Complete Works of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  From an indigo sea arose the lonely shore of Cuba. Ultimately, the fleet was near Santiago, and most of the transports were bidden to wait a minute while the leaders found out their minds. The skipper, to whom the 307th were prisoners, waited for thirty hours half way between Jamaica and Cuba. He explained that the Spanish fleet might emerge from Santiago Harbour at any time, and he did not propose to be caught. His owners —— Whereupon the colonel arose as one having nine hundred men at his back, and he passed up to the bridge and he spake with the captain. He explained indirectly that each individual of his nine hundred men had decided to be the first American soldier to land for this campaign, and that in order to accomplish the marvel it was necessary for the transport to be nearer than forty-five miles from the Cuban coast. If the skipper would only land the regiment the colonel would consent to his then taking his interesting old ship and going to h —— with it. And the skipper spake with the colonel. He pointed out that as far as he officially was concerned, the United States Government did not exist. He was responsible solely to his owners. The colonel pondered these sayings. He perceived that the skipper meant that he was running his ship as he deemed best, in consideration of the capital invested by his owners, and that he was not at all concerned with the feelings of a certain American military expedition to Cuba. He was a free son of the sea — he was a sovereign citizen of the republic of the waves. He was like Lige.

  However, the skipper ultimately incurred the danger of taking his ship under the terrible guns of the New York, Iowa, Oregon, Massachusetts, Indiana, Brooklyn, Texas and a score of cruisers and gunboats. It was a brave act for the captain of a United States transport, and he was visibly nervous until he could again get to sea, where he offered praises that the accursed 307th was no longer sitting on his head. For almost a week he rambled at his cheerful will over the adjacent high seas, having in his hold a great quantity of military stores as successfully secreted as if they had been buried in a copper box in the cornerstone of a new public building in Boston. He had had his master’s certificate for twenty-one years, and those people couldn’t tell a marlin-spike from the starboard side of the ship.

  The 307th was landed in Cuba, but to their disgust they found that about ten thousand regulars were ahead of them. They got immediate orders to move out from the base on the road to Santiago. Gates was interested to note that the only delay was caused by the fact that many men of the other battalions strayed off sight-seeing. In time the long regiment wound slowly among hills that shut them from sight of the sea.

  For the men to admire, there were palm-trees, little brown huts, passive, uninterested Cuban soldiers much worn from carrying American rations inside and outside. The weather was not oppressively warm, and the journey was said to be only about seven miles. There were no rumours save that there had been one short fight and the army had advanced to within sight of Santiago. Having a peculiar faculty for the derision of the romantic, the 307th began to laugh. Actually there was not anything in the world which turned out to be as books describe it. Here they had landed from the transport expecting to be at once flung into line of battle and sent on some kind of furious charge, and now they were trudging along a quiet trail lined with somnolent trees and grass. The whole business so far struck them as being a highly tedious burlesque.

  After a time they came to where the camps of regular regiments marked the sides of the road — little villages of tents no higher than a man’s waist. The colonel found his brigade commander and the 307th was sent off into a field of long grass, where the men grew suddenly solemn with the importance of getting their supper.

  In the early evening some regulars told one of Gates’s companies that at daybreak this division would move to an attack upon something.

  “How d’you know?” said the company, deeply awed.

  “Heard it.”

  “Well, what are we to attack?”

  “Dunno.”

  The 307th was not at all afraid, but each man began to imagine the morrow. The regulars seemed to have as much interest in the morrow as they did in the last Christmas. It was none of their affair, apparently.

  “Look here,” said Lige Wigram, to a man in the 17th Regular Infantry, “whereabouts are we goin’ ter-morrow an’ who do we run up against — do ye know?”

  The 17th soldier replied, truculently: “If I ketch th’ —— —— —— what stole my terbaccer, I’ll whirl in an’ break every —— —— bone in his body.”

  Gates’s friends in the regular regiments asked him numerous questions as to the reliability of his organisation. Would the 307th stand the racket? They were certainly not contemptuous; they simply did not seem to consider it important whether the 307th would or whether it would not.

  “Well,” said Gates, “they won’t run the length of a tent-peg if they can gain any idea of what they’re fighting; they won’t bunch if they’ve about six acres of open ground to move in; they won’t get rattled at all if they see you fellows taking it easy, and they’ll fight like the devil as long as they thoroughly, completely, absolutely, satisfactorily, exhaustively understand what the business is. They’re lawyers. All excepting my battalion.”

  IV

  Lige awakened into a world obscured by blue fog. Somebody was gently shaking him. “Git up; we’re going to move.” The regiment was buckling up itself. From the trail came the loud creak of a light battery moving ahead. The tones of all men were low; the faces of the officers were composed, serious. The regiment found itself moving along behind the battery before it had time to ask itself more than a hundred questions. The trail wound through a dense tall jungle, dark, heavy with dew.

  The battle broke with a snap — far ahead. Presently Lige heard from the air above him a faint low note as if somebody were blowing softly in the mouth of a bottle. It was a stray bullet which had wandered a mile to tell him that war was before him. He nearly broke his neck looking upward. “Did ye hear that?” But the men were fretting to get out of this gloomy jungle. They wanted to see something. The faint rup-rup-rrrrup-rup on in the front told them that the fight had begun; death was abroad, and so the mystery of this wilderness excited them. This wilderness was portentously still and dark.

  They passed the battery aligned on a hill above the trail, and they had not gone far when the gruff guns began to roar and they could hear the rocket-like swish of the flying shells. Presently everybody must have called out for the assistance of the 307th. Aides and couriers came flying back to them.

  “Is this the 307th? Hurry up your men, please, Colonel. You’re needed more every minute.”

  Oh, they were, were they? Then the regulars were not going to do all the fighting? The old 307th was bitterly proud or proudly bitter. They left their blanket rolls under the guard of God and pushed on, which is one of the reasons why the Cubans of that part of the country were, later, so well equipped. There began to appear fields, hot, golden-green in the sun. On some palm-dotted knolls before them they could see little lines of black dots — the American advance. A few men fell, struck down by other men who, perhaps half a mile away, were aiming at somebody else. The loss was wholly in Carmony’s battalion, which immediately bunched and backed away, coming with a shock against Gates’s advance company. This shock sent a tremor through all of Gates’s battalion until men in the very last files cried out nervously, “Well, what in hell is up now?” There came an order to deploy and advance. An occasional hoarse yell from the regulars could be heard. The deploying made Gates’s heart bleed for the colonel. The old man stood there directing the movement, straight, fearless, sombrely defiant of — everything. Carmony’s four companies were like four herds. And all the time the bullets from no living man knows where kept pecking at them and pecking at them. Gates, the excellent Gates, the highly educated and strictly military Gates, grew rankly insubordinate. He knew that the regiment was suffering from nothing but the deadly range and oversweep of the modern rifle, of which many proud and confident nations know nothing save that they have k
illed savages with it, which is the least of all informations.

  Gates rushed upon Carmony.

  “ —— —— it, man, if you can’t get your people to deploy, for —— sake give me a chance! I’m stuck in the woods!”

  Carmony gave nothing, but Gates took all he could get and his battalion deployed and advanced like men. The old colonel almost burst into tears, and he cast one quick glance of gratitude at Gates, which the younger officer wore on his heart like a secret decoration.

  There was a wild scramble up hill, down dale, through thorny thickets. Death smote them with a kind of slow rhythm, leisurely taking a man now here, now there, but the cat-spit sound of the bullets was always. A large number of the men of Carmony’s battalion came on with Gates. They were willing to do anything, anything. They had no real fault, unless it was that early conclusion that any brave high-minded youth was necessarily a good soldier immediately, from the beginning. In them had been born a swift feeling that the unpopular Gates knew everything, and they followed the trained soldier.

  If they followed him, he certainly took them into it. As they swung heavily up one steep hill, like so many wind-blown horses, they came suddenly out into the real advance. Little blue groups of men were making frantic rushes forward and then flopping down on their bellies to fire volleys while other groups made rushes. Ahead they could see a heavy house-like fort which was inadequate to explain from whence came the myriad bullets. The remainder of the scene was landscape. Pale men, yellow men, blue men came out of this landscape quiet and sad-eyed with wounds. Often they were grimly facetious. There is nothing in the American regulars so amazing as his conduct when he is wounded — his apologetic limp, his deprecatory arm-sling, his embarrassed and ashamed shot-hole through the lungs. The men of the 307th looked at calm creatures who had divers punctures and they were made better. These men told them that it was only necessary to keep a-going. They of the 307th lay on their bellies, red, sweating and panting, and heeded the voice of the elder brother.

  Gates walked back of his line, very white of face, but hard and stern past anything his men knew of him. After they had violently adjured him to lie down and he had given weak backs a cold, stiff touch, the 307th charged by rushes. The hatless colonel made frenzied speech, but the man of the time was Gates. The men seemed to feel that this was his business. Some of the regular officers said afterward that the advance of the 307th was very respectable indeed. They were rather surprised, they said. At least five of the crack regiments of the regular army were in this division, and the 307th could win no more than a feeling of kindly appreciation.

  Yes, it was very good, very good indeed, but did you notice what was being done at the same moment by the 12th, the 17th, the 7th, the 8th, the 25th, the ——

  Gates felt that his charge was being a success. He was carrying out a successful function. Two captains fell bang on the grass and a lieutenant slumped quietly down with a death wound. Many men sprawled suddenly. Gates was keeping his men almost even with the regulars, who were charging on his flanks. Suddenly he thought that he must have come close to the fort and that a Spaniard had tumbled a great stone block down upon his leg. Twelve hands reached out to help him, but he cried:

  “No — d —— your souls — go on — go on!”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and it really was only for a moment. When he opened them he found himself alone with Lige Wigram, who lay on the ground near him.

  “Maje,” said Lige, “yer a good man. I’ve been a-follerin’ ye all day an’ I want to say yer a good man.”

  The major turned a coldly scornful eye upon the private.

  “Where are you wounded? Can you walk? Well, if you can, go to the rear and leave me alone. I’m bleeding to death, and you bother me.”

  Lige, despite the pain in his wounded shoulder, grew indignant.

  “Well,” he mumbled, “you and me have been on th’ outs fer a long time, an’ I only wanted to tell ye that what I seen of ye t’day has made me feel mighty different.”

  “Go to the rear — if you can walk,” said the major.

  “Now, Maje, look here. A little thing like that — —”

  “Go to the rear.”

  Lige gulped with sobs.

  “Maje, I know I didn’t understand ye at first, but ruther’n let a little thing like that come between us, I’d — I’d — —”

  “Go to the rear.”

  In this reiteration Lige discovered a resemblance to that first old offensive phrase, “Come to attention and salute.” He pondered over the resemblance and he saw that nothing had changed. The man bleeding to death was the same man to whom he had once paid a friendly visit with unfriendly results. He thought now that he perceived a certain hopeless gulf, a gulf which is real or unreal, according to circumstances. Sometimes all men are equal; occasionally they are not. If Gates had ever criticised Lige’s manipulation of a hay fork on the farm at home, Lige would have furiously disdained his hate or blame. He saw now that he must not openly approve the major’s conduct in war. The major’s pride was in his business, and his, Lige’s congratulations, were beyond all enduring.

  The place where they were lying suddenly fell under a new heavy rain of bullets. They sputtered about the men, making the noise of large grasshoppers.

  “Major!” cried Lige. “Major Gates! It won’t do for ye to be left here, sir. Ye’ll be killed.”

  “But you can’t help it, lad. You take care of yourself.”

  “I’m damned if I do,” said the private, vehemently. “If I can’t git you out, I’ll stay and wait.”

  The officer gazed at his man with that same icy, contemptuous gaze.

  “I’m — I’m a dead man anyhow. You go to the rear, do you hear?”

  “No.”

  The dying major drew his revolver, cocked it and aimed it unsteadily at Lige’s head.

  “Will you obey orders?”

  “No.”

  “One?”

  “No.”

  “Two?”

  “No.”

  Gates weakly dropped his revolver.

  “Go to the devil, then. You’re no soldier, but — —” He tried to add something, “But — —”

  He heaved a long moan. “But — you — you — oh, I’m so-o-o tired.”

  V

  After the battle, three correspondents happened to meet on the trail. They were hot, dusty, weary, hungry and thirsty, and they repaired to the shade of a mango tree and sprawled luxuriously. Among them they mustered twoscore friends who on that day had gone to the far shore of the hereafter, but their senses were no longer resonant. Shackles was babbling plaintively about mint-juleps, and the others were bidding him to have done.

  “By-the-way,” said one, at last, “it’s too bad about poor old Gates of the 307th. He bled to death. His men were crazy. They were blubbering and cursing around there like wild people. It seems that when they got back there to look for him they found him just about gone, and another wounded man was trying to stop the flow with his hat! His hat, mind you. Poor old Gatesie!”

  “Oh, no, Shackles!” said the third man of the party. “Oh, no, you’re wrong. The best mint-juleps in the world are made right in New York, Philadelphia or Boston. That Kentucky idea is only a tradition.”

  A wounded man approached them. He had been shot through the shoulder and his shirt had been diagonally cut away, leaving much bare skin. Over the bullet’s point of entry there was a kind of a white spider, shaped from pieces of adhesive plaster. Over the point of departure there was a bloody bulb of cotton strapped to the flesh by other pieces of adhesive plaster. His eyes were dreamy, wistful, sad. “Say, gents, have any of ye got a bottle?” he asked.

  A correspondent raised himself suddenly and looked with bright eyes at the soldier.

  “Well, you have got a nerve,” he said grinning. “Have we got a bottle, eh! Who in h —— do you think we are? If we had a bottle of good licker, do you suppose we could let the whole army drink out of it? You have
too much faith in the generosity of men, my friend!”

  The soldier stared, ox-like, and finally said, “Huh?”

  “I say,” continued the correspondent, somewhat more loudly, “that if we had had a bottle we would have probably finished it ourselves by this time.”

  “But,” said the other, dazed, “I meant an empty bottle. I didn’t mean no full bottle.”

  The correspondent was humorously irascible.

  “An empty bottle! You must be crazy! Who ever heard of a man looking for an empty bottle? It isn’t sense! I’ve seen a million men looking for full bottles, but you’re the first man I ever saw who insisted on the bottle’s being empty. What in the world do you want it for?”

  “Well, ye see, mister,” explained Lige, slowly, “our major he was killed this mornin’ an’ we’re jes’ goin’ to bury him, an’ I thought I’d jest take a look ‘round an’ see if I couldn’t borry an empty bottle, an’ then I’d take an’ write his name an’ reg’ment on a paper an’ put it in th’ bottle an’ bury it with him, so’s when they come fer to dig him up sometime an’ take him home, there sure wouldn’t be no mistake.”

  “Oh!”

  MARINES SIGNALLING UNDER FIRE AT GUANTANAMO