As he neared the house, each detail of the scene became vivid to him. He was aware of some bricks of the vanished chimney lying on the sod. There was a door which hung by one hinge.
Rifle bullets called forth by the insistent skirmishers came from the far-off bank of foliage. They mingled with the shells and the pieces of shells until the air was torn in all directions by hootings, yells, howls. The sky was full of fiends who directed all their wild rage at his head.
When he came to the well, he flung himself face downward and peered into its darkness. There were furtive silver glintings some feet from the surface. He grabbed one of the canteens and, unfastening its cap, swung it down by the cord. The water flowed slowly in with an indolent gurgle.
And now as he lay with his face turned away he was suddenly smitten with the terror. It came upon his heart like the grasp of claws. All the power faded from his muscles. For an instant he was no more than a dead man.
The canteen filled with a maddening slowness, in the manner of all bottles. Presently he recovered his strength and addressed a screaming oath to it. He leaned over until it seemed as if he intended to try to push water into it with his hands. His eyes as he gazed down into the well shone like two pieces of metal and in their expression was a great appeal and a great curse. The stupid water derided him.
There was the blaring thunder of a shell. Crimson light shone through the swift-boiling smoke and made a pink reflection on part of the wall of the well. Collins jerked out his arm and canteen with the same motion that a man would use in withdrawing his head from a furnace.
He scrambled erect and glared and hesitated. On the ground near him lay the old well bucket, with a length of rusty chain. He lowered it swiftly into the well. The bucket struck the water and then, turning lazily over, sank. When, with hand reaching tremblingly over hand, he hauled it out, it knocked often against the walls of the well and spilled some of its contents.
In running with a filled bucket, a man can adopt but one kind of gait. So through this terrible field over which screamed practical angels of death Collins ran in the manner of a farmer chased out of a dairy by a bull.
His face went staring white with anticipation — anticipation of a blow that would whirl him around and down. He would fall as he had seen other men fall, the life knocked out of them so suddenly that their knees were no more quick to touch the ground than their heads. He saw the long blue line of the regiment, but his comrades were standing looking at him from the edge of an impossible star. He was aware of some deep wheel ruts and hoofprints in the sod beneath his feet.
The artillery officer who had fallen in this meadow had been making groans in the teeth of the tempest of sound. These futile cries, wrenched from him by his agony, were heard only by shells, bullets. When wild-eyed Collins came running, this officer raised himself. His face contorted and blanched from pain, he was about to utter some great beseeching cry. But suddenly his face straightened and he called: “Say, young man, give me a drink of water, will you?”
Collins had no room amid his emotions for surprise. He was mad from the threats of destruction.
“I can’t!” he screamed, and in his reply was a full description of his quaking apprehension. His cap was gone and his hair was riotous. His clothes made it appear that he had been dragged over the ground by the heels. He ran on.
The officer’s head sank down and one elbow crooked. His foot in its brass-bound stirrup still stretched over the body of his horse and the other leg was under the steed.
But Collins turned. He came dashing back. His face had now turned gray and in his eyes was all terror. “Here it is! here it is!”
The officer was as a man gone in drink. His arm bent like a twig. His head drooped as if his neck were of willow. He was sinking to the ground, to lie face downward.
Collins grabbed him by the shoulder. “Here it is. Here’s your drink. Turn over. Turn over, man, for God’s sake!”
With Collins hauling at his shoulder, the officer twisted his body and fell with his face turned toward that region where lived the unspeakable noises of the swirling missiles. There was the faintest shadow of a smile on his lips as he looked at Collins. He gave a sigh, a little primitive breath like that from a child.
Collins tried to hold the bucket steadily, but his shaking hands caused the water to splash all over the face of the dying man. Then he jerked it away and ran on.
The regiment gave him a welcoming roar. The grimed faces were wrinkled in laughter.
His captain waved the bucket away. “Give it to the men!”
The two genial, skylarking young lieutenants were the first to gain possession of it. They played over it in their fashion.
When one tried to drink the other teasingly knocked his elbow. “Don’t, Billie! You’ll make me spill it,” said the one. The other laughed.
Suddenly there was an oath, the thud of wood on the ground, and a swift murmur of astonishment among the ranks. The two lieutenants glared at each other. The bucket lay on the ground empty.
AN INDIANA CAMPAIGN.
I.
When the able-bodied citizens of the village formed a company and marched away to the war, Major Tom Boldin assumed in a manner the burden of the village cares. Everybody ran to him when they felt obliged to discuss their affairs. The sorrows of the town were dragged before him. His little bench at the sunny side of Migglesville tavern became a sort of an open court where people came to speak resentfully of their grievances. He accepted his position and struggled manfully under the load. It behooved him, as a man who had seen the sky red over the quaint, low cities of Mexico, and the compact Northern bayonets gleaming on the narrow roads.
One warm summer day the major sat asleep on his little bench. There was a lull in the tempest of discussion which usually enveloped him. His cane, by use of which he could make the most tremendous and impressive gestures, reposed beside him. His hat lay upon the bench, and his old bald head had swung far forward until his nose actually touched the first button of his waistcoat.
The sparrows wrangled desperately in the road, defying perspiration. Once a team went jangling and creaking past, raising a yellow blur of dust before the soft tones of the field and sky. In the long grass of the meadow across the road the insects chirped and clacked eternally.
Suddenly a frouzy-headed boy appeared in the roadway, his bare feet pattering rapidly. He was extremely excited. He gave a shrill whoop as he discovered the sleeping major and rushed toward him. He created a terrific panic among some chickens who had been scratching intently near the major’s feet. They clamoured in an insanity of fear, and rushed hither and thither seeking a way of escape, whereas in reality all ways lay plainly open to them.
This tumult caused the major to arouse with a sudden little jump of amazement and apprehension. He rubbed his eyes and gazed about him. Meanwhile, some clever chicken had discovered a passage to safety and led the flock into the garden, where they squawked in sustained alarm.
Panting from his run and choked with terror, the little boy stood before the major, struggling with a tale that was ever upon the tip of his tongue.
“Major — now — major — —”
The old man, roused from a delicious slumber, glared impatiently at the little boy. “Come, come! What’s th’ matter with yeh?” he demanded. “What’s th’ matter? Don’t stand there shaking! Speak up!”
“Lots is th’ matter!” the little boy shouted valiantly, with a courage born of the importance of his tale. “My ma’s chickens ‘uz all stole, an’ — now — he’s over in th’ woods!”
“Who is? Who is over in the woods? Go ahead!”
“Now — th’ rebel is!”
“What?” roared the major.
“Th’ rebel!” cried the little boy, with the last of his breath.
The major pounced from his bench in tempestuous excitement. He seized the little boy by the collar and gave him a great jerk. “Where? Are yeh sure? Who saw ‘im? How long ago? Where is he now? Did you see ‘
im?”
The little boy, frightened at the major’s fury, began to sob. After a moment he managed to stammer: “He — now — he’s in the woods. I saw ‘im. He looks uglier’n anythin’.”
The major released his hold upon the boy, and, pausing for a time, indulged in a glorious dream. Then he said: “By thunder! we’ll ketch th’ cuss. You wait here,” he told the boy, “an’ don’t say a word t’ anybody. Do yeh hear?”
The boy, still weeping, nodded, and the major hurriedly entered the inn. He took down from its pegs an awkward, smoothbore rifle and carefully examined the enormous percussion cap that was fitted over the nipple. Mistrusting the cap, he removed it and replaced it with a new one. He scrutinized the gun keenly, as if he could judge in this manner of the condition of the load. All his movements were deliberate and deadly.
When he arrived upon the porch of the tavern he beheld the yard filled with people. Peter Witheby, sooty-faced and grinning, was in the van. He looked at the major. “Well?” he said.
“Well?” returned the major, bridling.
“Well, what’s ‘che got?” said old Peter.
“‘Got?’ Got a rebel over in th’ woods!” roared the major.
At this sentence the women and boys, who had gathered eagerly about him, gave vent to startled cries. The women had come from adjacent houses, but the little boys represented the entire village. They had miraculously heard the first whisper of rumour, and they performed wonders in getting to the spot. They clustered around the important figure of the major and gazed in silent awe. The women, however, burst forth. At the word “rebel,” which represented to them all terrible things, they deluged the major with questions which were obviously unanswerable.
He shook them off with violent impatience. Meanwhile Peter Witheby was trying to force exasperating interrogations through the tumult to the major’s ears. “What? No! Yes! How d’ I know?” the maddened veteran snarled as he struggled with his friends. “No! Yes! What? How in thunder d’ I know?” Upon the steps of the tavern the landlady sat, weeping forlornly.
At last the major burst through the crowd, and went to the roadway. There, as they all streamed after him, he turned and faced them. “Now, look a’ here, I don’t know any more about this than you do,” he told them forcibly. “All that I know is that there’s a rebel over in Smith’s woods, an’ all I know is that I’m agoin’ after ‘im.”
“But hol’ on a minnet,” said old Peter. “How do yeh know he’s a rebel?”
“I know he is!” cried the major. “Don’t yeh think I know what a rebel is?”
Then, with a gesture of disdain at the babbling crowd, he marched determinedly away, his rifle held in the hollow of his arm. At this heroic moment a new clamour arose, half admiration, half dismay. Old Peter hobbled after the major, continually repeating, “Hol’ on a minnet.”
The little boy who had given the alarm was the centre of a throng of lads who gazed with envy and awe, discovering in him a new quality. He held forth to them eloquently. The women stared after the figure of the major and old Peter, his pursuer. Jerozel Bronson, a half-witted lad who comprehended nothing save an occasional genial word, leaned against the fence and grinned like a skull. The major and the pursuer passed out of view around the turn in the road where the great maples lazily shook the dust that lay on their leaves.
For a moment the little group of women listened intently as if they expected to hear a sudden shot and cries from the distance. They looked at each other, their lips a little ways apart. The trees sighed softly in the heat of the summer sun. The insects in the meadow continued their monotonous humming, and, somewhere, a hen had been stricken with fear and was cackling loudly.
Finally, Mrs. Goodwin said, “Well, I’m goin’ up to th’ turn a’ th’ road, anyhow.” Mrs. Willets and Mrs. Joe Petersen, her particular friends, cried out at this temerity, but she said, “Well, I’m goin’, anyhow.”
She called Bronson. “Come on, Jerozel. You’re a man, an’ if he should chase us, why, you mus’ pitch inteh ‘im. Hey?”
Bronson always obeyed everybody. He grinned an assent, and went with her down the road.
A little boy attempted to follow them, but a shrill scream from his mother made him halt.
The remaining women stood motionless, their eyes fixed upon Mrs. Goodwin and Jerozel. Then at last one gave a laugh of triumph at her conquest of caution and fear, and cried, “Well, I’m goin’ too!”
Another instantly said, “So am I.” There began a general movement. Some of the little boys had already ventured a hundred feet away from the main body, and at this unanimous advance they spread out ahead in little groups. Some recounted terrible stories of rebel ferocity. Their eyes were large with excitement. The whole thing with its possible dangers had for them a delicious element. Johnnie Peterson, who could whip any boy present, explained what he would do in case the enemy should happen to pounce out at him.
The familiar scene suddenly assumed a new aspect. The field of corn which met the road upon the left was no longer a mere field of corn. It was a darkly mystic place whose recesses could contain all manner of dangers. The long green leaves, waving in the breeze, rustled from the passing of men. In the song of the insects there were now omens, threats.
There was a warning in the enamel blue of the sky, in the stretch of yellow road, in the very atmosphere. Above the tops of the corn loomed the distant foliage of Smith’s woods, curtaining the silent action of a tragedy whose horrors they imagined.
The women and the little boys came to a halt, overwhelmed by the impressiveness of the landscape. They waited silently.
Mrs. Goodwin suddenly said, “I’m goin’ back.” The others, who all wished to return, cried at once disdainfully:
“Well, go back, if yeh want to!”
A cricket at the roadside exploded suddenly in his shrill song, and a woman who had been standing near shrieked in startled terror. An electric movement went through the group of women. They jumped and gave vent to sudden screams. With the fears still upon their agitated faces, they turned to berate the one who had shrieked. “My! what a goose you are, Sallie! Why, it took my breath away. Goodness sakes, don’t holler like that again!”
II.
“Hol’ on a minnet!” Peter Witheby was crying to the major, as the latter, full of the importance and dignity of his position as protector of Migglesville, paced forward swiftly. The veteran already felt upon his brow a wreath formed of the flowers of gratitude, and as he strode he was absorbed in planning a calm and self-contained manner of wearing it. “Hol’ on a minnet!” piped old Peter in the rear.
At last the major, aroused from his dream of triumph, turned about wrathfully. “Well, what?”
“Now, look a’ here,” said Peter. “What ‘che goin’ t’ do?”
The major, with a gesture of supreme exasperation, wheeled again and went on. When he arrived at the cornfield he halted and waited for Peter. He had suddenly felt that indefinable menace in the landscape.
“Well?” demanded Peter, panting.
The major’s eyes wavered a trifle. “Well,” he repeated—”well, I’m goin’ in there an’ bring out that there rebel.”
They both paused and studied the gently swaying masses of corn, and behind them the looming woods, sinister with possible secrets.
“Well,” said old Peter.
The major moved uneasily and put his hand to his brow. Peter waited in obvious expectation.
The major crossed through the grass at the roadside and climbed the fence. He put both legs over the topmost rail and then sat perched there, facing the woods. Once he turned his head and asked, “What?”
“I hain’t said anythin’,” answered Peter.
The major clambered down from the fence and went slowly into the corn, his gun held in readiness. Peter stood in the road.
Presently the major returned and said, in a cautious whisper, “If yeh hear anythin’, you come a-runnin’, will yeh?”
“Well, I hain’t g
ot no gun nor nuthin’,” said Peter, in the same low tone; “what good ‘ud I do?”
“Well, yeh might come along with me an’ watch,” said the major. “Four eyes is better’n two.”
“If I had a gun — —” began Peter.
“Oh, yeh don’t need no gun,” interrupted the major, waving his hand. “All I’m afraid of is that I won’t find ‘im. My eyes ain’t so good as they was.”
“Well — —”
“Come along,” whispered the major. “Yeh hain’t afraid, are yeh?”
“No, but — —”
“Well, come along, then. What’s th’ matter with yeh?”
Peter climbed the fence. He paused on the top rail and took a prolonged stare at the inscrutable woods. When he joined the major in the cornfield he said, with a touch of anger:
“Well, you got the gun. Remember that. If he comes for me, I hain’t got a blame thing!”
“Shucks!” answered the major. “He ain’t agoin’ t’ come for yeh.”
The two then began a wary journey through the corn. One by one the long aisles between the rows appeared. As they glanced along each of them it seemed as if some gruesome thing had just previously vacated it. Old Peter halted once and whispered: “Say, look a’ here; supposin’ — supposin’ — —”
“Supposin’ what?” demanded the major.
“Supposin’ — —” said Peter. “Well, remember you got th’ gun, an’ I hain’t got anythin’.”
“Thunder!” said the major.
When they got to where the stalks were very short because of the shade cast by the trees of the wood, they halted again. The leaves were gently swishing in the breeze. Before them stretched the mystic green wall of the forest, and there seemed to be in it eyes which followed each of their movements.
Peter at last said, “I don’t believe there’s anybody in there.”
“Yes, there is, too,” said the major. “I’ll bet anythin’ he’s in there.”
“How d’ yeh know?” asked Peter. “I’ll bet he ain’t within a mile o’ here.”
Complete Works of Stephen Crane Page 97