The Red Badge of Courage: An Episode of the American Civil War
“No, I ain’t,” exclaimed the loud soldier indignantly; “and I didn’t
say I was the bravest man in the world, neither. I said I was going to
do my share of fighting—that’s what I said. And I am, too. Who are you,
anyhow? You talk as if you thought you was Napoleon Bonaparte.” He
glared at the youth for a moment, and then strode away.
The youth called in a savage voice after his comrade: “Well, you
needn’t git mad about it!” But the other continued on his way and made
no reply.
He felt alone in space when his injured comrade had disappeared. His
failure to discover any mite of resemblance in their viewpoints made
him more miserable than before. No one seemed to be wrestling with such
a terrific personal problem. He was a mental outcast.
He went slowly to his tent and stretched himself on a blanket by the
side of the snoring tall soldier. In the darkness he saw visions of a
thousand-tongued fear that would babble at his back and cause him to
flee, while others were going coolly about their country’s business. He
admitted that he would not be able to cope with this monster. He felt
that every nerve in his body would be an ear to hear the voices, while
other men would remain stolid and deaf.
And as he sweated with the pain of these thoughts, he could hear low,
serene sentences. “I’ll bid five.” “Make it six.” “Seven.” “Seven
goes.”
He stared at the red, shivering reflection of a fire on the white wall
of his tent until, exhausted and ill from the monotony of his
suffering, he fell asleep.
Chapter III.
When another night came, the columns, changed to purple streaks, filed
across two pontoon bridges. A glaring fire wine-tinted the waters of
the river. Its rays, shining upon the moving masses of troops, brought
forth here and there sudden gleams of silver or gold. Upon the other
shore a dark and mysterious range of hills was curved against the sky.
The insect voices of the night sang solemnly.
After this crossing the youth assured himself that at any moment they
might be suddenly and fearfully assaulted from the caves of the
lowering woods. He kept his eyes watchfully upon the darkness.
But his regiment went unmolested to a camping place, and its soldiers
slept the brave sleep of wearied men. In the morning they were routed
out with early energy, and hustled along a narrow road that led deep
into the forest.
It was during this rapid march that the regiment lost many of the marks
of a new command.
The men had begun to count the miles upon their fingers, and they grew
tired. “Sore feet an’ damned short rations, that’s all,” said the loud
soldier. There was perspiration and grumblings. After a time they began
to shed their knapsacks. Some tossed them unconcernedly down; others
hid them carefully, asserting their plans to return for them at some
convenient time. Men extricated themselves from thick shirts. Presently
few carried anything but their necessary clothing, blankets,
haversacks, canteens, and arms and ammunition. “You can now eat and
shoot,” said the tall soldier to the youth. “That’s all you want to
do.”
There was sudden change from the ponderous infantry of theory to the
light and speedy infantry of practice. The regiment, relieved of a
burden, received a new impetus. But there was much loss of valuable
knapsacks, and, on the whole, very good shirts.
But the regiment was not yet veteranlike in appearance. Veteran
regiments in the army were likely to be very small aggregations of men.
Once, when the command had first come to the field, some perambulating
veterans, noting the length of their column, had accosted them thus:
“Hey, fellers, what brigade is that?” And when the men had replied that
they formed a regiment and not a brigade, the older soldiers had
laughed, and said, “O Gawd!”
Also, there was too great a similarity in the hats. The hats of a
regiment should properly represent the history of headgear for a period
of years. And, moreover, there were no letters of faded gold speaking
from the colors. They were new and beautiful, and the color bearer
habitually oiled the pole.
Presently the army again sat down to think. The odor of the peaceful
pines was in the men’s nostrils. The sound of monotonous axe blows rang
through the forest, and the insects, nodding upon their perches,
crooned like old women. The youth returned to his theory of a blue
demonstration.
One gray dawn, however, he was kicked in the leg by the tall soldier,
and then, before he was entirely awake, he found himself running down a
wood road in the midst of men who were panting from the first effects
of speed. His canteen banged rythmically upon his thigh, and his
haversack bobbed softly. His musket bounced a trifle from his shoulder
at each stride and made his cap feel uncertain upon his head.
He could hear the men whisper jerky sentences: “Say—what’s all
this—about?” “What th’ thunder—we—skedaddlin’ this way fer?”
“Billie—keep off m’ feet. Yeh run—like a cow.” And the loud soldier’s
shrill voice could be heard: “What th’ devil they in sich a hurry for?”
The youth thought the damp fog of early morning moved from the rush of
a great body of troops. From the distance came a sudden spatter of
firing.
He was bewildered. As he ran with his comrades he strenuously tried to
think, but all he knew was that if he fell down those coming behind
would tread upon him. All his faculties seemed to be needed to guide
him over and past obstructions. He felt carried along by a mob.
The sun spread disclosing rays, and, one by one, regiments burst into
view like armed men just born of the earth. The youth perceived that
the time had come. He was about to be measured. For a moment he felt in
the face of his great trial like a babe, and the flesh over his heart
seemed very thin. He seized time to look about him calculatingly.
But he instantly saw that it would be impossible for him to escape from
the regiment. It inclosed him. And there were iron laws of tradition
and law on four sides. He was in a moving box.
As he perceived this fact it occurred to him that he had never wished
to come to the war. He had not enlisted of his free will. He had been
dragged by the merciless government. And now they were taking him out
to be slaughtered.
The regiment slid down a bank and wallowed across a little stream. The
mournful current moved slowly on, and from the water, shaded black,
some white bubble eyes looked at the men.
As they climbed the hill on the farther side artillery began to boom.
Here the youth forgot many things as he felt a sudden impulse of
curiosity. He scrambled up the bank with a speed that could not be
exceeded by a bloodthirsty man.
He expected a battle scene.
There were some little fields girted and squeezed by a forest. Spread
over the grass and in among the tree trunks, he could see knots and
waving lines of skirmishers who were running hither and thither and
firing at the landscape. A dark battle line lay upon a sunstruck
clearing that gleamed orange color. A flag fluttered.
Other regiments floundered up the bank. The brigade was formed in line
of battle, and after a pause started slowly through the woods in the
rear of the receding skirmishers, who were continually melting into the
scene to appear again farther on. They were always busy as bees, deeply
absorbed in their little combats.
The youth tried to observe everything. He did not use care to avoid
trees and branches, and his forgotten feet were constantly knocking
against stones or getting entangled in briers. He was aware that these
battalions with their commotions were woven red and startling into the
gentle fabric of softened greens and browns. It looked to be a wrong
place for a battle field.
The skirmishers in advance fascinated him. Their shots into thickets
and at distant and prominent trees spoke to him of tragedies—hidden,
mysterious, solemn.
Once the line encountered the body of a dead soldier. He lay upon his
back staring at the sky. He was dressed in an awkward suit of yellowish
brown. The youth could see that the soles of his shoes had been worn to
the thinness of writing paper, and from a great rent in one the dead
foot projected piteously. And it was as if fate had betrayed the
soldier. In death it exposed to his enemies that poverty which in life
he had perhaps concealed from his friends.
The ranks opened covertly to avoid the corpse. The invulnerable dead
man forced a way for himself. The youth looked keenly at the ashen
face. The wind raised the tawny beard. It moved as if a hand were
stroking it. He vaguely desired to walk around and around the body and
stare; the impulse of the living to try to read in dead eyes the answer
to the Question.
During the march the ardor which the youth had acquired when out of
view of the field rapidly faded to nothing. His curiosity was quite
easily satisfied. If an intense scene had caught him with its wild
swing as he came to the top of the bank, he might have gone roaring on.
This advance upon Nature was too calm. He had opportunity to reflect.
He had time in which to wonder about himself and to attempt to probe
his sensations.
Absurd ideas took hold upon him. He thought that he did not relish the
landscape. It threatened him. A coldness swept over his back, and it is
true that his trousers felt to him that they were no fit for his legs
at all.
A house standing placidly in distant fields had to him an ominous look.
The shadows of the woods were formidable. He was certain that in this
vista there lurked fierce-eyed hosts. The swift thought came to him
that the generals did not know what they were about. It was all a trap.
Suddenly those close forests would bristle with rifle barrels. Ironlike
brigades would appear in the rear. They were all going to be
sacrificed. The generals were stupids. The enemy would presently
swallow the whole command. He glared about him, expecting to see the
stealthy approach of his death.
He thought that he must break from the ranks and harangue his comrades.
They must not all be killed like pigs; and he was sure it would come to
pass unless they were informed of these dangers. The generals were
idiots to send them marching into a regular pen. There was but one pair
of eyes in the corps. He would step forth and make a speech. Shrill and
passionate words came to his lips.
The line, broken into moving fragments by the ground, went calmly on
through fields and woods. The youth looked at the men nearest him, and
saw, for the most part, expressions of deep interest, as if they were
investigating something that had fascinated them. One or two stepped
with overvaliant airs as if they were already plunged into war. Others
walked as upon thin ice. The greater part of the untested men appeared
quiet and absorbed. They were going to look at war, the red animal—war,
the blood-swollen god. And they were deeply engrossed in this march.
As he looked the youth gripped his outcry at his throat. He saw that
even if the men were tottering with fear they would laugh at his
warning. They would jeer him, and, if practicable, pelt him with
missiles. Admitting that he might be wrong, a frenzied declamation of
the kind would turn him into a worm.
He assumed, then, the demeanor of one who knows that he is doomed alone
to unwritten responsibilities. He lagged, with tragic glances at the
sky.
He was surprised presently by the young lieutenant of his company, who
began heartily to beat him with a sword, calling out in a loud and
insolent voice: “Come, young man, get up into ranks there. No skulking
’ll do here.” He mended his pace with suitable haste. And he hated the
lieutenant, who had no appreciation of fine minds. He was a mere brute.
After a time the brigade was halted in the cathedral light of a forest.