Complete Works of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  “No,” said Dan.

  The new-comer shifted his feet. He looked at the fire, at the sky, at the other men, at Dan. His face expressed a curious despair; his tongue was plainly in rebellion. Finally, however, he contrived to say: “Well, there’s some chance yet, Dan. Lots of the wounded are still lying out there, you know. There’s some chance yet.”

  “Yes,” said Dan.

  The soldier shifted his feet again, and looked miserably into the air. After another struggle he said: “Well, there’s some chance yet, Dan.” He moved hastily away.

  One of the men of the squad, perhaps encouraged by this example, now approached the still figure. “No news yet, hey?” he said, after coughing behind his hand.

  “No,” said Dan.

  “Well,” said the man, “I’ve been thinking of how he was fretting about you the night you went on special duty. You recollect? Well, sir, I was surprised. He couldn’t say enough about it. I swan, I don’t believe he slep’ a wink after you left, but just lay awake cussing special duty and worrying. I was surprised. But there he lay cussing. He — —”

  Dan made a curious sound, as if a stone had wedged in his throat. He said: “Shut up, will you?”

  Afterward the men would not allow this moody contemplation of the fire to be interrupted.

  “Oh, let him alone, can’t you?”

  “Come away from there, Casey!”

  “Say, can’t you leave him be?”

  They moved with reverence about the immovable figure, with its countenance of mask-like invulnerability.

  VII.

  After the red round eye of the sun had stared long at the little plain and its burden, darkness, a sable mercy, came heavily upon it, and the wan hands of the dead were no longer seen in strange frozen gestures.

  The heights in front of the plain shone with tiny camp-fires, and from the town in the rear, small shimmerings ascended from the blazes of the bivouac. The plain was a black expanse upon which, from time to time, dots of light, lanterns, floated slowly here and there. These fields were long steeped in grim mystery.

  Suddenly, upon one dark spot, there was a resurrection. A strange thing had been groaning there, prostrate. Then it suddenly dragged itself to a sitting posture, and became a man.

  The man stared stupidly for a moment at the lights on the hill, then turned and contemplated the faint colouring over the town. For some moments he remained thus, staring with dull eyes, his face unemotional, wooden.

  Finally he looked around him at the corpses dimly to be seen. No change flashed into his face upon viewing these men. They seemed to suggest merely that his information concerning himself was not too complete. He ran his fingers over his arms and chest, bearing always the air of an idiot upon a bench at an almshouse door.

  Finding no wound in his arms nor in his chest, he raised his hand to his head, and the fingers came away with some dark liquid upon them. Holding these fingers close to his eyes, he scanned them in the same stupid fashion, while his body gently swayed.

  The soldier rolled his eyes again toward the town. When he arose, his clothing peeled from the frozen ground like wet paper. Hearing the sound of it, he seemed to see reason for deliberation. He paused and looked at the ground, then at his trousers, then at the ground.

  Finally he went slowly off toward the faint reflection, holding his hands palm outward before him, and walking in the manner of a blind man.

  VIII.

  The immovable Dan again sat unaddressed in the midst of comrades, who did not joke aloud. The dampness of the usual morning fog seemed to make the little camp-fires furious.

  Suddenly a cry arose in the streets, a shout of amazement and delight. The men making breakfast at the fire looked up quickly. They broke forth in clamorous exclamation: “Well! Of all things! Dan! Dan! Look who’s coming! Oh, Dan!”

  Dan the silent raised his eyes and saw a man, with a bandage of the size of a helmet about his head, receiving a furious demonstration from the company. He was shaking hands, and explaining, and haranguing to a high degree.

  Dan started. His face of bronze flushed to his temples. He seemed about to leap from the ground, but then suddenly he sank back, and resumed his impassive gazing.

  The men were in a flurry. They looked from one to the other. “Dan! Look! See who’s coming!” some cried again. “Dan! Look!”

  He scowled at last, and moved his shoulders sullenly. “Well, don’t I know it?”

  But they could not be convinced that his eyes were in service. “Dan! Why can’t you look? See who’s coming!”

  He made a gesture then of irritation and rage. “Curse it! Don’t I know it?”

  The man with a bandage of the size of a helmet moved forward, always shaking hands and explaining. At times his glance wandered to Dan, who saw with his eyes riveted.

  After a series of shiftings, it occurred naturally that the man with the bandage was very near to the man who saw the flames. He paused, and there was a little silence. Finally he said: “Hello, Dan.”

  “Hello, Billie.”

  THREE MIRACULOUS SOLDIERS.

  I.

  The girl was in the front room on the second floor, peering through the blinds. It was the “best room.” There was a very new rag carpet on the floor. The edges of it had been dyed with alternate stripes of red and green. Upon the wooden mantel there were two little puffy figures in clay — a shepherd and a shepherdess probably. A triangle of pink and white wool hung carefully over the edge of this shelf. Upon the bureau there was nothing at all save a spread newspaper, with edges folded to make it into a mat. The quilts and sheets had been removed from the bed and were stacked upon a chair. The pillows and the great feather mattress were muffled and tumbled until they resembled great dumplings. The picture of a man terribly leaden in complexion hung in an oval frame on one white wall and steadily confronted the bureau.

  From between the slats of the blinds she had a view of the road as it wended across the meadow to the woods, and again where it reappeared crossing the hill, half a mile away. It lay yellow and warm in the summer sunshine. From the long grasses of the meadow came the rhythmic click of the insects. Occasional frogs in the hidden brook made a peculiar chug-chug sound, as if somebody throttled them. The leaves of the wood swung in gentle winds. Through the dark-green branches of the pines that grew in the front yard could be seen the mountains, far to the southeast, and inexpressibly blue.

  Mary’s eyes were fastened upon the little streak of road that appeared on the distant hill. Her face was flushed with excitement, and the hand which stretched in a strained pose on the sill trembled because of the nervous shaking of the wrist. The pines whisked their green needles with a soft, hissing sound against the house.

  At last the girl turned from the window and went to the head of the stairs. “Well, I just know they’re coming, anyhow,” she cried argumentatively to the depths.

  A voice from below called to her angrily: “They ain’t. We’ve never seen one yet. They never come into this neighbourhood. You just come down here and ‘tend to your work insteader watching for soldiers.”

  “Well, ma, I just know they’re coming.”

  A voice retorted with the shrillness and mechanical violence of occasional housewives. The girl swished her skirts defiantly and returned to the window.

  Upon the yellow streak of road that lay across the hillside there now was a handful of black dots — horsemen. A cloud of dust floated away. The girl flew to the head of the stairs and whirled down into the kitchen.

  “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

  It was as if she had cried “Fire!” Her mother had been peeling potatoes while seated comfortably at the table. She sprang to her feet. “No — it can’t be — how you know it’s them — where?” The stubby knife fell from her hand, and two or three curls of potato skin dropped from her apron to the floor.

  The girl turned and dashed upstairs. Her mother followed, gasping for breath, and yet contriving to fill the air with questions
, reproach, and remonstrance. The girl was already at the window, eagerly pointing. “There! There! See ‘em! See ‘em!”

  Rushing to the window, the mother scanned for an instant the road on the hill. She crouched back with a groan. “It’s them, sure as the world! It’s them!” She waved her hands in despairing gestures.

  The black dots vanished into the wood. The girl at the window was quivering and her eyes were shining like water when the sun flashes. “Hush! They’re in the woods! They’ll be here directly.” She bent down and intently watched the green archway whence the road emerged. “Hush! I hear ’em coming,” she swiftly whispered to her mother, for the elder woman had dropped dolefully upon the mattress and was sobbing. And indeed the girl could hear the quick, dull trample of horses. She stepped aside with sudden apprehension, but she bent her head forward in order to still scan the road.

  “Here they are!”

  There was something very theatrical in the sudden appearance of these men to the eyes of the girl. It was as if a scene had been shifted. The forest suddenly disclosed them — a dozen brown-faced troopers in blue — galloping.

  “Oh, look!” breathed the girl. Her mouth was puckered into an expression of strange fascination as if she had expected to see the troopers change into demons and gloat at her. She was at last looking upon those curious beings who rode down from the North — those men of legend and colossal tale — they who were possessed of such marvellous hallucinations.

  The little troop rode in silence. At its head was a youthful fellow with some dim yellow stripes upon his arm. In his right hand he held his carbine, slanting upward, with the stock resting upon his knee. He was absorbed in a scrutiny of the country before him.

  At the heels of the sergeant the rest of the squad rode in thin column, with creak of leather and tinkle of steel and tin. The girl scanned the faces of the horsemen, seeming astonished vaguely to find them of the type she knew.

  The lad at the head of the troop comprehended the house and its environments in two glances. He did not check the long, swinging stride of his horse. The troopers glanced for a moment like casual tourists, and then returned to their study of the region in front. The heavy thudding of the hoofs became a small noise. The dust, hanging in sheets, slowly sank.

  The sobs of the woman on the bed took form in words which, while strong in their note of calamity, yet expressed a querulous mental reaching for some near thing to blame. “And it’ll be lucky fer us if we ain’t both butchered in our sleep — plundering and running off horses — old Santo’s gone — you see if he ain’t — plundering — —”

  “But, ma,” said the girl, perplexed and terrified in the same moment, “they’ve gone.”

  “Oh, but they’ll come back!” cried the mother, without pausing her wail. “They’ll come back — trust them for that — running off horses. O John, John! why did you, why did you?” She suddenly lifted herself and sat rigid, staring at her daughter. “Mary,” she said in tragic whisper, “the kitchen door isn’t locked!” Already she was bended forward to listen, her mouth agape, her eyes fixed upon her daughter.

  “Mother,” faltered the girl.

  Her mother again whispered, “The kitchen door isn’t locked.”

  Motionless and mute they stared into each other’s eyes.

  At last the girl quavered, “We better — we better go and lock it.” The mother nodded. Hanging arm in arm they stole across the floor toward the head of the stairs. A board of the floor creaked. They halted and exchanged a look of dumb agony.

  At last they reached the head of the stairs. From the kitchen came the bass humming of the kettle and frequent sputterings and cracklings from the fire. These sounds were sinister. The mother and the girl stood incapable of movement. “There’s somebody down there!” whispered the elder woman.

  Finally, the girl made a gesture of resolution. She twisted her arm from her mother’s hands and went two steps downward. She addressed the kitchen: “Who’s there?” Her tone was intended to be dauntless. It rang so dramatically in the silence that a sudden new panic seized them as if the suspected presence in the kitchen had cried out to them. But the girl ventured again: “Is there anybody there?” No reply was made save by the kettle and the fire.

  With a stealthy tread the girl continued her journey. As she neared the last step the fire crackled explosively and the girl screamed. But the mystic presence had not swept around the corner to grab her, so she dropped to a seat on the step and laughed. “It was — was only the — the fire,” she said, stammering hysterically.

  Then she arose with sudden fortitude and cried: “Why, there isn’t anybody there! I know there isn’t.” She marched down into the kitchen. In her face was dread, as if she half expected to confront something, but the room was empty. She cried joyously: “There’s nobody here! Come on down, ma.” She ran to the kitchen door and locked it.

  The mother came down to the kitchen. “Oh, dear, what a fright I’ve had! It’s given me the sick headache. I know it has.”

  “Oh, ma,” said the girl.

  “I know it has — I know it. Oh, if your father was only here! He’d settle those Yankees mighty quick — he’d settle ‘em! Two poor helpless women — —”

  “Why, ma, what makes you act so? The Yankees haven’t — —”

  “Oh, they’ll be back — they’ll be back. Two poor helpless women! Your father and your uncle Asa and Bill off galavanting around and fighting when they ought to be protecting their home! That’s the kind of men they are. Didn’t I say to your father just before he left — —”

  “Ma,” said the girl, coming suddenly from the window, “the barn door is open. I wonder if they took old Santo?”

  “Oh, of course they have — of course —— Mary, I don’t see what we are going to do — I don’t see what we are going to do.”

  The girl said, “Ma, I’m going to see if they took old Santo.”

  “Mary,” cried the mother, “don’t you dare!”

  “But think of poor old Sant, ma.”

  “Never you mind old Santo. We’re lucky to be safe ourselves, I tell you. Never mind old Santo. Don’t you dare to go out there, Mary — Mary!”

  The girl had unlocked the door and stepped out upon the porch. The mother cried in despair, “Mary!”

  “Why, there isn’t anybody out here,” the girl called in response. She stood for a moment with a curious smile upon her face as of gleeful satisfaction at her daring.

  The breeze was waving the boughs of the apple trees. A rooster with an air importantly courteous was conducting three hens upon a foraging tour. On the hillside at the rear of the gray old barn the red leaves of a creeper flamed amid the summer foliage. High in the sky clouds rolled toward the north. The girl swung impulsively from the little stoop and ran toward the barn.

  The great door was open, and the carved peg which usually performed the office of a catch lay on the ground. The girl could not see into the barn because of the heavy shadows. She paused in a listening attitude and heard a horse munching placidly. She gave a cry of delight and sprang across the threshold. Then she suddenly shrank back and gasped. She had confronted three men in gray seated upon the floor with their legs stretched out and their backs against Santo’s manger. Their dust-covered countenances were expanded in grins.

  II.

  As Mary sprang backward and screamed, one of the calm men in gray, still grinning, announced, “I knowed you’d holler.” Sitting there comfortably the three surveyed her with amusement.

  Mary caught her breath, throwing her hand up to her throat. “Oh!” she said, “you — you frightened me!”

  “We’re sorry, lady, but couldn’t help it no way,” cheerfully responded another. “I knowed you’d holler when I seen you coming yere, but I raikoned we couldn’t help it no way. We hain’t a-troubling this yere barn, I don’t guess. We been doing some mighty tall sleeping yere. We done woke when them Yanks loped past.”

  “Where did you come from? Did — did you escap
e from the — the Yankees?” The girl still stammered and trembled. The three soldiers laughed. “No, m’m. No, m’m. They never cotch us. We was in a muss down the road yere about two mile. And Bill yere they gin it to him in the arm, kehplunk. And they pasted me thar, too. Curious. And Sim yere, he didn’t get nothing, but they chased us all quite a little piece, and we done lose track of our boys.”

  “Was it — was it those who passed here just now? Did they chase you?”

  The men in gray laughed again. “What — them? No, indeedee! There was a mighty big swarm of Yanks and a mighty big swarm of our boys, too. What — that little passel? No, m’m.”

  She became calm enough to scan them more attentively. They were much begrimed and very dusty. Their gray clothes were tattered. Splashed mud had dried upon them in reddish spots. It appeared, too, that the men had not shaved in many days. In the hats there was a singular diversity. One soldier wore the little blue cap of the Northern infantry, with corps emblem and regimental number; one wore a great slouch hat with a wide hole in the crown; and the other wore no hat at all. The left sleeve of one man and the right sleeve of another had been slit and the arms were neatly bandaged with clean cloth. “These hain’t no more than two little cuts,” explained one. “We stopped up yere to Mis’ Leavitts — she said her name was — and she bind them for us. Bill yere, he had the thirst come on him. And the fever too. We — —”

  “Did you ever see my father in the army?” asked Mary. “John Hinckson — his name is.”

  The three soldiers grinned again, but they replied kindly: “No, m’m. No, m’m, we hain’t never. What is he — in the cavalry?”

  “No,” said the girl. “He and my uncle Asa and my cousin — his name is Bill Parker — they are all with Longstreet — they call him.”

  “Oh,” said the soldiers. “Longstreet? Oh, they’re a good smart ways from yere. ‘Way off up nawtheast. There hain’t nothing but cavalry down yere. They’re in the infantry, probably.”