Chapter 9 of The Red Badge of Courage, an episode of the American Civil War. The youth felt back in the procession until the Tattered Soldier was not in sight. Then he started to walk on with the others. But he was amid wounds. The mob of men was bleeding. Because of the Tattered Soldier's question he now felt that his shame could be viewed. He was continually casting side-long glances to see if the men were contemplating the letters of guilt he felt burned into his brow. At times he regarded the wounded soldiers in an envious way. He conceived persons with torn bodies to be peculiarly happy. He wished that he too had a wound, a red badge of courage. The spectral soldier was at his side like a stalking reproach. The man's eyes were still fixed in a stare into the unknown. His gray, appalling face had attracted detention in the crowd, and men, slowing to his dreary pace, were walking with him. They were discussing his plight, questioning him and giving him advice. In a dogged way he repelled them, signing to them to go on, leaving alone. The shadows of his face were deepening and his tight lips seemed holding in check the moan of great despair. There could be seen a certain stiffness in the movements of his body, as if he were taking infinite care not to arouse the passion of his wounds. As he went on he seemed always looking for a place, like one goes to choose a grave. Something in the gesture of the man, as he waved the bloody and pitting soldiers away, made the youths start as if bitten. He yelled in horror, tottering forward, he laid a quivering hand upon the man's arm. As the latter slowly turned his wax-like features toward him, the youths screamed, God! Jim Conklin! The tall soldier made a little commonplace smile. Oh, Henry! he said. The youths weighed on his legs and glared strangely. He stuttered and stammered, Jim! Jim! Oh, Jim! The tall soldier held out his gory hand. There was a curious red and black combination of new blood and old blood upon it. Where have you been, Henry? He asked. He continued in a monotonous voice. I thought maybe he'd get killed over. There been thunder and paint to-day. I was worrying about it. Good deal. The youths still lamented. Oh, Jim! Oh, Jim! Oh, Jim! You know, said the tall soldier. I was out there. He made a careful gesture. Lord, what a circus! By Jiminy I got shot. I got shot. Yes, by Jiminy I got shot. He reiterated this fact in a bewildered way, as if he did not know how it came about. The youth put forth anxious arms to assist him, but the tall soldier went firmly on as if propelled. Since the youths' arrival as a guardian for his friend, the other wounded men had ceased to display much interest. They occupied themselves again in dragging their own tragedies toward the rear. Only as the two friends marched on, the tall soldier seemed to be overcome by a terror. His face turned to a semblance of gray paste. He clutched the youths' arm and looked all about him, as if dreading to be overheard. Then he began to speak in a shaking whisper. I tell you what I'm afraid of! Henry, I'll tell you what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid I'll fall down. And then, you know, them damned artillery wagons? They like it, but they run over me. That's what I'm afraid of. The youth cried out at him hysterically. I'll take care of you, Jim. I'll take care of you. I swear to God I will. Sure, will you, Henry? Tall soldier besieged. Yes, yes. I'll tell you, I'll take care of you, Jim! protested the youth. He could not speak accurately because of the gulpings in his throat. But the tall soldier continued to beg in a lowly way. He now hung Beyblik to the youth's arm, his eyes rolled in the wilderness of his terror. Oh, oh, he's a good friend to you, wouldn't I, Henry? I've always been a pretty good fella, ain't I? It ain't much to ask, is it, just to pull me along an out-throwed road? I'd do it for you, wouldn't I, Henry? He paused in a piteous anxiety to await his friend's reply. The youth had reached an anguish, where the sobs scorched him. He strove to express his loyalty, but he could only make fantastic gestures. However, the tall soldier seemed suddenly to forget all those fears. He became again the grim, stalking specter of a soldier. He went stonely forward. The youth wished his friend to lean upon him, but the others always shook his head and strangely protested. No. No.   His look was fixed again upon the unknown. He moved for a mysterious purpose, and all of the youth's offers he brushed aside. No. No.   The youth had to follow. Presently the latter heard a voice talking softly near his shoulders. Turning he saw that it belonged to the tattered soldier. He'd better take him out of the road, partner. There's a battery coming.  He's a goner anyhow in about five minutes. You can see that. He'd better take him out of the road. Where the blazes does he get his strength from? Lord knows, cried the youth. He was shaking his hands hopelessly. He ran forward presently and grasped the tall soldier by the arm. Jim, Jim, he coaxed, come with me. The tall soldier weakly tried to wrench himself free. Huh? He said vacantly. He stared at the youth for a moment. At last he sprung as if dimly comprehend him. Oh, in the field? Oh! He started blindly through the grass. The youth turned once to look at the lashing riders and jouncing the guns of the battery. He was startled from this view by a shrill outcry from the tattered man. God! He's runnin'! Turning his head swiftly, the youth saw his friend running in a staggering and stumbling weight toward a little clump of bushes. His heart seemed to wrench itself almost free from his body at this site. He made a noise of pain. He and a tattered man began a pursuit. There was a singular race. When he overtook the tall soldier, he began to plead with all the words he could find. Jim! Jim, what are you doing? What makes you do this way?  The same purpose was in the tall soldier's face.  No. No. Don't touch me.   The youth aghast and filled with wonder at the tall soldier began quiveringly to question him. Where are you going, Jim? What are you thinking about? Where are you going? Tell me, won't you, Jim? The tall soldier faced about as upon relentless pursuers. In his eyes there was a great appeal. Leave me be, can't you? Leave me be for a minute? The youth recoiled. Why, Jim, he said in a dazed way, what's the matter with you? The tall soldier turned, and lurching dangerously went on. The youth and tattered soldier followed, sneaking as if whipped, feeling unable to face this trickin' man if he should again confront them. They began to have thoughts of a solemn ceremony. There was something right like, in these movements, of the doomed soldier, and there was a resemblance in him to a devotee of a mad religion, blood-sucking, muscle-wretching, bone-crushing. They were odd and afraid, they hung back, lest he have, at command, a dreadful weapon. At last they saw him stop and stand motionless.  His spare figure was erect, his bloody hands were quietly at his side. He was waiting with patience for something that he had come to meet. He was at the rendezvous. They paused and stood expectant. There was a silence. Finally the chest of the doomed soldier began to heave with a strained motion. It increased in violence until it was as if an animal was within, and was kicking and tumbling furiously to be free. This spectacle of gradual strangulation made the youth writhe, and once, as his friend rolled his eyes, he saw something in them that made him think, wailing to the ground. He raised his voice in a last supreme call. Jim, Jim, Jim! The tall soldier opened his lips and spoke. He made a gesture.  Don't touch me.  There was another silence while he waited. Suddenly his form stiffened and straightened. Then it was shaken by a prolonged hog. He stared into space. To the two watchers there was a curious and profound dignity in the firm lines of his awful face. He was invaded by a creeping strangeness that slowly enveloped him. For a moment the tremor of his legs caused him to dance a sort of hideous hornpipe. His arms beat wildly about his head in expression of impulaic enthusiasm. His tall figure stretched itself to its full height. There was a slight rendering sound. Then it began to swing forward, slow and straight, in the manner of a falling tree. A swift muscular concoction made the left shoulder strike the ground first. The body seemed to bounce a little away from the earth. God! said the tattered soldier. The youth had watched bell-bound this ceremony at the place of meaning. His face had been twisted into an expression of every agony he had imagined for his friend. He now sprang to his feet and, going closer, gazed upon the paste-like face. The mouth was open and the teeth showed in a laugh. As the flap of the blue jacket fell away from the body he could see that the side looked as if it had been chewed by wolves. The youth turned with sudden livid rage toward the battlefield he shook at his fist. He seemed about to deliver a phillipic. Hell! The red sun was pasted in the sky like a wafer. CHAPTER X The Red Badge of Courage An Episode of the American Civil War The tattered man stood musing. Well, he was regular Jim Dandy, forner, wasn't he? Said he, finally, in a little awestucked voice. Regular Jim Dandy. He thoughtfully poked one of the docile hands with his foot. I wonder where he's got his strength from? I've never seen a man do like that before. It was a funny thing. Well, he was a regular Jim Dandy. The youth desired to stretch out his grief. He was stabbed, but his tongue lay dead in the tomb of his mouth. He threw himself again upon the ground and began to brood. The tattered man stood musing. Look here, partner. He said, after a time, he regarded the corpse as he spoke. He'd up and gone, ain't he? And we might as well begin to look out for old number one. This here thing is all over. He'd up and gone, ain't he? And he's all right here. No one won't bother him. And I must say I didn't join any great health myself these days. The youth awakened by the tattered soldier's tone looked quickly up. He saw that he was swinging uncertainly on his legs, that his face had turned to a shade of blue. Good lord, he cried.  Nury died, he said. I'll want her some pea soup and a bed, some pea soup. He repeated dreamily. The youth arose from the ground. I wonder where he came from. I left him over there, he pointed. And now I find him here. And he was coming from over there too. He indicated a new direction. They both turned toward the body as if to ask of it a question. Well, at length both the tattered man. There ain't no use in our staying here and trying to ask him anything. The youth nodded an ascent warily. They both turned to gaze for a moment at the corpse. Youth murmured something. Well, he was a Jim Danny, wasn't he? said the tattered man as if in response. They turned their backs upon it and started away. For a time they stole softly, treading with their toes. It remained laughing there in the grass. I'm commensin' to feel pretty bad, said the tattered man suddenly breaking one of his little silences. I'm commensin' to feel pretty damn bad. The youth groaned, oh Lord. He wondered if he was to be the tortured witness of another grim encounter. But his companion waved his hand reassuringly.   Oh, sir, there he died. I can't. You'd ought to seize what the children had got. And all like that. The youth glancing at his companion could see by the shadow of a smile that he was making some kind of fun. As they plotted on the tattered soldier continued to talk. Signed. If I'd died, I wouldn't die the way that feller did. That was the funniest thing. I'd just plop down, I would. I'd never seen a feller die the way that feller did. You know, Tom Jameson, he lives next door to me at home. He was a nice feller. And he is and we is always good friends, smart too. Smart as a steel trap. Well, when we was fighting this afternoon, all of a sudden he began to rip up and cuss and beller in me. You shot, you blamed infernal. You swore horrible. He says to me, I put a me hand to my head and I'm when I looked at it. A finger I seen sure enough I was shot. I give a horror and began to run, but before I could get away another one in me in the arm were all me clean around. I got scared when they was all shooting behind me. And I run the beat all but I touched it pretty bad. I have an idea I'd have been fighting yet if it weren't for Tom Jameson. Then he made a calm announcement. There are two of them, little ones. But they're beginning to have fun with me now. I don't believe I can walk much further. They went slowly on in silence. You look pretty peaked yourself, said the tattered man at last. I'm better you're done worse than one in your thing. You better take care of your hurt. You don't do to let such things go. It might be inside mostly. And then place thunder. Where is it located? But he continued to harangue without waiting for reply. I see if our get hit plumbing the head when my regiment was standing at these ones. Everybody yelled out to him hurt John.  No, says he. He looked kind of surprised and he went on telling him how he felt. He said he didn't feel nothing. But by dad, the first thing that fellow note, he was dead. Yes, he was dead stone dead. So you want to watch out.  Can't never tell. Where is your unlocated? The youth had been wiggling since the introduction of this topic. He now gave a cry of exasperation and made a furious motion with his hand. Oh, don't bother me, he said. He was enraged against the tattered man and could have strangled him. His companions seemed ever to play in tolerable parts. They were ever uprising the ghost of shame on the stick of their curiosity. He turned toward the tattered man as one at bay. Oh, don't bother me, he repeated with desperate menace. Well, Lord knows I don't want to bother anybody, said the other. There was a little accent of despair in his voice, as he replied. Lord knows. I've got enough moan to tend to. The youth who had been holding a bitter debate with himself and casting glances of hatred and contempt at the tattered man. Here is spoken a hard voice. Goodbye, he said. The tattered man looked at him in gaping amazement. All right, one partner. Where are you going? He asked, unsteadily. The youth looking at him could see that he, too, like the other one, was beginning to act dumb and animal-like. His thoughts seemed to be floundering about in his head.  Now, I won't have this. This here won't do. Where are you going? The youth pointed vaguely. Over there, he replied.  His head was hanging forward and the words were slurred. This thing won't do now, Tom Jamison. It won't do. I know you, I know you pig-headed devil. You want to go tromping off with a bad herd? It ain't right now, Tom Jamison. It ain't. You want to leave me here to carry your Tom Jamison? It ain't right. It ain't for you to go tromping off with a bad herd. It ain't. It ain't. It ain't. It ain't. It ain't. It replied the youth climbed a fence and started the way. He could hear the tattered man bleeding plaintively. Once he faced about angry. What? Look here now, Tom Jamison. Now, it ain't. It ain't. The youth went on. Turning in a distance he saw the tattered man wandering about helplessly in the field. He now thought that he wished he was dead. He believed that he envied those men whose bodies lay strewn over the grass of the fields on and on the fallen leaves of the forest. The simple questions of the tattered man had been night thrust to him. They asserted a society that probes piteously at secrets until all his apparent. His late companion's chance persistence made him feel that he could not keep his crime concealed in his bosom. It was sure to be brought plain by one of those arrows which clod the air and are constantly pricking, discovering, proclaiming those things which are willed to be forever hidden. He admitted that he could not defend himself against this agency. It was not within the power of vigilance. He became aware that the furnace roar of the battle was growing louder. Great brown clouds had floated to the still heights of air before him. The noise, too, was approaching. The woods, filtered men, and the fields became dotted. As he rounded a hillock, he perceived that the roadway was now a crying mass of wagons, teams, and men. From the heaving tangle issued extortations, commands, implications. Fear was sweeping it all along. The cracking whips, bit, and horses plunged and tugged. The white-topped wagon strained and stumbled in their extortations like fat sheep. The youth felt comforted in a measure by this sight. They were all retreating. Perhaps then he was not so bad, after all. He seated himself and watched the terror-stricken wagons. They fled like soft, ungainly animals. All the roars and lasers served to help him to magnify the dangers and horrors of the engagement that he might try to prove to himself that the thing with which men could charge him was, in truth, a symmetrical act. There was an amount of pleasure to him in watching the wild march of this vindication. Presently the calm head of a forward-going column of infantry appeared in the road. It came swiftly on, avoiding the obstructions, gave it the sinuous movement of a serpent. The man at the head butted mules with their musket-tocks. They prodded teamsters indifferent to all howls. The men forced their way through parts of the dense mass by strength. The blunt head of the column pushed. The raving teamsters swore many strange oaths. The commands to make way had the ring of a great importance to them. The men were going forward to the heart of the din. They were to confront the eager rush of the enemy. They felt the pride of their onward movement. When the remainder of the army seemed trying to dribble down this road, they tumbled teams about with a fine feeling that was no matter so long as their column got to the front in time. This importance made their faces graven stern, and the backs of the officers were very rigid. As the youth looked at them, the black weight of his wool returned to him. He felt he was regarding a procession of chosen beings. The separation was as great to him as if they had marched with weapons of flame and banners of sunlight. He could never be like them. He could have wept in his longings. He searched about in his mind for an adequate valedication for the indefinite cause, the thing upon which men turn the words of final blame. It, whatever it was, was responsible for him, he said. There lay the fault. The haste of the column to reach the battle seemed to the forlorn young man to be something much finer than stout fighting. He, rose he thought, could find excuses in that long-seething lane. They could retire with perfect self-respect and make excuses to the stars. He wondered what those men had eaten that they could be in such great haste to force their way to grim chances of death. As he watched his envy grew until he thought that he wished to change lives with one of them, he would have liked to have used a tremendous force. He said, throw off himself and become a better. Swift pictures of himself apart, yet in himself, came to him.  He thought of the magnificent pathos of his dead body. These thoughts uplifted him. He felt the quiver of war desire. In his ears he heard the ring of victory. He knew the frenzy of a rapid, successful charge. The music of the trampling feet, the sharp voices, the clanking arms of the column near him made him soar on the red wings of war. For a few moments he was sublime. He thought that he was about to start for the front. Indeed, he saw a picture of himself, dust-stained, haggard, panting, flying to the front at the proper moment to seize and throttle the dark, leering witch of calamity. Then the difficulties of the thing began to drag at him. He hesitated, balancing awkwardly on one foot. He had no rifle. He could not fight with his hands, said he resentfully to his plan. While rifles could be had for the picking, they were extraordinarily perfuse. Also he continued, it would be a miracle if he found his regiment. Well, he could fight with any regiment. 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 comrades 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. Reward saving, then no hostile bayonets appeared there. In the battle-blur, his face would, in a way, be hidden, like the face of a coiled 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, an imagination he felt a scrutiny of his companions, as he painfully labored through some lies. Finally his courage expended itself upon these objections. The debates drained him of his fire. He was not cast down by his 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 himself 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 stomach, and when he tried to walk his head swayed and he tottered. He could not see with distinctness. 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 graven loon. Those pictures of glory were piteous things. He groaned from his heart and went staggering off. A certain moth-like 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 favorable 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 to colors and scurry like chickens. He would appear to be one of them. They would be sullen brothers in distress, and he could then easily believe he had not run any further or faster than they. And if he himself could believe in his virtuous perfection, he conceived that there would be small trouble in convincing all others. He said, as if an excuse for this hope, that previously the army had encountered great defeats and in a few months then 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 compunction of forepurposing 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 writing 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 profit upon predicting a flood should be the first man to climb a tree. This would demonstrate that he was indeed a seer. A moral vindication was regarded by the youth as a very important thing. Without Sam he could not, he thought, wear the sore badge of his dishonor through life. With his heart continually 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 up on 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 utterly 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 this becoming lifeless. They might not have been killed by lucky chance, he said, before they 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 glorious 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 rethink 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 morally 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 the mall. Furthermore he was much afraid that some arrow of scorn might lay him mentally low before he could raise his protracting tale. He imagined the whole regiment saying, Where's Henry Fleming? He run didn't he? Oh my! He recalled various persons who would be quite sure to leave him no peace about it. They would doubtless question him with snares and laugh at his stammering hesitation. In the next engagement they would try to keep watch on him to discover when he would run. Wherever he went in camp he would encounter insolent and linearly cruel stares. As he imagined himself passing near a crowd of comrades he could hear someone 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 someone make a humorous remark in a low tone. At it the others cowed 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 use-site 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 equipment as from entanglements. They charged down upon him like terrified buffaloes. Behind them blue smoke curled and clotted above the treetops and through the thickets he could sometimes see a distant pink glare. The voices of the cannon were clamoring in interminable chorus. The youth was horror-stricken. He stared in agony and amazement. He forgot that he was engaged in combating the universe. He threw aside his metal pamphlets on the philosophy of the retreated and rules of the guidance of the damned. The fight was lost. The dragons were coming with invincible strides. The army, helpless in the matted thickets and blinded by the overhanging 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, what's the 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 inner coherent questions were lost. They were heedless of his appeals. They did not seem to see him. They sometimes grabbed insanely. One huge man was asking of this guy, Say, where did he plank road? Where did he 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 a 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 to man by the arm. They swung around face to face. Why, why? stammered the youth struggling with his balking tongue. The man screamed, Let go of me! Let go of me!  He was heaving and panting. He still grasped his rifle, perhaps having forgotten to release his hold upon it. He tugged frantically, and the youth being compelled to lean forward was dragged several paces. Let go of me! Let go of me! Why, why? started the youths. Well, then balled 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 lightning flash before his vision. There was a deafening 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 the 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 the clammy pallor. Deep groans were wrenched from him.  Pressing his hands to his temples, he went lurching over the grass. He fought an intense battle with his body. His dull 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 long breath through his clenched teeth. His fingers were dabbed 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 besplod 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 the fence. The officer was making excited motions with a gauntlet in hand. The guns followed the teams with an error of unwillingness, of being dragged by the heels. Some officers of the scattered infantry were cursing and railing like fish wives. Their scolding voices could be heard above the din. Into the unspeakable jumble in the roadway rode a squadron of cavalry. The faded yellow of their facing shone bravely. There was a mighty altercation. The artillery was assembling as if for a conference. 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 their tremendous remonstrance. With it came the shattering peel 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 ammunition spread about in the forest and in the fields. The little narrow roadway now lay lifeless. There were overturned wagons like sun-dried boaters. 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, however, 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 the size that made him think his neck to be inadequate. The new silence of his wound made much worryment. 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 terrible fingers that clutched into his brain. A minute he began to reflect upon various incidents and conditions of the past. He bethought him of certain meals his mother had cooked at home, in which those dishes of which he was particularly fond at occupied prominent positions. He saw the spread table, the pine walls of the kitchen were glowing in the warm light from the stove. To 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 and disorderly array upon the grass of the bank. He felt a swash of the frequent water upon his body. The leaves of the overhanging maple rustled with melody in the wind of youthful 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 him like pampered babies. At last he heard a cheery voice near his shoulder. This seemed to be in a pretty bad way, boy. The youth did not look up, but he assented with a thick tongue. The owner of the cheery voice took him firmly by the arm. Well, he said with a round lap, I'm going your way. The whole gang is going your way. And I guess we can give you a lift.  As they went along, the man questioned the youth and assisted him with three plies like one manipulating the mind of a child. Sometimes he interjected anchor notes. What regiment you belong to? Eh? What's that? The Three Old Fourth New York. What corps is that in? What is? Why, I thought they wasn't engaged to-day. They're way down Ornick's Center. Oh, they was, eh? Well, pretty narrow everybody got their share of fighting to-day. By dad I can give myself up for dead many number of times.  Sometimes I thought I was sure enough from Ohio or other times I could have swore I was from the bitter end of Florida. It was the most mixed up darn thing I ever see, and these here whole woods is a regular mess. It'll be a miracle if we ever find our regiments tonight. Pretty soon, though, we'll meet a plenty of guards and provost guards and one thing or another. Oh, there they go with an officer, I guess. Look at his hand, a dragon. He's got all the war he wants, I bet. He won't be talking so big about his reputation and all when they go to sawn off his leg. Poor feller, my brother's got whiskers just like that. How did you get your way over here anyhow? Your regiment is a long way from here, ain't it? Well, I guess we can find it. You know, there was a boy killed in my company today that I thought the world of all of. Jack was a nice feller. By gender it hurt like thunders, see, old Jack just get knocked flat. We was a standard pretty peaceable for a spell. Though there was men running every way all around us, and while we was a standing like that, long comes a big fat feller. He began to peck at Jack's elbow and says, Say, where's the road to the river? And Jack, he never paid no attention and that feller kept on pecking at his elbow and saying, Say, where's the road to the river? Jack was looking ahead all the time, trying to see that Johnny's coming through the woods, and he never paid no attention to the big fat feller for long time.   He was a sergeant too. Then was his last words. Thunder, I wish we was sure of finding our regiments tonight. It's going to be a long hunt. But I guess we can 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 fowler of a gammon. 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 conducted the youth without mistakes until at last he began to chuckle with glee and self- satisfaction. Ah, there you are. See that fire? The youth nodded stupidly. Well, there's where your regimen is. And now goodbye, old boy. Good luck to you. A warm and strong ham clasped the youth's languid fingers for an instant, and then he heard a cheerful and audacious whistling as the man's drove away, as he who had so befriended him was thus passing out of his life. It suddenly occurred to the youth that he had not once seen his face. CHAPTER XIII The youth went slowly toward the fire, indicated 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 invent 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 dismayed for a moment, but he presently thought that he recognized the nervous voice. As he stood tottering before the rifle barrel he called out, What? 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 is. It's me. Well, well, old boy, said the other. Bye, ginger. I'm glad to see you. I give you up for a goner. I thought you was dead, sure enough. There was a 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 it must hasten to produce his tail to protect him from the missiles already at the lips of his redoubtful comrades. So, staggering before the loud soldier he began, Yes, yes. I—I've had an awful time. I've been all over. Why, over on the right? Terrible fighting over there. An awful time. I got separated from the regiment. Over on the right. I got shot in the head. I never see such fighting. Awful time. I don't see how I could have got separated from the regiment. Got shot, too. His friend had stepped forward quickly. What? Got shot? Why didn't you say so first, poor old boy? We must hold on a minute. What am I doing? I'll call Simpson. Another figure at that moment loomed in the gloom. They could see that it was the corporal. Who you talking to, Wilson? He demanded. His voice was anger-toned. Who you talking to? He had a damnedest sentinel. Why, hello, Henry. You here? Why, I thought you was dead four hours ago. Great job, Ruslam, they keep turning up every ten minutes or so. We thought we'd lost forty-two men by a straight count. But if they keep coming in this way, we'll get the company all back by morning yet. Where was you? Over on the right. I got separated, began the youth with considerable glibness. But his friend had enrupted hastily. Yeah, and he got shot in the head, and he's in a fix, and we must see to 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, see, it hurts. Hurts a good deal, he replied. There was a faltering in his voice. Oh, said the corporal. He linked his arm and the youth and drew him forward. Come on, Henry. I'll take care of you. As they went on together the loud private called out after them. Put him to sleep in my blanket, Simpson, and hold on a minute. Here's my canteen. It's full of coffee.  Maybe it's a pretty badden. When I get relieved in a couple of minutes, I'll be over and see to him. The youth 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 hanging forward upon his breast. His knees wobbled. The corporal led him into the glare of the fire. Now, Henry, he said, let's have a look at your old head. The youth sat down obediently, and the corporal, lying 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 firelight 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 in the rare wound. Ah, here we are, he said. He awkwardly made further investigations. Just as a thought, he added presently, you've been grazed, my ball.  It stopped a bleeding a long time ago. The most abounded is, that in the morning you'll feel that a number ten hat wouldn't fit you, and your head'll be all head up and feel as dry as burnt pork. And you may get a lot of other sicknesses, too, by morning. You can't never tell. Still, I don't much think so.  Now you just sit here and don't move while I go route out the relief. Then I'll send Wilson to take care of you. The corporal went away. The youth remained on the ground like a parcel. He stared with a vacant look into the fire. After a time he aroused for some part and the things about him began to take form. He saw that the ground in the deep shadows was cluttered with men sprawling in every conceivable posture. Glancing narrowly into the more distant darkness he got occasional glimpses of visages that loomed pallid and ghostly, lit with a phosphorescent glow. These faces expressed in their lines the deep stupor of the tired soldiers. They made them appear like men drunk with wine. This bit of forest might have appeared to an eternal wanderer as a scene of the result of some frightful debauch. On the other side of the fire the youth observed an officer asleep seated bold upright with his back against a tree. There was something perilous in his position. Badgered by dreams perhaps he swayed with little bounces and starts like an old Toddy-stricken grandfather in a chimney corner. Dust and stains were upon his face. His lower jaw hung down as if lacking strength to assume its normal position. He was the picture of an exhausted soldier after a feast of war.  These two had slumbered in an embrace but the weapon had been allowed in time to fall unheeded to the ground. The brass-mounted hilt lay in contact with some parts of the fire. Within the gleam of rose and orange light from the burning sticks were other soldiers snoring and heaving or lying death-like in slumber. A few pairs of legs were stuck forth, rigid and straight. The shoes displayed the mud or dust of marches and bits of rounded trousers protruding from the blankets shield wrents and tears from hurried pitchings through the dense brambles. The fire cracked musically. From it swelled light smoke. Overhead the foliage moved softly. The leaves with their faces turned toward the blaze were colored shifting hues of silver, often edged with red. Far off to the right through a window in the forest could be seen a handful of stars lying like glittering pebbles on the black level of the night. Occasionally in this low-arched hall a soldier would arouse and turn his body to a new position, the experience of his sleep having taught him of uneven and objectionable places upon the ground under him. Or perhaps he would lift himself to a sitting posture, blanket the fire for an unintelligent moment, throw a swift glance at his prostrate companion, and then cuddle down again with a grunt of sleepy content. The youth sat in a forlorn heap until his friend the loud young soldier came swinging two canteens by their light strings. Well now, Henry, oh boy, said the latter. We'll have you fixed in just about a minute. He had the bustling ways of an amateur nurse. He fussed around the fire and stirred the sticks to brilliant exertions. He made his patient drink largely from the canteen that contained the coffee. It was to the youth a delicious draught. He tilted his head a far back and held the canteen long to his lips. The cool mixture went caressingly down his blistered throat. Having finished, he sighed with comfortable delight. The loud young soldier watched his comrade with an air of satisfaction. He later produced an extensive handkerchief from his pocket. He folded it into a manner of bandage and sourced water from the other canteen upon the middle of it.  There, he said, moving off and surveying his deed, you look like a devil, but I bet you feel better. The youth contemplated his friend with grateful eyes.  You don't holler nor say nothing, remarked his friend approvingly.  You're good, and, Henry, most of the men would have been on the hospital on go. A shot in the head ain't fooling business. The youth made no reply, but began to fumble with the buttons on his jacket. Well, come now, continued his friend. Come on. I must put you to bed and see that you get a good night's rest. The other got carefully erect, and the loud young soldier led him among the sleeping-forms, lying in groups and rows. Presently he stopped and picked up his blankets. He spread the rubber one upon the ground and placed the woolen one about the youth's shoulders. Air now, he said, lying down and getting some sleep. The youth, with his manner of dog-like obedience, got carefully down like a crone, stooping. He stretched out with a murmur of relief and comfort. The ground felt like the softest couch. But, of a sudden, he ejaculated. Hold on a minute. Where are you going to sleep? His friend waved his hand impatiently. Right down here by you. Well, but hold on a minute, continued the youth. Where are you going to sleep in? I've got your— The loud young soldier started to shut up and go to sleep.  After the reproof, the youth said no more. An exquisite drowsiness had spread through him, the warm comfort of the blanket enveloped him, and made a gentle languor.  Hearing a splatter of musketry from the distance, he wondered indifferently if those men sometimes slept. He gave a long sigh, snuggled down into his blanket, and in a moment was like his comrades. Sure that he opened his eyes upon an unexpected world. Gray mists were slowly shifting before the first efforts of the sun rays. An impending splendor could be seen in the eastern sky. An icy dew had chilled his face, and immediately upon arousing he curled further down into his blanket. He stared for a while to leave overhead, moving in a heraldic wind of the day. The distance was splintering and blaring with the noise of fighting. There was in the sound an expression of a deadly persistency, as if it had not begun and was not to cease. About him were the rows and groups of men that he had dimly seen the previous night. They were getting a last drop of sleep before the awakening. The gaunt, care-worn 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 pulsus and dead. The youth started up with a little cry, when his eyes first wept over the motionless mass of men. Thick spread 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. Laced 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 crackling of axe-blows. Suddenly there was a hollow rumble of drums. A distant bugle sang faintly. Some of the sounds varying in strength came from near and far over the forest. The bugles called to each other like brazen game-cocks. 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 base of grumbling oaths. Strange guides were addressed in combination of the early hours necessary to correct war. An officer's preemptory 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 eyed sockets. The youth sat up and gave vent to an enormous yawn. Thunder, he remarked peturantly. He rubbed his eyes and then putting up his hand felt carefully of the bandage over his wound. His friend, perceiving him to be awake, came from the fire. Well, Harry, old man, how do you feel this morning? He demanded. The youth yawned again.  His head, in truth, felt precisely like a melon. And there was an unpleasant sensation at his stomach. Oh, Lord, I feel pretty bad, you said. Thunder exclaimed the other. I hoped you'd feel all right this morning. Let's see the bandage. I guess it slipped. He began to tinker at the wound in rather a clumsy way until the youth exploded. Guy, turn it! You said in a sharp irritation. You're the hang of the man I ever saw. You wear muffs on your hands. Why, in good thunderration, can't you be more easy? I'd rather you'd stand off and throw guns at it. Now go slow, and don't act as if he was nailing down a carpet. He'd glared with insolent command at his friend, but the latter answered soothingly. Well, well, come now and get some grub, he said. And maybe he'll feel better. At the fireside the loud young soldier watched over his comrades' wants with tenderness and care. He was very busy marshalling the little black vagabonds of tin cups and pouring into them the steamy iron-colored mixture from a small and sooty tin pail. He had some fresh meat, which he roasted hurriedly upon a stick. He sat down then and contemplated the youth's appetite with glee. The youth took note of a remarkable change in his comrades 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 practised 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.  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 do you think the chances are? Do you think we'll wallop them? The youth considered for a moment. The day before yesterday, he finally replied with boldness, you would have bet you'd lick the whole kitten-caboodle all by yourself. His friend looked at 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 disconcerned at this surprising reception of his remarks. Oh, no, he wouldn't either, he said hastily trying to retrace. But the other made a depreciating gesture. Ah, you 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 the officers say we've got the rebels in a pretty tight box, said his friend, clearing his throat in a commonplace way. They all seem to think we've got them just where we want them. I don't know about that, the youth replied. What I seen over on the right makes me think it was the other way about. From where I was, it looked as if we was getting a good pound in yesterday. You think so? inquired the friend. I thought we handled them pretty rough yesterday. 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 the side. You don't say so, Jim Conklin. Poor cuss.  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 resending of just oath. Possibly there was going to be a fight. The friends arose and went over to them, making Pacific motions with his arms. Ah, here now, boys. What's the use, he said? We'll be at the Rebs in less than an hour. What's the good fighting among ourselves? One of the light-footed soldiers turned upon him red-faced and violent. Yeah, needn't come around here with your preaching. I suppose you don't approve a fighting sense Charlie Morgan lick, yeah? But I didn't see what business that's here is yours or anybody else. Well, it ain't, said the friend mildly.  There was a tangled argument. Said the two, indicating their opponent with acusive forefingers. The huge soldier was quite purple with rage. He pointed at the two soldiers with his great hand extended claw-like. But during this argument of time, their 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. Jimmy Rogers says, I'll have to fight him after the battle today, announced the friend, as he again seated himself. He says he don't allow no interfering in his business. I hate to see the boys fighting among themselves. The youth laughed. You're changed a good bit. Ain't all like he was. I remember when you and that Irish fella, you stopped and laughed again. No, I didn't used to be that way, said his friend thoughtfully, as true enough. What didn't mean, began the youth. The friend made another depreciatory gesture. Oh, yeah, needn't mind Henry. There was another little pause. Regiment lost over half the man yesterday, remarked the friend eventually. I thought, of course, they was all dead, but laws, they kept it coming, back last night until it seems, after all, we didn't lose but a few. They'd been scattered, all over, wandering around the woods, fighting with other regiments and everything, just like you done. So, said the youth. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of The Red Badge of Courage An episode of the American Civil War This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Mike Venditti. The Red Badge of Courage. An episode of the American Civil War by Stephen Crane. Chapter 15 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 and wrapped in a faded yellow envelope, with the loud young soldier, with the grubrious words, head entrusted to him. It made him start. He uttered an exclamation and turned toward a 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 side-long glances felt impelled to change his purpose. Oh, nothing, he said. His friend turned his head in some surprise. Why, what was you going to 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 curiosity. 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 sign 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 week-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 condensation. He adopted towards 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 licensed to be pompous and veteran-like. His panting agonies of the past he put out of his sight. In the present he declared to himself that it was only the doomed and the damned who roared with sincerity at circumstance. Few but they ever did. A man with a full stomach and the respect of his fellows had no business to scold about anything that he might think to be wrong in the ways of the universe, or even with the ways of society. Let the unfortunate rail, the others, may play marbles. He did not give a great deal of thought to these battles that laid directly before him. It was not essential that he should plan his ways in regard to them. He had been taught that many obligations of a life were easily avoided. The lessons of yesterday had been that retribution was a-laggard and blind. With these facts before him he did not deem it necessary that he should become feverish over the possibilities of the ensuing twenty-four hours. He could leave much to chance. Besides, a faith in himself had secretly blossomed. There was a little flower of confidence growing within him. He was now a man of experience. He had been out among the dragons. He said and assured himself that they were not so hideous as he had imagined them. Also, they were inaccurate. They did not sting with precision, as Tauthart often defied and defying escaped. And furthermore, how could they kill him who was the chosen of gods and doomed to greatness? He remembered how some of the men had run from the battle. As he recalled their terror-struck faces, he felt a scorn for them. They had surely been more fleet and more wild than was absolutely necessary. They were weak mortals. As for himself, he had fled with discretion and dignity. He was aroused from his reverie by his friend, who, having hitched about nervously, and blinked at the trees for a time suddenly coughed in an introductory way and spoke, Fleming? What?  He fidgeted in his jacket. Well, he coughed at last. I guess you might as well give me back them letters. Dark prickling blood had rushed into his cheeks and brow. All right, Wilson, said to youth. He loosened two buttons of his coat, thrust in his hand, and brought forth the packet. As he extended it to his friend, the letter's face was turned from him. He had been slow in the act of producing the packet because, during it, he had been trying to invent a remarkable comment upon the affair. He could conjure nothing of sufficient point. He was compelled to allow his friend to escape unrelested with his packet. And, for this, he took unto himself considerable credit. It was a generous thing. His friend at his side seemed suffering great shame. As he contemplated him, the youth felt his heart grow more strong and stout. He had never been compelled to blush in such manner for his acts. He was an individual of extraordinary virtues. He reflected with condescending pity. Too bad. Too bad. Poor devil. It makes him feel tough. After this incident, and as he reviewed the battle-pictures he had seen, he felt quite competent to return home and make the hearts of the people glow with stories of war. He could see himself in a room of warm tints, telling tales to listeners. He could exhibit laurels. They were insignificant. Though in a district where laurels were infrequent, they might shine. He saw his gaping audience picturing him as the central figure in blazing scenes. And he imagined the contra-nation and ejaculations of his mother and the young lady at the seminary, as they drank his recitals. Their vague, feminine formula for beloved ones, doing brave deeds on the field of battle without risk of life, would be destroyed. A sputtering of musketry was always to be heard. Later the cannon had entered the dispute. In the fog-filled air their voices made a thudding sound. The reverberations were continued. This part of the world led a strange, battleful existence. The youth's regiment was marched to relieve a command that had lain long in some damp trenches. The men took positions behind a curving line of rifle-pits that had been turned up, like a large furrow along the line of woods. Before them was a level stretch, peopled with short, deformed stumps. From the woods beyond came the dull popping of the scrumptures and pickets firing in the fog. From the right came the noise of a terrific fracas. The men cuddled behind the small embankment, and sat in easy attitudes awaiting their turn. Many had their backs to the firing. The youth's friend lay down, buried his face in his arms, and almost instantly, it seemed, he was in a deep sleep. The youth leaned his breast against the brown dirt and peered over it at the woods, and up and down the line. Curtains of trees interfered with his ways of vision. He could see the low line of trenches, but for a short distance. A few idle flags were perched on the dirt hills. Behind them were rows of dark bodies, with a few heads sticking curiously over the top. Always the noise of scrumptures came from the woods on the front, and left and the din on the right had grown to frightful proportions. The guns were roaring without an instant's pause for breath. It seemed that the cannon had come from all parts and were engaged in a stupendous wrangle. It became impossible to make a sentence heard. The youth wished to launch a joke, a quotation from newspapers. He desired to say, all quiet on the Rappahannock. But the guns refused to permit even a comment from their uproar. He never successfully concluded the sentence. But at last the gun stopped, and among the men in the rifle pits rumours began to flow, like birds, but they were now, for the most part, black creatures who flapped their wings drearly, nearer to the ground, and refused to rise on any wings of hope. The men's faces grew doleful from the interpreting of omens, tales of hesitation and uncertainty on the part of those high in place, and responsibility came to their ears. Stories of disaster were born into their minds with many proofs. The din of musketry on the right, growing like a released genie of sound, expressed and emphasised the army's plight. The men were disheartened and began to mutter. They made gestures expressive of the sentence. Ah, what more can we do? And it could always be seen that they were bewildered by the alleged news, and could not fully comprehend a defeat. Before the gray mists had been totally obliterated by the sun's rays, the regiment was marching in a spread column that was retiring carefully through the woods. The disordered hurrying lines of the enemy could sometimes be seen down through the groves and little fields. They were yelling shrill and exultant. At this site the youth forgot many personal matters and became greatly enraged. He exploded in loud sentences. Bungimini were generaled by a lot of lunkerheads. More than one filler has said that to-day, observed a man. His friend recently aroused, was still very drowsy. He looked behind him until his mind took in the meaning of the movement. Then he sighed, Oh, well, I suppose we got licked. He remarked sadly. The youth had a thought that it would not be handsome for him to freely condemn other men. He made an attempt to restrain himself, but the words upon his tongue were too bitter. He presently began a long and intricate denunciation of the commander of the forces. Maybe it weren't all his fault, not all together. He did the best he knowed. It's our luck to get licked often, said his friend in a weary tone. He was trudging along with stooped shoulders and shifting eyes like a man who has been caned and kicked. Well, don't we fight like the devil? Don't we do all that men can? Demanded the youth loudly. He was secretly dumbfounded at this sentiment when it came from his lips. For a moment his face lost its valor and he looked guiltily about him. No one questioned his right to deal in such words, and presently he recovered his air of courage. He went on to repeat a statement he had heard going from group to group at the camp that morning. Brigadier said he never saw a new regiment fight the way we fought yesterday, didn't he? And we didn't do better than many other regiments, did we? Well, then you can't say it's the army's fault, can you? In his reply the friend's voice was stern. Of course not, he said. No man dares say we don't fight like the devil. No man will ever dare say it.  But still, still, we don't have no luck. Well, then if we fight like the devil and don't ever whip, it must be the general's fault, said the youths, grandly and decisively. And I don't see any sense in fighting and fighting yet always losing through some dirndle lunker head of a general. A sarcastic man who was tramping at the youth's side then spoke lazily. Maybe a thank you fit a whole bottle yesterday, Fleming? He remarked. The speech pierced the youth. Inwardly he was reduced to an abject pulp by these chance words. His legs quaked privately. He cast a frightened glance at the sarcastic man. Well, no, he hastened to say in a consolidating voice. I don't think I fought the whole battle yesterday. But the others seemed innocent of any deeper meaning. Apparently he had no information. It was merely his habit. Oh, he replied in the same tone of calm derision. The youth nevertheless felt a threat. His mind shrank from going near to the danger, and thereafter he was silent. The significance of the sarcastic man's words took from him all loud moods that would make him appear prominent. He became suddenly a modest person. There was low-toned talk among the troops. The officers were impatient and snappy. Their countenances clouded with the tales of misfortune. The troops sifting through the forest were sullen. In the youth's company, once a man's laugh rang out, a dozen soldiers turned their faces quickly toward him and frowned with vague displeasure. The noise of firing dogged their footsteps. Sometimes it seemed to be driven a little way, but it always returned again with increased insolence. The men muttered and cursed, drawing black looks in its direction. In a clear space the troops were at last halted. Regiments and brigades broken and detached through their encounters with thickets grew together again, and lines were faced toward the pursuing bark of the enemy's infantry. This noise following like the yellings of eager metallic hounds increased to a loud and joyous burst, and then, as the sun went serenely up the sky, throwing an illuminating rays into the gloomy thickets, it broke forth into prolonged pealings. The woods began to crackle as if a fire. Oh, by D. said a man! There we are! Everybody's fighting, blood and destruction. I was willing to bet they'd attack as soon as the sun got fairly up. Savagely asserted the lieutenant, who commanded the youth's company. He jerked without mercy at his little mustache. He strode to and fro with dark dignity in the rear of his men, who were lying down behind whatever protection they had collected. A battery had trundled into position in the rear and was thoughtfully shelling the distance. The regiment, unmolested as yet, awaited the moment when the gray shadows of the woods before them should be sliced by the lines of flame. There was much growling and swearing. Good God! the youth grumbled. We're always being chased around like rats. It makes me sick. Nobody seems to know where we go or why we go. We just get fired around from pillar to post and get licked here and get licked there, and nobody knows what it's done for.  Now, I'd like to know what the eternal funders we was marched into these woods for anyhow, unless it was to give the Rebs a regular pot-shot at us. We came in here and got our legs all tangled up in these cussed briars, and then we began to fight, and the Rebs had that easy time of it. Don't tell me it's just luck. I know better. It's as darned old. The friend seemed jaded, but he interrupted, his comrade, with a voice of calm confidence. It'll turn all right, in the end, he said. Not a devil it will. He always talked like a dog-hanged person. Don't tell me I know. At this time there was an interposition by this savage-minded lieutenant who was obliged to vent some of his inward dissatisfaction upon his men.  There's no need. Y'all are wasting your breath in long-winded arguments about this and that and the other. You've been jawn like a lot of old hands. All you've got to do is to fight, and you'll get plenty of time to do, in about ten minutes. Less talking and more fighting is what best for you boys. I never saw such gobbling jackasses. He paused ready to pounce upon any man who might have the intermedity to reply. No words being said, he resumed his dignified pacing. There's too much chin music and too little fighting in this war anyhow, he said to them, turning his head for a final remark. The day had grown more white until the sun shed its full radiance upon the thronged forest. A sort of a gust of battle came sweeping toward that part of the line where lay the youth's regiment. The front shifted a trifle to meet its squarely. There was a wait. In this part of the field there passed slowly the intense moments that precede the tempest. A single rifle flashed in a thicket before the regiment. In an instant it was joined by many others. There was a mighty song of clashes and crashes that went sweeping through the woods, the guns in the rear aroused and enraged by shells that had been thrown bur-like at them, suddenly involved themselves in a hideous altercation with another band of guns. The battle roar settled to a rolling thunder, which was a single long explosion. In the regiment there was a peculiar kind of hesitation, denoted in the attitudes of the men. They were worn, exhausted, having slept but little, and labored much. They rolled their eyes towards the advancing battle as they stood, awaiting the shock. Some shrank and flinched. They stood as men, tied to stakes. This advance of the enemy had seemed to the youth like a ruthless hunting. He began to fume with rage and exasperation.  There was a maddening quality in this seeming resolution of the foe, to give him no rest. It gave him no time to sit down and think. Yesterday he had fought and had fled rapidly. There had been many adventures. For today he felt that he had earned opportunities for contemplative repose. He could have enjoyed portraying to uninitiated listeners various scenes at which he had been a witness, or ably discussing the processes of war with other proved men. Too it was important that he should have time for physical recuperation. He was sore and stiff from his experiences. He had received his fill of exertions and wished to rest. But those other men seemed never to grow weary. They were fighting with their old speed. He had a wild hate for the relentless foe. Yesterday, when he had imagined the universe to be against him, he had hated it, little gods and big gods. Today he hated the army of the foe with the same great hatred. He was not going to be badgered of his life like a kitten chased by boys, he said. It was not well to drive men into final corners. At those moments they could all develop teeth and claws. He leaned and spoke into his friend's ear. He menanced the woods with a gesture. If they keep on chasing us by God they'd better watch out. Can't stand too much. The friend twisted his head to me to calm replying. If they keep a chasteness they'll drive us all into the river. Youth cried out savagely at this statement.  The awkward bandage was still about his head, and upon it over his wound there was a spot of dry blood. His hair was wondrously tussled, and some straggling moving locks hung over the cloth of the bandage down toward his forehead. His jacket and shirt were open at the throat and exposed his young bronze neck. There could be seen spasmodic gulping at his throat. His fingers twined nervously about his rifle. He wasted it was an engine of annihilating power. He felt that he and his companions were being taunted and derided, from sincere convictions that they were poor and puny. His knowledge of his inability to take vengeance for it made his rage into a dark and stormy specter that possessed him and made him dream of abominable cruelties. The tormentors were flies sucking insolently at his blood, and he thought that he would have given his life for a revenge of seeing their faces in pitiful plights. The winds of battle had swept all about the regiment until the one rifle, instantly followed by others, flashed in its front. A moment later, it's sudden and valiant retort. A dense wall of smoke settled slowly down. It was furiously slit and slashed by the knife-like fire from the rifles. To the youth, the fighters resembled animals tossed for a death-druggle into a dark pit. There was a sensation that he and his fellows at bay were pushing back, always pushing fierce onslaughts of creatures who were slippery. Their beams of crimson seemed to get no purchase upon the bodies of their foes. The latter seemed to evade them with ease and come through, between, around, and about, with unopposed skill. When in a dream it occurred to the youth that his rifle was an important stick. He lost sense of everything but his hate, his desire to smash into pulp the glaring smile of victory which he could feel upon the faces of his enemies. The blue smoke swallowed lying curled and wreathed like a snake stepped upon. It swung its ends to and fro in an agony of fear and rage. The youth was not conscious that he was erect upon his feet. He did not know the direction of the ground. Indeed, once he even lost the habit of balance and fell heavily, he was up again immediately. One thought went through the chaos of his brain at the time. He wondered if he had fallen because he had been shot. But the suspicion flew away at once. He did not think more of it. He had taken up a first position behind the little tree, with a direct determination to hold it against the world. He had not deemed it possible that his army that day could succeed, and from this he felt the ability to fight harder. But the throng had searched in all ways until he lost directions and locations, save that he knew where lay the enemy. The flames bit him, and the hot smoke broiled his skin. His rifle barrel grew so hot that ordinarily he could not have borne it upon his palms. But he kept on stuffing cartridges into it, and pounding them with his clanking, bending ramrod. If he aimed at some charging through the smoke, he pulled his trigger with a fierce grunt, as if he were dealing a blow of the fist with all his strength. When the enemy seemed falling back before him and his fellows, he went instantly forward like a dog, who seeing his foes lagging, turns and insists upon being pursued. And when he was compelled to retire again, he did it slowly, sullenly, taking steps of wrathful despair. Once he and his intent hate was almost alone, and was firing, when all those near him had ceased, he was so engrossed in his occupation that he was not aware of a lull. He was recalled by a horselap, and a sentence that came to his ears in a voice of contempt and amazement.  Good God! He turned then, and pausing with his rifle thrown half into position, looked at the blue line of his comrades. During this moment of leisure, they seemed all to be engaged in staring with astonishment at him. They had become spectators. Turning to the front again, he saw under the lifted smoke a deserted ground. He looked bewildered for a moment. Then there appeared upon the glazed vacancy of his eyes a diamond point of intelligence. Oh! he said, comprehending. He returned to his comrades and threw himself upon the ground. He sprawled, like a man who had been thrashed. His flesh seemed strangely on fire, and the sounds of the battle continued in his ears. He grew up blindly for his canteen. The lieutenant was crowing. He seemed drunk with fighting. He called out to the youth, By heavens, if I had ten thousand wildcats like you, I could tear the stomach out of this war in less than a week. He puffed out his chest with large dignity, as he said it. Some of the men muttered and looked at the youth in awestruck ways. It was plain that as he had gone on loathing and firing and cursing without the proper intermission, they had found time to regard him. And they now looked upon him as a war devil. The friend came staggering to him. There was some fright and dismay in his voice. Are you all right, Fleming? Do you feel all right? There ain't nothing to matter with you, Henry, is there? No, said the youth with difficulty. His throat seemed full of knobs and burrs. These incidents made the youth ponder. It was revealed to him that he had been a barbarian, a beast. He had fought like a pagan, who defends his religion. Regarding it, he saw that it was fine, wild, and in some ways easy. He had been a tremendous figure, no doubt. By this struggle he had overcome obstacles, which he had admitted to be mountains. They had fallen like paper-peaks, and he was now what he called a hero. And he had not been aware of the process. He had slept, and awakening found himself a knight. He lay in basque in the occasional stares of his comrades. Their faces were varied in degrees of lackness from the burned powder. Some were utterly smudged. They were reeking with perspiration, and their breath came hard and wheezing. And from these soiled expanses they peered at him. Hot work, hot work, cried the lieutenant deliriously. He walked up and down relentless and eager. Sometimes his voice could be heard in a wild, incomprehensible laugh. When he had a particularly profound thought upon the science of war, he always unconsciously addressed himself to the youth. There was some grim rejoicing by the men. By thunder I bet this army'll never see another new regiment like us. You bet. A dog, a woman, and a walnut tree. The more you beat them, the better they be. That's like us. Lost a parliament they did.  Yes, and if she come around again in about an hour, she'll get a pile more. The forest still bore its burden of clamor. From off under the trees came the rolling clanner of the musket tree. Each distant thicket seemed this strange porcupine with quills of flame. A cloud of dark smoke as from smoldering ruins went up toward the sun now bright and gay in the blue enameled sky. CHAPTER 18 OF THE RED BADGE OF CURRIGE AN EPISODE OF THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Mike Venditti. THE RED BADGE OF CURRIGE AN EPISODE OF THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR By Stephen Crane CHAPTER 18 The ragged line had respite for some minutes, but during its pause the struggle in the forest seemed magnified until the trees seemed to quiver from the firing and the ground to shake from the rushing of the men. The voices of the cannon were mingled in a long and intermodal row. It seemed difficult to live in such an atmosphere. The chests of the men strained for a bit of freshness, and their throats craved water. There was one shot through the body, who raised a cry of bitter lamentation, when came upon this lull. Perhaps he had been calling out during the fighting also, but at that time no one had heard him. But now the men turned at the woeful complaints of him upon the ground. Who is it? Who is it? It's Jimmy Rogers. Jimmy Rogers. When their eyes first encountered him there was a sudden halt, as if they feared to go near. He was thrashing about in the grass, twisting his chuddering body into many strange postures. He was screaming loudly.  The youth's friend had a geographical illusion concerning a stream, and he obtained permission to go for some water. Immediately canteens were showered upon him. Remind, will ya? Bring me some, too. And me, too. He departed laden. The youth went with his friend, feeling a desire to throw his heated body into the stream, and soaking their drink quartz. They made a hurried search for the supposed stream, but did not find it. No water here, said the youth. They turned without delay and began to retrace their steps. From their position as they again faced toward the place of the fighting, they could of course comprehend a greater amount of the battle than when their visions had been blurred by the hurling smoke of the line. They could see dark stretches winding along the land, and on one cleared space there was a row of guns, making grey clouds which were filled with large flashes of orange-coloured flame. Over some foliage they could see the roof of a house, one window glowing a deep murder writ shown squarely through the leaves. From the edifice a tall, leaning tower of smoke went far into the sky. Looking over their own troops, they saw mixed masses slowly getting into regular form. The sunlight made twinkling points of the bright steel. To the rear there was a glimpse of a distant roadway as it curved over a slope. It was crowded with retreating infantry. From all the interwoven forest rose the smoke and bluster of the battle. The air was always occupied by a blaring. Near where they stood shells were flip-flapping and hooting. Occasional bullets buzzed in the air and spanged into tree trunks. Wounded men and other stragglers were slinking through the woods. Looking down an aisle of the grove the youth and his companions saw a jangling general and his staff almost right upon a wounded man who was crawling on his hands and knees. The general reigned strongly at his chargers opened and foamed him out, and guided it with dexterous horsemanship past the man. The latter scrambled in wild and torturing haste. His strength evidently failed him as he reached the place of safety. One of his arms suddenly weakened and he fell, sliding over upon his back. He lay stretched out, breathing gently.  Another officer riding with the skillful abandon of a cowboy galloped his horse to a position directly before the general. The two unnoticed foot soldiers made a little show of going on. But they lingered near in the desire to overhear the conversation. Perhaps they thought some great inner historical things would be said. The general, whom the boys knew as the commander of their division, looked at the other officer and spoke coolly as if he were criticizing his clothes. The enemy's forming over there for another charge, said. It'll be directed against Widerside. And, odd fear, they'll break through there unless we work like thunder to stop them. The other swore at his resistive horse, and then cleared his throat. He made a gesture toward his cap.  I presumed so, remarked the general. Then he began to talk rapidly and in a lower tone. He frequently illustrated his words with a pointing finger. The two infantrymen could hear nothing until finally he asked, What troops can you spare? The officer who rode like a cowboy reflected for an instant. Well, he said, I had to order in the 12th to help the 76th. And I haven't really got any. But there's a thrill of fourth. They fight like a lot of mule drivers. I can spare them best of any. The youth and his friend exchanged glances of astonishment. The general spoke sharply. Get them ready, then. I'll watch developments from here and send you word when to start of them. It'll happen in five minutes. As the other officer tossed his fingers toward his cap, and willing his horse started away, the general called out to him in a sober voice. I don't believe many of your mule drivers will get back. The other shouted something in reply. He smiled. With scared faces, the youth and his companion hurried back to the line. These happenings had occupied an incredibly short time. Yet the youth felt that in them he had been made aged. New eyes were given to him. And the most darling thing was to learn suddenly that he was very insignificant. The officer spoke of the regiment as if he referred to a broom. Some part of the woods needed sweeping, perhaps, and he merely indicated a broom in a tone properly indifferent to its fate. It was war, no doubt, but it appeared strange. As the two boys approached the line, Lieutenant perceived them and swelled with wrath. Fleming, Wilson, how long does it take you to get water anyhow? Where have you been to? But his oration ceased as he saw their eyes, which were large, with great tails. We're going to charge. We're going to charge, cried the youth friend, hastening with his news. Charged, said the Lieutenant. Charge? Well, bun god, now this is real fighting. Over his soiled countenance, there went a boastful smile. Charge! Well, bun god! A little group of soldiers surrounded the two youths. Are we sure enough? Well, I'll be done. Charge! What for? What at? Wilson, you're lying. I hope to die, said the youth, pitching his tone to the key of angry remonstrance. Sure as shooting, I'll tell you. And his friend spoke in reinforcement. Not by a blame-side, he ain't lying. We heard him talking. They caught sight of two mounted figures a short distance from them. One was the Colonel of the Regiment, and the other was the officer who had received orders from the commander of the division. They were gesticulating at each other. The soldier pointing at them interrupted the scene. One man had a final objection. How could you hear him talking? But the men, for a large part, nodded, admitting that previously the two friends had spoken truth. They settled back into reposeful attitudes, with errors of having accepted the matter, and they mused upon it with a hundred varieties of expression. It was an engrossing thing to think about. Many tightened their belts carefully and hitched at their trousers. A moment later the officers began to bustle among the men, pushing them into a more compact mass, and into a better alignment. They chased those that straggled and fumed at a few men, who seemed to show by their attitudes that they had decided to remain at that spot. They were like critical shepherds struggling with sheep. Presently the regiment seemed to draw itself up and heave a deep breath. None of the men's faces were mirrors of large thoughts. The soldiers were bended and stooped, like sprinters before a signal. Many pairs of glinting eyes peered from the grimy faces toward the curtains of the deeper woods. They seemed to be engaged in deep calculations of time and distance. They were surrounded by the noises of the monstrous altercation between the two armies. The world was fully interested in other matters, apparently. The regiment had its small affair to itself. The youth turning shot a quick inquiring glance at his friend. The latter returned to him the same manner of look. They were the only ones who possessed an inner knowledge. Meal drivers held pay. Don't believe many will get back. It was an ironical secret. Still they saw no hesitation in each other's faces, and they nodded a mute and unprotesting assent, when that shaggy man near them said in a meek voice, We'll get swallowed. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 The youth stared at the land in front of him. Its foliage now seemed to veil powers and horrors. He was unaware of the machinery of orders that started to charred, although from the corners of his eyes. He saw an officer who looked like a boy on horseback, come galloping waving his hat. Suddenly he felt a straining and heaving among the men. The line fell slowly forward, like a toppling wall, and in a convulsive gasp, that was intended for a cheer. The regiment began its journey. The youth was pushed and jostled for a moment before he understood the movement at all. But directly he lunged ahead and began to run. It fixed his eye upon a distant and prominent clump of trees, where he had concluded the enemy were to be met. And he ran toward it as though a goal. He had believed throughout that it was a mere question of getting over an unpleasant matter as quickly as possible. And he ran desperately, as if pursued for a murder. His face was drawn hard and tight with the stress of his endeavor. His eyes were mixed in a lurid glare, and with his soiled and distorted dress his red and inflamed features, surmounted by the dingy rag, with its spot of blood, his wildly swinging rifle and banging accrutiments, he looked to be an insane soldier. As the regiment swung from its position out into a cleared space, the woods and thickets beeped for it, awakened. Yellow flames leapt toward it from many directions. The force made a tremendous objection. The line lurched straight for a moment. Then the right wing swung forward. It, in turn, was surpassed by the left, afterward the center, careening to the front until the regiment was a wedge-shaped mass. But an instillator, the opposition of the bush's trees, and in even places on the ground split the command and scattered it into detached clusters. The youth light-footed was unconsciously in advance. His eyes still kept note of the clump of trees. From all places near it the clanny shell of the enemy could be heard. The little flames of rifles leaped from it. The song of the bullets was in the air, shells starled among the treetops. One tumbled, directly into the middle of a hurrying group and exploded in crimson fury. There was an instant spectacle of a man almost over it, throwing up his hands to shield his eyes. Other men, punched by bullets, fell in grotesque agonies. The regiment left a coherent trail of bodies. They had passed into a clearer atmosphere. There was an effect, like a revelation, in the new appearance of the landscape. Some men working madly at a battery were plain to them, and the opposing infantry lines were defined by the gray walls and fringes of smoke. It seemed to the youth that he saw everything. Each blade of green grass was bold and clear. He thought that he was aware of every change in the thin transparent vapor that floated idly in sheets. The brown or gray trunks of trees showed each roughness of their surfaces. The men of the regiment, with their startling eyes and sweating faces, running madly or falling, as if thrown headlong into queer, heaped-up corpses, all were comprehended. His mind took a mechanical but firm impression, so that afterward everything was pictured and explained to him, save why he himself was there. But there was a frenzy made from this furious rush. The men pitching forward, insanely, had burst into cheerings, mob-like, and barbaric, but tuned in strange keys that can arouse the dullard and the steotic. It made a mad enthusiasm that it seemed would be incapable of checking itself before granite and brass. There was the delirium that encounters despair and death, and it's heedless and blind to the odds. It is a temporary but sublime absence of selfishness, and because it was of this order was the reason, perhaps why the youth wondered afterward what reasons he could have had for being there. Presently the straining pace ate up the energies of the men, as if by agreement the leaders began to slacken their speed. The volleys directed against them had a seeming wind-like effect. The regiment snorted and blew. Among some stolid trees began to falter and hesitate. The men, staring intently, began to wait for some of the distant walls of smoke to move and disclose to them the scene. Since much of their strength and their breath had vanished, they returned to caution. They were become men again. The youth had a vague belief that he had run miles, and he thought in a way that he was now in some new and unknown land. The moment the regiment ceased its advance, the protesting splutter of musketry became a steadfast roar. Long and accurate, fringes of smoke spread out. From the top of a small hill came level bleachings of yellow flame that caused any human whistling in the air. The men halted, had opportunity to see some of their comrades dropping with moans and shrieks, a few laying underfoot, still or wailing, and now, for an instant, the men stood. The rifles slackened their hands and watched the regiment dwindle.  This spectacle seemed to paralyze them, overcome them with a fatal fascination. They stared, woodenly, at the sights and lowering their eyes, looked from face to face. It was a strange pause and a strange silence. Then, above the sounds of the outside commotion, arose the roar of the lieutenant. He strode suddenly forth. His infantile features black with rage.  He bellowed! Come on! Yay! Can't stay here! You must! Come on! He said more, but much of it could not be understood. He started rapidly forward, with his head turned toward the men. Come on! He was shouting. The men stared with blank and yoke-like eyes at him. He was obliged to halt and retrace his steps. He stood then with his back to the enemy and delivered gigantic curses into the faces of the men. His body vibrated, from the weight and force of his implications, and he could string host with the facility of a maiden who string speeds. The friend of the youth aroused, lurching suddenly forward and dropping to his knees. He fired an angry shot at the persistent woods. This action awakened the men. They huddled no more like sheep. They seemed suddenly to bethink them of their weapons, and at once commenced firing. Relabored by their officers, they began to move forward. The regiment involved like a cart involved in mud and muddle. Started unevenly, with many jolts and jerks. The men now stopped every few paces to fire and load, and in this manner moved on slowly from trees to trees. The flaming opposition in their front grew with their advance until it seemed that all forward ways were barred by the thin leaping tongues, and off to the right an ominous demonstration could sometimes be dimly discerned. The smoke lately generated was in confusing clouds that made it difficult for the regiment to proceed with intelligence. As he passed through each curling mass the youth wondered what would confront him on the further side. The command went painfully forward, until an open space interposed between them and the lurid lines. Here, crouching and cowering behind some trees, the men clung with desperation, if if threatened by a wave. They looked wild-eyed, and as if amazed at the furious disturbance they had stirred. In the storm there was an ironical expression of their importance. The faces of the men too showed a lack of certain feeling of responsibility for being there. It was as if they had been driven. It was the dominant animal, failing to remember in the supreme moments the forceful causes of various superficial qualities. The whole affair seemed incomprehensible to many of them. As they halted thus, Lieutenant again began to bellow profanely. Regardless of the vindictive threats of the bullets he went about coaxing berating and bedamming. His lips that were habitually in a soft and childlike curve were now writhed into unholy contortions. He swore by all possible deities. Once he grabbed the youth by the arm, come on, look ahead, you roared.  We've only got to go across that lot, and then the remainder of his idea disappeared in a blue haze of curses. The youth stretched forth his arm. Crossed there? His mouth was puckered in doubt and awe. Certainly, just crossed the lot. We can't stay here, Scream the Lieutenant. He poked his face close to the youth and waved his bandaged hand. Come on, presently he grappled with him as if for a wrestling bout. It was if he planned to drag the youth by the ear unto the assault. The private felt a sudden unspeakable indignation against his officer. He wretched fiercely and shook him up. Come on yourself, then, he yelled. There was a bitter challenge in his voice. They galloped together down the regimental front. The friend scrambled after them. In front of the colors the three men began to bawl. Come on, come on! They danced and gyrated like tortured savages. The flag obedient to these appeals bended its glittering form and swept toward them. The men wavered in indecision for a moment and then, with a long, wailful cry, the dissipated regiment surged forward and began its new journey. Over the field went the scurrying mass. It was a handful of men splattered into the faces of the enemy. Toward it instantly sprang the yellow tongues, a vast quantity of blue smoke hung before them, a mighty banging made ears valueless. The youth ran like a madman to reach the woods before a bullet could discover him. He ducked his head low like a football player. In his haste his eyes almost closed and the scene was a wild blur. Pulsating saliva stood in the corner of his mouth. Within him, as he hurled himself forward, was born love, a despiring fondness for his flag which was near him. It was a creation of beauty and invulnerability. It was a goddess, radiant, that blended its form with an imperious gesture to him. It was a woman, red and white, hating and loving, that called him with the voice of his hopes. Because no harm could come to it, he endowed it with power. He kept near, as if it could be a saver of lives, and an imploring cry went from his mind. In the mad scramble he was aware that the color sergeant flinched suddenly as if struck by a bludgeon. He faltered and then became motionless, save for his quivering knees. He made a spring and a clutch at the pole. At the same instant his friend grabbed it from the other side. They jerked it, stout and furious, but the color sergeant was dead, and the corpse would not relinquish its trust. For a moment there was a grim encounter the dead man swinging with bended back seemed to be obstinately tugging, in ludicrous and awful ways for the possession of the flag. It was passed in an instant of time. They wrenched the flag furiously from the dead man, and then as they turned again the corpse swayed forward with bowed head. One arm swung high, and the curved hand fell with heavy protest on the friend's unheeding shoulder.