The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane (the first e reader .txt) 📕
His comrade grunted stubbornly. For a moment he seemed to be searching for a formidable reply. Finally he said: "Well, you don't know everything in the world, do you?"
"Didn't say I knew everything in the world," retorted the other sharply. He began to stow various articles snugly into his knapsack.
The youth, pausing in his nervous walk, looked down at the busy figure. "Going to be a battle, sure, is there, Jim?" he asked.
"Of course there is," replied the tall soldier. "Of course there is. You jest wait 'til to-morrow, and you'll see one of the biggest battles ever was. You jest wait."
"Thunder!" said the youth.
"Oh, you'll see fighting this time, my boy, what'll be regular out-and-out fighting," added the tall soldier, with the air of a man who is about to exhibit a battle for the benefit of his friends.
"Huh!" said the loud one from a cor
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About him were the rows and groups of men that he had dimly seen the previous night. They were getting a last draught of sleep before the awakening. The gaunt, careworn features and dusty figures were made plain by this quaint light at the dawning, but it dressed the skin of the men in corpse-like hues and made the tangled limbs appear pulseless and dead. The youth started up with a little cry when his eyes first swept over this motionless mass of men, thickspread upon the ground, pallid, and in strange postures. His disordered mind interpreted the hall of the forest as a charnel place. He believed for an instant that he was in the house of the dead, and he did not dare to move lest these corpses start up, squalling and squawking. In a second, however, he achieved his proper mind. He swore a complicated oath at himself. He saw that this somber picture was not a fact of the present, but a mere prophecy.
He heard then the noise of a fire crackling briskly in the cold air, and, turning his head, he saw his friend pottering busily about a small blaze. A few other figures moved in the fog, and he heard the hard cracking of axe blows.
Suddenly there was a hollow rumble of drums. A distant bugle sang faintly. Similar sounds, varying in strength, came from near and far over the forest. The bugles called to each other like brazen gamecocks. The near thunder of the regimental drums rolled.
The body of men in the woods rustled. There was a general uplifting of heads. A murmuring of voices broke upon the air. In it there was much bass of grumbling oaths. Strange gods were addressed in condemnation of the early hours necessary to correct war. An officer’s peremptory tenor rang out and quickened the stiffened movement of the men. The tangled limbs unraveled. The corpse-hued faces were hidden behind fists that twisted slowly in the eye sockets.
The youth sat up and gave vent to an enormous yawn. “Thunder!” he remarked petulantly. He rubbed his eyes, and then putting up his hand felt carefully the bandage over his wound. His friend, perceiving him to be awake, came from the fire. “Well, Henry, ol’ man, how do yeh feel this mornin’?” he demanded.
The youth yawned again. Then he puckered his mouth to a little pucker. His head, in truth, felt precisely like a melon, and there was an unpleasant sensation at his stomach.
“Oh, Lord, I feel pretty bad,” he said.
“Thunder!” exclaimed the other. “I hoped ye’d feel all right this mornin’. Let’s see th’ bandage—I guess it’s slipped.” He began to tinker at the wound in rather a clumsy way until the youth exploded.
“Gosh-dern it!” he said in sharp irritation; “you’re the hangdest man I ever saw! You wear muffs on your hands. Why in good thunderation can’t you be more easy? I’d rather you’d stand off an’ throw guns at it. Now, go slow, an’ don’t act as if you was nailing down carpet.”
He glared with insolent command at his friend, but the latter answered soothingly. “Well, well, come now, an’ git some grub,” he said. “Then, maybe, yeh’ll feel better.”
At the fireside the loud young soldier watched over his comrade’s wants with tenderness and care. He was very busy marshaling the little black vagabonds of tin cups and pouring into them the streaming iron colored mixture from a small and sooty tin pail. He had some fresh meat, which he roasted hurriedly on a stick. He sat down then and contemplated the youth’s appetite with glee.
The youth took note of a remarkable change in his comrade since those days of camp life upon the river bank. He seemed no more to be continually regarding the proportions of his personal prowess. He was not furious at small words that pricked his conceits. He was no more a loud young soldier. There was about him now a fine reliance. He showed a quiet belief in his purposes and his abilities. And this inward confidence evidently enabled him to be indifferent to little words of other men aimed at him.
The youth reflected. He had been used to regarding his comrade as a blatant child with an audacity grown from his inexperience, thoughtless, headstrong, jealous, and filled with a tinsel courage. A swaggering babe accustomed to strut in his own dooryard. The youth wondered where had been born these new eyes; when his comrade had made the great discovery that there were many men who would refuse to be subjected by him. Apparently, the other had now climbed a peak of wisdom from which he could perceive himself as a very wee thing. And the youth saw that ever after it would be easier to live in his friend’s neighborhood.
His comrade balanced his ebony coffee-cup on his knee. “Well, Henry,” he said, “what d’yeh think th’ chances are? D’yeh think we’ll wallop ‘em?”
The youth considered for a moment. “Day-b’fore-yesterday,” he finally replied, with boldness, “you would ‘a’ bet you’d lick the hull kit-an’-boodle all by yourself.”
His friend looked a trifle amazed. “Would I?” he asked. He pondered. “Well, perhaps I would,” he decided at last. He stared humbly at the fire.
The youth was quite disconcerted at this surprising reception of his remarks. “Oh, no, you wouldn’t either,” he said, hastily trying to retrace.
But the other made a deprecating gesture. “Oh, yeh needn’t mind, Henry,” he said. “I believe I was a pretty big fool in those days.” He spoke as after a lapse of years.
There was a little pause.
“All th’ officers say we’ve got th’ rebs in a pretty tight box,” said the friend, clearing his throat in a commonplace way. “They all seem t’ think we’ve got ‘em jest where we want ‘em.”
“I don’t know about that,” the youth replied. “What I seen over on th’ right makes me think it was th’ other way about. From where I was, it looked as if we was gettin’ a good poundin’ yestirday.”
“D’yeh think so?” inquired the friend. “I thought we handled ‘em pretty rough yestirday.”
“Not a bit,” said the youth. “Why, lord, man, you didn’t see nothing of the fight. Why!” Then a sudden thought came to him. “Oh! Jim Conklin’s dead.”
His friend started. “What? Is he? Jim Conklin?”
The youth spoke slowly. “Yes. He’s dead. Shot in th’ side.”
“Yeh don’t say so. Jim Conklin…poor cuss!”
All about them were other small fires surrounded by men with their little black utensils. From one of these near came sudden sharp voices in a row. It appeared that two light-footed soldiers had been teasing a huge, bearded man, causing him to spill coffee upon his blue knees. The man had gone into a rage and had sworn comprehensively. Stung by his language, his tormentors had immediately bristled at him with a great show of resenting unjust oaths. Possibly there was going to be a fight.
The friend arose and went over to them, making pacific motions with his arms. “Oh, here, now, boys, what’s th’ use?” he said. “We’ll be at th’ rebs in less’n an hour. What’s th’ good fightin’ ‘mong ourselves?”
One of the light-footed soldiers turned upon him red-faced and violent. “Yeh needn’t come around here with yer preachin’. I s’pose yeh don’t approve ‘a fightin’ since Charley Morgan licked yeh; but I don’t see what business this here is ‘a yours or anybody else.”
“Well, it ain’t,” said the friend mildly. “Still I hate t’ see—”
There was a tangled argument.
“Well, he—,” said the two, indicating their opponent with accusative forefingers.
The huge soldier was quite purple with rage. He pointed at the two soldiers with his great hand, extended clawlike. “Well, they—”
But during this argumentative time the desire to deal blows seemed to pass, although they said much to each other. Finally the friend returned to his old seat. In a short while the three antagonists could be seen together in an amiable bunch.
“Jimmie Rogers ses I’ll have t’ fight him after th’ battle t’-day,” announced the friend as he again seated himself. “He ses he don’t allow no interferin’ in his business. I hate t’ see th’ boys fightin’ ‘mong themselves.”
The youth laughed. “Yer changed a good bit. Yeh ain’t at all like yeh was. I remember when you an’ that Irish feller—” He stopped and laughed again.
“No, I didn’t use t’ be that way,” said his friend thoughtfully. “That’s true ‘nough.”
“Well, I didn’t mean—” began the youth.
The friend made another deprecatory gesture. “Oh, yeh needn’t mind, Henry.”
There was another little pause.
“Th’ reg’ment lost over half th’ men yestirday,” remarked the friend eventually. “I thought ‘a course they was all dead, but, laws, they kep’ a-comin’ back last night until it seems, after all, we didn’t lose but a few. They’d been scattered all over, wanderin’ around in th’ woods, fightin’ with other reg’ments, an’ everything. Jest like you done.”
“So?” said the youth.
The regiment was standing at order arms at the side of a lane, waiting for the command to march, when suddenly the youth remembered the little packet enwrapped in a faded yellow envelope which the loud young soldier with lugubrious words had intrusted to him. It made him start. He uttered an exclamation and turned toward his comrade.
“Wilson!”
“What?”
His friend, at his side in the ranks, was thoughtfully staring down the road. From some cause his expression was at that moment very meek. The youth, regarding him with sidelong glances, felt impelled to change his purpose. “Oh, nothing,” he said.
His friend turned his head in some surprise, “Why, what was yeh goin’ t’ say?”
“Oh, nothing,” repeated the youth.
He resolved not to deal the little blow. It was sufficient that the fact made him glad. It was not necessary to knock his friend on the head with the misguided packet.
He had been possessed of much fear of his friend, for he saw how easily questionings could make holes in his feelings. Lately, he had assured himself that the altered comrade would not tantalize him with a persistent curiousity, but he felt certain that during the first period of leisure his friend would ask him to relate his adventures of the previous day.
He now rejoiced in the possession of a small weapon with which he could prostrate his comrade at the first signs of a cross-examination. He was master. It would now be he who could laugh and shoot the shafts of derision.
The friend had, in a weak hour, spoken with sobs of his own death. He had delivered a melancholy oration previous to his funeral, and had doubtless in the packet of letters, presented various keepsakes to relatives. But he had not died, and thus he had delivered himself into the hands of the youth.
The latter felt immensely superior to his friend, but he inclined to condescension. He adopted toward him an air of patronizing good humor.
His self-pride was now entirely restored. In the shade of its flourishing growth he stood with braced and self-confident legs, and since nothing could now be discovered he did not shrink from an encounter with the eyes of judges, and allowed no thoughts of his own to keep him from an attitude of manfulness. He had performed his mistakes in the dark, so he was still a man.
Indeed, when he remembered his fortunes of yesterday, and looked at them from a distance he began to see something fine there. He had license to be pompous and veteranlike.
His panting agonies of the past he put out of his sight.
In the present, he declared to himself that it was
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