my!" He recalled various persons who
would be quite sure to leave him no peace
about it. They would doubtless question him
with sneers, and laugh at his stammering hesi-
tation. In the next engagement they would
try to keep watch of him to discover when he
would run.
Wherever he went in camp, he would en-
counter insolent and lingeringly cruel stares. As
he imagined himself passing near a crowd of
comrades, he could hear some one say, "There
he goes!"
Then, as if the heads were moved by one
muscle, all the faces were turned toward him
with wide, derisive grins. He seemed to hear
some one make a humorous remark in a low tone.
At it the others all crowed and cackled. He was
a slang phrase.
CHAPTER XII.
THE column that had butted stoutly at the
obstacles in the roadway was barely out of the
youth's sight before he saw dark waves of men
come sweeping out of the woods and down
through the fields. He knew at once that the
steel fibers had been washed from their hearts.
They were bursting from their coats and
their equipments as from entanglements. They
charged down upon him like terrified buffaloes.
Behind them blue smoke curled and clouded
above the treetops, and through the thickets he
could sometimes see a distant pink glare. The
voices of the cannon were clamoring in intermi-
nable chorus.
The youth was horrorstricken. He stared
in agony and amazement. He forgot that he
was engaged in combating the universe. He
threw aside his mental pamphlets on the philoso-
phy of the retreated and rules for the guidance
of the damned.
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The fight was lost. The dragons were com-
ing with invincible strides. The army, helpless
in the matted thickets and blinded by the over-
hanging night, was going to be swallowed. War,
the red animal, war, the blood-swollen god, would
have bloated fill.
Within him something bade to cry out. He
had the impulse to make a rallying speech, to sing
a battle hymn, but he could only get his tongue to
call into the air: "Why--why--what--what 's
th' matter?"
Soon he was in the midst of them. They
were leaping and scampering all about him.
Their blanched faces shone in the dusk. They
seemed, for the most part, to be very burly men.
The youth turned from one to another of them as
they galloped along. His incoherent questions
were lost. They were heedless of his appeals.
They did not seem to see him.
They sometimes gabbled insanely. One huge
man was asking of the sky: "Say, where de
plank road? Where de plank road!" It was as if
he had lost a child. He wept in his pain and
dismay.
Presently, men were running hither and
thither in all ways. The artillery booming,
forward, rearward, and on the flanks made
jumble of ideas of direction. Landmarks had
vanished into the gathered gloom. The youth
began to imagine that he had got into the
center of the tremendous quarrel, and he could
perceive no way out of it. From the mouths of
the fleeing men came a thousand wild questions,
but no one made answers.
The youth, after rushing about and throwing
interrogations at the heedless bands of retreating
infantry, finally clutched a man by the arm. They
swung around face to face.
"Why--why--" stammered the youth strug-
gling with his balking tongue.
The man screamed: "Let go me! Let go
me!" His face was livid and his eyes were roll-
ing uncontrolled. He was heaving and panting.
He still grasped his rifle, perhaps having for-
gotten to release his hold upon it. He tugged
frantically, and the youth being compelled to lean
forward was dragged several paces.
"Let go me! Let go me!"
"Why--why--" stuttered the youth.
"Well, then!" bawled the man in a lurid
rage. He adroitly and fiercely swung his rifle.
It crushed upon the youth's head. The man
ran on.
The youth's fingers had turned to paste upon
the other's arm. The energy was smitten from
his muscles. He saw the flaming wings of light-
ning flash before his vision. There was a deaf-
ening rumble of thunder within his head.
Suddenly his legs seemed to die. He sank
writhing to the ground. He tried to arise. In
his efforts against the numbing pain he was like a
man wrestling with a creature of the air.
There was a sinister struggle.
Sometimes he would achieve a position half
erect, battle with the air for a moment, and
then fall again, grabbing at the grass. His face
was of a clammy pallor. Deep groans were
wrenched from him.
At last, with a twisting movement, he got
upon his hands and knees, and from thence, like a
babe trying to walk, to his feet. Pressing his
hands to his temples he went lurching over the
grass.
He fought an intense battle with his body.
His dulled senses wished him to swoon and he
opposed them stubbornly, his mind portraying
unknown dangers and mutilations if he should
fall upon the field. He went tall soldier fashion.
He imagined secluded spots where he could fall
and be unmolested. To search for one he strove
against the tide of his pain.
Once he put his hand to the top of his head
and timidly touched the wound. The scratching
pain of the contact made him draw a long breath
through his clinched teeth. His fingers were
dabbled with blood. He regarded them with a
fixed stare.
Around him he could hear the grumble of
jolted cannon as the scurrying horses were lashed
toward the front. Once, a young officer on a
besplashed charger nearly ran him down. He
turned and watched the mass of guns, men, and
horses sweeping in a wide curve toward a gap in
a fence. The officer was making excited motions
with a gauntleted hand. The guns followed the
teams with an air of unwillingness, of being
dragged by the heels.
Some officers of the scattered infantry were
cursing and railing like fishwives. Their scold-
ing voices could be heard above the din. Into
the unspeakable jumble in the roadway rode a
squadron of cavalry. The faded yellow of their
facings shone bravely. There was a mighty
altercation.
The artillery were assembling as if for a con-
ference.
The blue haze of evening was upon the field.
The lines of forest were long purple shadows.
One cloud lay along the western sky partly
smothering the red.
As the youth left the scene behind him, he
heard the guns suddenly roar out. He imagined
them shaking in black rage. They belched and
howled like brass devils guarding a gate. The
soft air was filled with the tremendous remon-
strance. With it came the shattering peal of
opposing infantry. Turning to look behind him,
he could see sheets of orange light illumine the
shadowy distance. There were subtle and sudden
lightnings in the far air. At times he thought he
could see heaving masses of men.
He hurried on in the dusk. The day had
faded until he could barely distinguish place for
his feet. The purple darkness was filled with
men who lectured and jabbered. Sometimes he
could see them gesticulating against the blue and
somber sky. There seemed to be a great ruck of
men and munitions spread about in the forest and
in the fields.
The little narrow roadway now lay lifeless.
There were overturned wagons like sun-dried
bowlders. The bed of the former torrent was
choked with the bodies of horses and splintered
parts of war machines.
It had come to pass that his wound pained him
but little. He was afraid to move rapidly, how-
ever, for a dread of disturbing it. He held his
head very still and took many precautions against
stumbling. He was filled with anxiety, and his
face was pinched and drawn in anticipation of the
pain of any sudden mistake of his feet in the
gloom.
His thoughts, as he walked, fixed intently
upon his hurt. There was a cool, liquid feeling
about it and he imagined blood moving slowly
down under his hair. His head seemed swollen
to a size that made him think his neck to be
inadequate.
The new silence of his wound made much
worriment. The little blistering voices of pain
that had called out from his scalp were, he
thought, definite in their expression of danger.
By them he believed that he could measure his
plight. But when they remained ominously
silent he became frightened and imagined ter-
rible fingers that clutched into his brain.
Amid it he began to reflect upon various
incidents and conditions of the past. He be-
thought him of certain meals his mother had
cooked at home, in which those dishes of which
he was particularly fond had occupied prominent
positions. He saw the spread table. The pine
walls of the kitchen were glowing in the warm
light from the stove. Too, he remembered how
he and his companions used to go from the school-
house to the bank of a shaded pool. He saw his
clothes in disorderly array upon the grass of the
bank. He felt the swash of the fragrant water
upon his body. The leaves of the overhanging
maple rustled with melody in the wind of youth-
ful summer.
He was overcome presently by a dragging
weariness. His head hung forward and his
shoulders were stooped as if he were bearing a
great bundle. His feet shuffled along the
ground.
He held continuous arguments as to whether
he should lie down and sleep at some near spot,
or force himself on until he reached a certain
haven. He often tried to dismiss the question,
but his body persisted in rebellion and his senses
nagged at him like pampered babies.
At last he heard a cheery voice near his
shoulder: "Yeh seem t' be in a pretty bad way,
boy?"
The youth did not look up, but he assented
with thick tongue. "Uh!"
The owner of the cheery voice took him firmly
by the arm. "Well," he said, with a round
laugh, "I'm goin' your way. Th' hull gang is
goin' your way. An' I guess I kin give yeh a
lift." They began to walk like a drunken man
and his friend.
As they went along, the man questioned the
youth and assisted him with the replies like one
manipulating the mind of a child. Sometimes he
interjected anecdotes. "What reg'ment do yeh
b'long teh? Eh? What's that? Th' 304th N'
York? Why, what corps is that in? Oh, it is?
Why, I thought they wasn't engaged t'-day--
they 're 'way over in th' center. Oh, they was,
eh? Well, pretty nearly everybody got their
share 'a fightin' t'-day. By dad, I give myself up
fer dead any number 'a times. There was shootin'
here an' shootin' there, an' hollerin' here an'
hollerin' there, in th' damn' darkness, until I
couldn't tell t' save m' soul which side I was on.
Sometimes I thought I was sure 'nough from
Ohier, an' other times I could 'a swore I was
from th' bitter end of Florida. It was th' most
mixed up dern thing I ever see. An' these here
hull woods is a reg'lar mess. It'll be a miracle
if we find our reg'ments t'-night. Pretty soon,
though, we 'll meet a-plenty of guards an' provost-
guards, an' one thing an' another. Ho! there they
go with an off'cer, I guess. Look at his hand
a-draggin'. He 's got all th' war he wants, I bet.
He won't be talkin' so big about his reputation
an' all when they go t' sawin' off his leg. Poor
feller! My brother 's got whiskers jest like that.
How did yeh git 'way over here, anyhow? Your
reg'ment is a long way from here, ain't it? Well,
I guess we can find it. Yeh know there was a
boy killed in my comp'ny t'-day that I thought
th' world an' all of. Jack was a nice feller. By
ginger, it hurt like thunder t' see ol' Jack jest git
knocked flat. We was a-standin' purty peaceable
fer a spell, 'though there was men runnin' ev'ry
way all 'round us, an' while we was a-standin'
like that, 'long come a big fat feller. He began
t' peck at Jack's elbow, an' he ses: 'Say, where 's
th' road t' th' river?' An' Jack, he never paid no
attention, an' th' feller kept on a-peckin' at his
elbow an' sayin': 'Say, where 's th' road t' th'
river?' Jack was a-lookin' ahead all th' time
tryin' t' see th' Johnnies comin' through th'
woods, an' he never paid no attention t' this big
fat feller fer a long time, but at last he turned
'round an' he ses: 'Ah, go t' hell an' find th'
road t' th' river!' An' jest then a shot slapped
him bang on th' side th' head. He was a sergeant,
too. Them was his last words. Thunder, I wish
we was sure 'a findin' our reg'ments t'-night. It 's
goin' t' be long huntin'. But I guess we kin
do it."
In the search which followed, the man of the
cheery voice seemed to the youth to possess a
wand of a magic kind. He threaded the mazes
of the tangled forest with a strange fortune. In
encounters with guards and patrols he displayed
the keenness of a detective and the valor of a
gamin. Obstacles fell before him and became of
assistance. The youth, with his chin still on his
breast, stood woodenly by while his companion
beat ways and means out of sullen things.
The forest seemed a vast hive of men buzzing
about in frantic circles, but the cheery man con-
ducted the youth without mistakes, until at last
he began to chuckle with glee and self-satisfaction.
"Ah, there yeh are! See that fire?"
The youth nodded stupidly.
"Well, there 's where your reg'ment is. An'
now, good-by, ol' boy, good luck t' yeh."
A warm and strong hand clasped the youth's
languid fingers for an instant, and then he heard
a cheerful and audacious whistling as the man
strode away. As he who had so befriended him
was thus passing out of his life, it suddenly oc-
curred to the youth that he had not once seen his
face.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE youth went slowly toward the fire in-
dicated by his departed friend. As he reeled, he
bethought him of the welcome his comrades
would give him. He had a conviction that he
would soon feel in his sore heart the barbed
missiles of ridicule. He had no strength to in-
vent a tale; he would be a soft target.
He made vague plans to go off into the deeper
darkness and hide, but they were all destroyed
by the voices of exhaustion and pain from his
body. His ailments, clamoring, forced him to
seek the place of food and rest, at whatever cost.
He swung unsteadily toward the fire. He
could see the forms of men throwing black
shadows in the red light, and as he went nearer
it became known to him in some way that the
ground was strewn with sleeping men.
Of a sudden he confronted a black and
monstrous figure. A rifle barrel caught some
glinting beams. "Halt! halt!" He was dis-
129
mayed for a moment, but he presently thought
that he recognized the nervous voice. As he
stood tottering before the rifle barrel, he called
out: "Why, hello, Wilson, you--you here?"
The rifle was lowered to a position of caution
and the loud soldier came slowly forward. He
peered into the youth's face. "That you,
Henry?"
"Yes, it's--it's me."
"Well, well, ol' boy," said the other, "by
ginger, I'm glad t' see yeh! I give yeh up
fer a goner. I thought yeh was dead sure
enough." There was husky emotion in his
voice.
The youth found that now he could barely
stand upon his feet. There was a sudden sinking
of his forces. He thought he must hasten to pro-
duce his tale to protect him from the missiles
already at the lips of his redoubtable comrades.
So, staggering before the loud soldier, he began:
"Yes, yes. I've--I've had an awful time. I've
been all over. Way over on th' right. Ter'ble
fightin' over there. I had an awful time. I got
separated from th' reg'ment. Over on th' right,
I got shot. In th' head. I never see sech
fightin'. Awful time. I don't see how I could 'a
got separated from th' reg'ment. I got shot,
too."
His friend had stepped forward quickly.
"What? Got shot? Why didn't yeh say so
first? Poor ol' boy, we must--hol' on a minnit;
what am I doin'. I'll call Simpson."
Another figure at that moment loomed in the
gloom. They could see that it was the corporal.
"Who yeh talkin' to, Wilson?" he demanded.
His voice was anger-toned. "Who yeh talkin'
to? Yeh th' derndest sentinel--why--hello,
Henry, you here? Why, I thought you was
dead four hours ago! Great Jerusalem, they
keep turnin' up every ten minutes or so! We
thought we'd lost forty-two men by straight
count, but if they keep on a-comin' this way, we'll
git th' comp'ny all back by mornin' yit. Where
was yeh?"
"Over on th' right. I got separated"--began
the youth with considerable glibness.
But his friend had interrupted hastily. "Yes,
an' he got shot in th' head an' he's in a fix, an' we
must see t' him right away." He rested his rifle
in the hollow of his left arm and his right around
the youth's shoulder.
"Gee, it must hurt like thunder!" he said.
The youth leaned heavily upon his friend.
"Yes, it hurts--hurts a good deal," he replied.
There was a faltering in his voice.
"Oh," said the corporal. He linked his arm
in the youth's and drew him forward. "Come
on, Henry. I'll take keer 'a yeh."
As they went on together the loud private
called out after them: "Put 'im t' sleep in my
blanket, Simpson. An'--hol' on a minnit--here's
my canteen. It's full 'a coffee. Look at his head
by th' fire an' see how it looks. Maybe it's a
pretty bad un. When I git relieved in a couple
'a minnits, I'll be over an' see t' him."
The youth's senses were so deadened that his
friend's voice sounded from afar and he could
scarcely feel the pressure of the corporal's arm.
He submitted passively to the latter's directing
strength. His head was in the old manner hang-
ing forward upon his breast. His knees wobbled.
The corporal led him into the glare of the
fire. "Now, Henry," he said, "let's have look at
yer ol' head."
The youth sat down obediently and the cor-
poral, laying aside his rifle, began to fumble in the
bushy hair of his comrade. He was obliged to
turn the other's head so that the full flush of the
fire light would beam upon it. He puckered his
mouth with a critical air. He drew back his lips
and whistled through his teeth when his fingers
came in contact with the splashed blood and the
rare wound.
"Ah, here we are!" he said. He awkwardly
made further investigations. "Jest as I thought,"
he added, presently. "Yeh've been grazed by a
ball. It's raised a queer lump jest as if some
feller had lammed yeh on th' head with a club.
It stopped a-bleedin' long time ago. Th' most
about it is that in th' mornin' yeh'll feel that a
number ten hat wouldn't fit yeh. An' your
head'll be all het up an' feel as dry as burnt pork.
An' yeh may git a lot 'a other sicknesses, too, by
mornin'. Yeh can't never tell. Still, I don't
much think so. It's jest a damn' good belt on th'
head, an' nothin' more. Now, you jest sit here
an' don't move, while I go rout out th' relief.
Then I'll send Wilson t' take keer 'a yeh."
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