Complete Works of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  In rough weather, the officers made a sort of a common pool of all the sound legs and arms, and by dint of hanging hard to each other they managed to move from their deck chairs to their cabins and from their cabins again to their deck chairs. Thus they lived until the ship reached Hampton Roads. We slowed down opposite the curiously mingled hotels and batteries at Old Point Comfort, and at our mast-head we flew the yellow-flag, the grim ensign of the plague. Then we witnessed something which informed us that with all this ship-load of wounds and fevers and starvations we had forgotten the fourth element of war. We were flying the yellow flag, but a launch came and circled swiftly about us. There was a little woman in the launch, and she kept looking and looking and looking. Our ship was so high that she could see only those who rung at the rail, but she kept looking and looking and looking. It was plain enough — it was all plain enough — but my heart sank with the fear that she was not going to find him. But presently there was a commotion among some black dough-boys of the 24th Infantry, and two of them ran aft to Colonel Liscum, its gallant commander. Their faces were wreathed in darkey grins of delight. “Kunnel, ain’t dat Mis’ Liscum, Kunnel?” “What?” said the old man. He got up quickly and appeared at the rail, his arm in a sling. He cried, “Alice!” The little woman saw him, and instantly she covered up her face with her hands as if blinded with a flash of white fire. She made no outcry; it was all in this simply swift gesture, but we — we knew them. It told us. It told us the other part. And in a vision we all saw our own harbour-lights. That is to say those of us who had harbour-lights.

  I was almost well, and had defeated the yellow-fever charge which had been brought against me, and so I was allowed ashore among the first. And now happened a strange thing. A hard campaign, full of wants and lacks and absences, brings a man speedily back to an appreciation of things long disregarded or forgotten. In camp, somewhere in the woods between Siboney and Santiago, I happened to think of ice-cream-soda. I had done very well without it for many years; in fact I think I loathe it; but I got to dreaming of ice-cream-soda, and I came near dying of longing for it. I couldn’t get it out of my mind, try as I would to concentrate my thoughts upon the land crabs and mud with which I was surrounded. It certainly had been an institution of my childhood, but to have a ravenous longing for it in the year 1898 was about as illogical as to have a ravenous longing for kerosene. All I could do was to swear to myself that if I reached the United States again, I would immediately go to the nearest soda-water fountain and make it look like Spanish Fours. In a loud, firm voice, I would say, “Orange, please.” And here is the strange thing: as soon as I was ashore I went to the nearest soda-water fountain, and in a loud, firm voice I said, “Orange, please.” I remember one man who went mad that way over tinned peaches, and who wandered over the face of the earth saying plaintively, “Have you any peaches?”

  Most of the wounded and sick had to be tabulated and marshalled in sections and thoroughly officialised, so that I was in time to take a position on the verandah of Chamberlain’s Hotel and see my late shipmates taken to the hospital. The verandah was crowded with women in light, charming summer dresses, and with spruce officers from the Fortress. It was like a bank of flowers. It filled me with awe. All this luxury and refinement and gentle care and fragrance and colour seemed absolutely new. Then across the narrow street on the verandah of the hotel there was a similar bank of flowers. Two companies of volunteers dug a lane through the great crowd in the street and kept the way, and then through this lane there passed a curious procession. I had never known that they looked like that. Such a gang of dirty, ragged, emaciated, half-starved, bandaged cripples I had never seen. Naturally there were many men who couldn’t walk, and some of these were loaded upon a big flat car which was in tow of a trolley-car. Then there were many stretchers, slow-moving. When that crowd began to pass the hotel the banks of flowers made a noise which could make one tremble. Perhaps it was a moan, perhaps it was a sob — but no, it was something beyond either a moan or a sob. Anyhow, the sound of women weeping was in it. — The sound of women weeping.

  And how did these men of famous deeds appear when received thus by the people? Did they smirk and look as if they were bursting with the desire to tell everything which had happened? No they hung their heads like so many jail-birds. Most of them seemed to be suffering from something which was like stage-fright during the ordeal of this chance but supremely eloquent reception. No sense of excellence — that was it. Evidently they were willing to leave the clacking to all those natural born major-generals who after the war talked enough to make a great fall in the price of that commodity all over the world.

  The episode was closed. And you can depend upon it that I have told you nothing at all, nothing at all, nothing at all.

  THE SECOND GENERATION

  I

  Caspar Cadogan resolved to go to the tropic wars and do something. The air was blue and gold with the pomp of soldiering, and in every ear rang the music of military glory. Caspar’s father was a United States Senator from the great State of Skowmulligan, where the war fever ran very high. Chill is the blood of many of the sons of millionaires, but Caspar took the fever and posted to Washington. His father had never denied him anything, and this time all that Caspar wanted was a little Captaincy in the Army — just a simple little Captaincy.

  The old man had been entertaining a delegation of respectable bunco-steerers from Skowmulligan who had come to him on a matter which is none of the public’s business.

  Bottles of whisky and boxes of cigars were still on the table in the sumptuous private parlour. The Senator had said, “Well, gentlemen, I’ll do what I can for you.” By this sentence he meant whatever he meant.

  Then he turned to his eager son. “Well, Caspar?” The youth poured out his modest desires. It was not altogether his fault. Life had taught him a generous faith in his own abilities. If any one had told him that he was simply an ordinary d — d fool he would have opened his eyes wide at the person’s lack of judgment. All his life people had admired him.

  The Skowmulligan war-horse looked with quick disapproval into the eyes of his son. “Well, Caspar,” he said slowly, “I am of the opinion that they’ve got all the golf experts and tennis champions and cotillion leaders and piano tuners and billiard markers that they really need as officers. Now, if you were a soldier — —”

  “I know,” said the young man with a gesture, “but I’m not exactly a fool, I hope, and I think if I get a chance I can do something. I’d like to try. I would, indeed.”

  The Senator lit a cigar. He assumed an attitude of ponderous reflection. “Y — yes, but this country is full of young men who are not fools. Full of ‘em.”

  Caspar fidgeted in the desire to answer that while he admitted the profusion of young men who were not fools, he felt that he himself possessed interesting and peculiar qualifications which would allow him to make his mark in any field of effort which he seriously challenged. But he did not make this graceful statement, for he sometimes detected something ironic in his father’s temperament. The Skowmulligan war-horse had not thought of expressing an opinion of his own ability since the year 1865, when he was young, like Caspar.

  “Well, well,” said the Senator finally. “I’ll see about it. I’ll see about it.” The young man was obliged to await the end of his father’s characteristic method of thought. The war-horse never gave a quick answer, and if people tried to hurry him they seemed able to arouse only a feeling of irritation against making a decision at all. His mind moved like the wind, but practice had placed a Mexican bit in the mouth of his judgment. This old man of light quick thought had taught himself to move like an ox cart. Caspar said, “Yes, sir.” He withdrew to his club, where, to the affectionate inquiries of some envious friends, he replied, “The old man is letting the idea soak.”

  The mind of the war-horse was decided far sooner than Caspar expected. In Washington a large number of well-bred handsome young men were receiving appointments as Lieutenants,
as Captains, and occasionally as Majors. They were a strong, healthy, clean-eyed educated collection. They were a prime lot. A German Field-Marshal would have beamed with joy if he could have had them — to send to school. Anywhere in the world they would have made a grand show as material, but, intrinsically they were not Lieutenants, Captains and Majors. They were fine men, though manhood is only an essential part of a Lieutenant, a Captain or a Major. But at any rate, this arrangement had all the logic of going to sea in a bathing-machine.

  The Senator found himself reasoning that Caspar was as good as any of them, and better than many. Presently he was bleating here and there that his boy should have a chance. “The boy’s all right, I tell you, Henry. He’s wild to go, and I don’t see why they shouldn’t give him a show. He’s got plenty of nerve, and he’s keen as a whiplash. I’m going to get him an appointment, and if you can do anything to help it along I wish you would.”

  Then he betook himself to the White House and the War Department and made a stir. People think that Administrations are always slavishly, abominably anxious to please the Machine. They are not; they wish the Machine sunk in red fire, for by the power of ten thousand past words, looks, gestures, writings, the Machine comes along and takes the Administration by the nose and twists it, and the Administration dare not even yell. The huge force which carries an election to success looks reproachfully at the Administration and says, “Give me a bun.” That is a very small thing with which to reward a Colossus.

  The Skowmulligan war-horse got his bun and took it to his hotel where Caspar was moodily reading war rumours. “Well, my boy, here you are.” Caspar was a Captain and Commissary on the staff of Brigadier-General Reilly, commander of the Second Brigade of the First Division of the Thirtieth Army Corps.

  “I had to work for it,” said the Senator grimly. “They talked to me as if they thought you were some sort of empty-headed idiot. None of ’em seemed to know you personally. They just sort of took it for granted. Finally I got pretty hot in the collar.” He paused a moment; his heavy, grooved face set hard; his blue eyes shone. He clapped a hand down upon the handle of his chair.

  “Caspar, I’ve got you into this thing, and I believe you’ll do all right, and I’m not saying this because I distrust either your sense or your grit. But I want you to understand you’ve got to make a go of it. I’m not going to talk any twaddle about your country and your country’s flag. You understand all about that. But now you’re a soldier, and there’ll be this to do and that to do, and fighting to do, and you’ve got to do every d —— d one of ’em right up to the handle. I don’t know how much of a shindy this thing is going to be, but any shindy is enough to show how much there is in a man. You’ve got your appointment, and that’s all I can do for you; but I’ll thrash you with my own hands if, when the Army gets back, the other fellows say my son is ‘nothing but a good-looking dude.’”

  He ceased, breathing heavily. Caspar looked bravely and frankly at his father, and answered in a voice which was not very tremulous. “I’ll do my best. This is my chance. I’ll do my best with it.”

  The Senator had a marvellous ability of transition from one manner to another. Suddenly he seemed very kind. “Well, that’s all right, then. I guess you’ll get along all right with Reilly. I know him well, and he’ll see you through. I helped him along once. And now about this commissary business. As I understand it, a Commissary is a sort of caterer in a big way — that is, he looks out for a good many more things than a caterer has to bother his head about. Reilly’s brigade has probably from two to three thousand men in it, and in regard to certain things you’ve got to look out for every man of ’em every day. I know perfectly well you couldn’t successfully run a boarding-house in Ocean Grove. How are you going to manage for all these soldiers, hey? Thought about it?”

  “No,” said Caspar, injured. “I didn’t want to be a Commissary. I wanted to be a Captain in the line.”

  “They wouldn’t hear of it. They said you would have to take a staff appointment where people could look after you.”

  “Well, let them look after me,” cried Caspar resentfully; “but when there’s any fighting to be done I guess I won’t necessarily be the last man.”

  “That’s it,” responded the Senator. “That’s the spirit.” They both thought that the problem of war would eliminate to an equation of actual battle.

  Ultimately Caspar departed into the South to an encampment in salty grass under pine trees. Here lay an Army corps twenty thousand strong. Caspar passed into the dusty sunshine of it, and for many weeks he was lost to view.

  II

  “Of course I don’t know a blamed thing about it,” said Caspar frankly and modestly to a circle of his fellow staff officers. He was referring to the duties of his office.

  Their faces became expressionless; they looked at him with eyes in which he could fathom nothing. After a pause one politely said, “Don’t you?” It was the inevitable two words of convention.

  “Why,” cried Caspar, “I didn’t know what a commissary officer was until I was one. My old Guv’nor told me. He’d looked it up in a book somewhere, I suppose; but I didn’t know.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  The young man’s face glowed with sudden humour. “Do you know, the word was intimately associated in my mind with camels. Funny, eh? I think it came from reading that rhyme of Kipling’s about the commissariat camel.”

  “Did it?”

  “Yes. Funny, isn’t it? Camels!”

  The brigade was ultimately landed at Siboney as part of an army to attack Santiago. The scene at the landing sometimes resembled the inspiriting daily drama at the approach to the Brooklyn Bridge. There was a great bustle, during which the wise man kept his property gripped in his hands lest it might march off into the wilderness in the pocket of one of the striding regiments. Truthfully, Caspar should have had frantic occupation, but men saw him wandering bootlessly here and there crying, “Has any one seen my saddlebags? Why, if I lose them I’m ruined. I’ve got everything packed away in ‘em. Everything!”

  They looked at him gloomily and without attention. “No,” they said. It was to intimate that they would not give a rip if he had lost his nose, his teeth and his self-respect. Reilly’s brigade collected itself from the boats and went off, each regiment’s soul burning with anger because some other regiment was in advance of it. Moving along through the scrub and under the palms, men talked mostly of things that did not pertain to the business in hand.

  General Reilly finally planted his headquarters in some tall grass under a mango tree. “Where’s Cadogan?” he said suddenly as he took off his hat and smoothed the wet grey hair from his brow. Nobody knew. “I saw him looking for his saddle-bags down at the landing,” said an officer dubiously. “Bother him,” said the General contemptuously. “Let him stay there.”

  Three venerable regimental commanders came, saluted stiffly and sat in the grass. There was a pow-wow, during which Reilly explained much that the Division Commander had told him. The venerable Colonels nodded; they understood. Everything was smooth and clear to their minds. But still, the Colonel of the Forty-fourth Regular Infantry murmured about the commissariat. His men — and then he launched forth in a sentiment concerning the privations of his men in which you were confronted with his feeling that his men — his men were the only creatures of importance in the universe, which feeling was entirely correct for him. Reilly grunted. He did what most commanders did. He set the competent line to doing the work of the incompetent part of the staff.

  In time Caspar came trudging along the road merrily swinging his saddle-bags. “Well, General,” he cried as he saluted, “I found ‘em.”

  “Did you?” said Reilly. Later an officer rushed to him tragically: “General, Cadogan is off there in the bushes eatin’ potted ham and crackers all by himself.” The officer was sent back into the bushes for Caspar, and the General sent Caspar with an order. Then Reilly and the three venerable Colonels, grinning, partook of potted
ham and crackers. “Tashe a’ right,” said Reilly, with his mouth full. “Dorsey, see if ‘e got some’n else.”

  “Mush be selfish young pig,” said one of the Colonels, with his mouth full. “Who’s he, General?”

  “Son — Sen’tor Cad’gan — ol’ frien’ mine — dash ‘im.”

  Caspar wrote a letter:

  “Dear Father: I am sitting under a tree using the flattest part of my canteen for a desk. Even as I write the division ahead of us is moving forward and we don’t know what moment the storm of battle may break out. I don’t know what the plans are. General Reilly knows, but he is so good as to give me very little of his confidence. In fact, I might be part of a forlorn hope from all to the contrary I’ve heard from him. I understood you to say in Washington that you at one time had been of some service to him, but if that is true I can assure you he has completely forgotten it. At times his manner to me is little short of being offensive, but of course I understand that it is only the way of a crusty old soldier who has been made boorish and bearish by a long life among the Indians. I dare say I shall manage it all right without a row.

  “When you hear that we have captured Santiago, please send me by first steamer a box of provisions and clothing, particularly sardines, pickles, and light-weight underwear. The other men on the staff are nice quiet chaps, but they seem a bit crude. There has been no fighting yet save the skirmish by Young’s brigade. Reilly was furious because we couldn’t get in it. I met General Peel yesterday. He was very nice. He said he knew you well when he was in Congress. Young Jack May is on Peel’s staff. I knew him well in college. We spent an hour talking over old times. Give my love to all at home.”

  The march was leisurely. Reilly and his staff strolled out to the head of the long, sinuous column and entered the sultry gloom of the forest. Some less fortunate regiments had to wait among the trees at the side of the trail, and as Reilly’s brigade passed them, officer called to officer, classmate to classmate, and in these greetings rang a note of everything, from West Point to Alaska. They were going into an action in which they, the officers, would lose over a hundred in killed and wounded — officers alone — and these greetings, in which many nicknames occurred, were in many cases farewells such as one pictures being given with ostentation, solemnity, fervour. “There goes Gory Widgeon! Hello, Gory! Where you starting for? Hey, Gory!”