The Open Boat and Other Stories
got in his eye. He took his handkerchief and mechanically administered
to it.
An officer with a double stripe of purple on his trousers paced in the
rear of the battery of howitzers. He waved a little cane. Sometimes
he paused in his promenade to study the field through his glasses. "A
fine scene, sir," he cried airily, upon the approach of Peza. It was
like a blow in the chest to the wide-eyed volunteer. It revealed to him
a point of view. "Yes, sir, it is a fine scene," he answered. They
spoke in French. "I am happy to be able to entertain monsieur with a
little practice," continued the officer. "I am firing upon that mass of
troops you see there a little to the right. They are probably forming
for another attack." Peza smiled; here again appeared manners, manners
erect by the side of death.
The right-flank gun of the battery thundered; there was a belch of
fire and smoke; the shell flung swiftly and afar was known only to the
ear in which rang a broadening hooting wake of sound. The howitzer had
thrown itself backward convulsively, and lay with its wheels moving
in the air as a squad of men rushed toward it. And later, it seemed
as if each little gun had made the supreme effort of its being in
each particular shot. They roared with voices far too loud, and the
thunderous effort caused a gun to bound as in a dying convulsion. And
then occasionally one was hurled with wheels in air. These shuddering
howitzers presented an appearance of so many cowards always longing to
bolt to the rear, but being implacably held to their business by this
throng of soldiers who ran in squads to drag them up again to their
obligation. The guns were herded and cajoled and bullied interminably.
One by one, in relentless program, they were dragged forward to
contribute a profound vibration of steel and wood, a flash and a roar,
to the important happiness of man.
The adjacent infantry celebrated a good shot with smiles and an
outburst of gleeful talk.
"Look, sir," cried an officer to Peza. Thin smoke was drifting lazily
before Peza, and dodging impatiently he brought his eyes to bear upon
that part of the plain indicated by the officer's finger. The enemy's
infantry was advancing to attack. From the black lines had come forth
an inky mass which was shaped much like a human tongue. It advanced
slowly, casually, without apparent spirit, but with an insolent
confidence that was like a proclamation of the inevitable.
The impetuous part was all played by the defensive side. Officers
called, men plucked each other by the sleeve; there were shouts,
motions, all eyes were turned upon the inky mass which was flowing
toward the base of the hills, heavily, languorously, as oily and thick
as one of the streams that ooze through a swamp.
Peza was chattering a question at every one. In the way, pushed aside,
or in the way again, he continued to repeat it. "Can they take the
position? Can they take the position? Can they take the position?"
He was apparently addressing an assemblage of deaf men. Every eye
was busy watching every hand. The soldiers did not even seem to see
the interesting stranger in the white helmet who was crying out so
feverishly.
Finally, however, the hurried captain of the battery espied him and
heeded his question. "No, sir! no, sir! It is impossible," he shouted
angrily. His manner seemed to denote that if he had sufficient time he
would have completely insulted Peza. The latter swallowed the crumb of
news without regard to the coating of scorn, and, waving his hand in
adieu, he began to run along the crest of the hill toward the part of
the Greek line against which the attack was directed.
VI
Peza, as he ran along the crest of the mountain, believed that his
action was receiving the wrathful attention of the hosts of the foe.
To him then it was incredible foolhardiness thus to call to himself
the stares of thousands of hateful eyes. He was like a lad induced by
playmates to commit some indiscretion in a cathedral. He was abashed;
perhaps he even blushed as he ran. It seemed to him that the whole
solemn ceremony of war had paused during this commission. So he
scrambled wildly over the rocks in his haste to end the embarrassing
ordeal. When he came among the crowning rifle-pits filled with eager
soldiers he wanted to yell with joy. None noticed him save a young
officer of infantry, who said--"Sir, what do you want?" It was obvious
that people had devoted some attention to their own affairs.
Peza asserted, in Greek, that he wished above everything to battle for
the fatherland. The officer nodded; with a smile he pointed to some
dead men covered with blankets, from which were thrust upturned dusty
shoes.
"Yes, I know, I know," cried Peza. He thought the officer was
poetically alluding to the danger.
"No," said the officer at once. "I mean cartridges--a bandolier. Take
a bandolier from one of them."
Peza went cautiously toward a body. He moved a hand toward the corner
of a blanket. There he hesitated, stuck, as if his arm had turned to
plaster. Hearing a rustle behind him he spun quickly. Three soldiers of
the close rank in the trench were regarding him. The officer came again
and tapped him on the shoulder. "Have you any tobacco?" Peza looked at
him in bewilderment. His hand was still extended toward the blanket
which covered the dead soldier. "Yes," he said, "I have some tobacco."
He gave the officer his pouch. As if in compensation, the other
directed a soldier to strip the bandolier from the corpse. Peza, having
crossed the long cartridge belt on his breast, felt that the dead man
had flung his two arms around him.
A soldier with a polite nod and smile gave Peza a rifle, a relic of
another dead man. Thus, he felt, besides the clutch of a corpse about
his neck, that the rifle was as inhumanly horrible as a snake that
lives in a tomb. He heard at his ear something that was in effect like
the voices of those two dead men, their low voices speaking to him
of bloody death, mutilation. The bandolier gripped him tighter; he
wished to raise his hands to his throat like a man who is choking. The
rifle was clammy; upon his palms he felt the movement of the sluggish
currents of a serpent's life; it was crawling and frightful.
All about him were these peasants, with their interested countenances,
gibbering of the fight. From time to time a soldier cried out in
semi-humorous lamentations descriptive of his thirst. One bearded man
sat munching a great bit of hard bread. Fat, greasy, squat, he was like
an idol made of tallow. Peza felt dimly that there was a distinction
between this man and a young student who could write sonnets and play
the piano quite well. This old blockhead was coolly gnawing at the
bread, while he, Peza, was being throttled by a dead man's arms.
He looked behind him, and saw that a head by some chance had been
uncovered from its blanket. Two liquid-like eyes were staring into
his face. The head was turned a little sideways as if to get better
opportunity for the scrutiny. Peza could feel himself blanch; he was
being drawn and drawn by these dead men slowly, firmly down as to some
mystic chamber under the earth where they could walk, dreadful figures,
swollen and blood-marked. He was bidden; they had commanded him; he was
going, going, going.
When the man in the new white helmet bolted for the rear, many of the
soldiers in the trench thought that he had been struck, but those
who had been nearest to him knew better. Otherwise they would have
heard the silken sliding tender noise of the bullet and the thud
of its impact. They bawled after him curses, and also outbursts of
self-congratulation and vanity. Despite the prominence of the cowardly
part, they were enabled to see in this exhibition a fine comment upon
their own fortitude. The other soldiers thought that Peza had been
wounded somewhere in the neck, because as he ran he was tearing madly
at the bandolier, the dead man's arms. The soldier with the bread
paused in his eating and cynically remarked upon the speed of the
runaway.
An officer's voice was suddenly heard calling out the calculation of
the distance to the enemy, the readjustment of the sights. There was
a stirring rattle along the line. The men turned their eyes to the
front. Other trenches beneath them to the right were already heavily in
action. The smoke was lifting toward the blue sky. The soldier with the
bread placed it carefully on a bit of paper beside him as he turned to
kneel in the trench.
VII
In the late afternoon, the child ceased his play on the mountain with
his flocks and his dogs. Part of the battle had whirled very near to
the base of his hill, and the noise was great. Sometimes he could see
fantastic smoky shapes which resembled the curious figures in foam
which one sees on the slant of a rough sea. The plain indeed was etched
in white circles and whirligigs like the slope of a colossal wave. The
child took seat on a stone and contemplated the fight. He was beginning
to be astonished; he had never before seen cattle herded with such
uproar. Lines of flame flashed out here and there. It was mystery.
Finally, without any preliminary indication, he began to weep. If the
men struggling on the plain had had time and greater vision, they could
have seen this strange tiny figure seated on a boulder, surveying them
while the tears streamed. It was as simple as some powerful symbol.
As the magic clear light of day amid the mountains dimmed the
distances, and the plain shone as a pallid blue cloth marked by the red
threads of the firing, the child arose and moved off to the unwelcoming
door of his home. He called softly for his mother, and complained of
his hunger in the familiar formula. The pearl-coloured cow, grinding
her jaws thoughtfully, stared at him with her large eyes. The peaceful
gloom of evening was slowly draping the hills.
The child heard a rattle of loose stones on the hillside, and facing
the sound, saw a moment later a man drag himself up to the crest of the
hill and fall panting. Forgetting his mother and his hunger, filled
with calm interest, the child walked forward and stood over the heaving
form. His eyes too were now large and inscrutably wise and sad like
those of the animal in the house.
After a silence he spoke inquiringly. "Are you a man?"
Peza rolled over quickly and gazed up into the fearless cherubic
countenance. He did not attempt to reply. He breathed as if life was
about to leave his body. He was covered with dust; his face had been
cut in some way, and his cheek was ribboned with blood. All the spick
of his former appearance had vanished in a general dishevelment, in
which he resembled a creature that had been flung to and fro, up and
down, by cliffs and prairies during an earthquake. He rolled his eye
glassily at the child.
They remained thus until the child repeated his words. "Are you a man?"
Peza gasped in the manner of a fish. Palsied, windless, and abject, he
confronted the primitive courage, the sovereign child, the brother of
the mountains, the sky and the sea, and he knew that the definition of
his misery could be written on a grass-blade.
Part II
Midnight Sketches
AN EXPERIMENT IN MISERY
(From the Press, New York.)
It was late at night, and a fine rain was swirling softly down, causing
the pavements to glisten with hue of steel and blue and yellow in the
rays of the innumerable lights. A youth was trudging slowly, without
enthusiasm, with his hands buried deep in his trouser's pockets,
towards the down-town places where beds can be hired for coppers. He
was clothed in an aged and tattered suit, and his derby was a marvel