Complete Works of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  “Do you?” said Ripley stolidly. “That’s all right.”

  Caspar stood for a terrible moment. He simply did not have the strength to turn his back on this — this affair. It seemed to him that he must stand forever and face it. But when he found the audacity to look again at Ripley he saw the latter was not at all concerned with the situation. Ripley, too, had the fever. The fever changes all laws of proportion. Caspar went away.

  “Here, youngster; here is your drink.”

  Stanford made a weak gesture. “I wouldn’t touch a drop from his blamed canteen if it was the last water in the world,” he murmured in his high, boyish voice.

  “Don’t you be a young jackass,” quoth Ripley tenderly.

  The boy stole a glance at the canteen. He felt the propriety of arising and hurling it after Caspar, but — he, too, had the fever.

  “Don’t you be a young jackass,” said Ripley again.

  VI

  Senator Cadogan was happy. His son had returned from Cuba, and the 8:30 train that evening would bring him to the station nearest to the stone and red shingle villa which the Senator and his family occupied on the shores of Long Island Sound. The Senator’s steam yacht lay some hundred yards from the beach. She had just returned from a trip to Montauk Point where the Senator had made a gallant attempt to gain his son from the transport on which he was coming from Cuba. He had fought a brave sea-fight with sundry petty little doctors and ship’s officers who had raked him with broadsides, describing the laws of quarantine and had used inelegant speech to a United States Senator as he stood on the bridge of his own steam yacht. These men had grimly asked him to tell exactly how much better was Caspar than any other returning soldier.

  But the Senator had not given them a long fight. In fact, the truth came to him quickly, and with almost a blush he had ordered the yacht back to her anchorage off the villa. As a matter of fact, the trip to Montauk Point had been undertaken largely from impulse. Long ago the Senator had decided that when his boy returned the greeting should have something Spartan in it. He would make a welcome such as most soldiers get. There should be no flowers and carriages when the other poor fellows got none. He should consider Caspar as a soldier. That was the way to treat a man. But in the end a sharp acid of anxiety had worked upon the iron old man, until he had ordered the yacht to take him out and make a fool of him. The result filled him with a chagrin which caused him to delegate to the mother and sisters the entire business of succouring Caspar at Montauk Point Camp. He had remained at home conducting the huge correspondence of an active National politician and waiting for this son whom he so loved and whom he so wished to be a man of a certain strong, taciturn, shrewd ideal. The recent yacht voyage he now looked upon as a kind of confession of his weakness, and he was resolved that no more signs should escape him.

  But yet his boy had been down there against the enemy and among the fevers. There had been grave perils, and his boy must have faced them. And he could not prevent himself from dreaming through the poetry of fine actions in which visions his son’s face shone out manly and generous. During these periods the people about him, accustomed as they were to his silence and calm in time of stress, considered that affairs in Skowmulligan might be most critical. In no other way could they account for this exaggerated phlegm.

  On the night of Caspar’s return he did not go to dinner, but had a tray sent to his library, where he remained writing. At last he heard the spin of the dog-cart’s wheels on the gravel of the drive, and a moment later there penetrated to him the sound of joyful feminine cries. He lit another cigar; he knew that it was now his part to bide with dignity the moment when his son should shake off that other welcome and come to him. He could still hear them; in their exuberance they seemed to be capering like schoolchildren. He was impatient, but this impatience took the form of a polar stolidity.

  Presently there were quick steps and a jubilant knock at his door. “Come in,” he said.

  In came Caspar, thin, yellow, and in soiled khaki. “They almost tore me to pieces,” he cried, laughing. “They danced around like wild things.” Then as they shook hands he dutifully said “How are you, sir?”

  “How are you, my boy?” answered the Senator casually but kindly.

  “Better than I might expect, sir,” cried Caspar cheerfully. “We had a pretty hard time, you know.”

  “You look as if they’d given you a hard run,” observed the father in a tone of slight interest.

  Caspar was eager to tell. “Yes, sir,” he said rapidly. “We did, indeed. Why, it was awful. We — any of us — were lucky to get out of it alive. It wasn’t so much the Spaniards, you know. The Army took care of them all right. It was the fever and the — you know, we couldn’t get anything to eat. And the mismanagement. Why, it was frightful.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard,” said the Senator. A certain wistful look came into his eyes, but he did not allow it to become prominent. Indeed, he suppressed it. “And you, Caspar? I suppose you did your duty?”

  Caspar answered with becoming modesty. “Well, I didn’t do more than anybody else, I don’t suppose, but — well, I got along all right, I guess.”

  “And this great charge up San Juan Hill?” asked, the father slowly. “Were you in that?”

  “Well — yes; I was in it,” replied the son.

  The Senator brightened a trifle. “You were, eh? In the front of it? or just sort of going along?”

  “Well — I don’t know. I couldn’t tell exactly. Sometimes I was in front of a lot of them, and sometimes I was — just sort of going along.”

  This time the Senator emphatically brightened. “That’s all right, then. And of course — of course you performed your commissary duties correctly?”

  The question seemed to make Caspar uncommunicative and sulky. “I did when there was anything to do,” he answered. “But the whole thing was on the most unbusiness-like basis you can imagine. And they wouldn’t tell you anything. Nobody would take time to instruct you in your duties, and of course if you didn’t know a thing your superior officer would swoop down on you and ask you why in the deuce such and such a thing wasn’t done in such and such a way. Of course I did the best I could.”

  The Senator’s countenance had again become sombrely indifferent. “I see. But you weren’t directly rebuked for incapacity, were you? No; of course you weren’t. But — I mean — did any of your superior officers suggest that you were ‘no good,’ or anything of that sort? I mean — did you come off with a clean slate?”

  Caspar took a small time to digest his father’s meaning. “Oh, yes, sir,” he cried at the end of his reflection. “The Commissary was in such a hopeless mess anyhow that nobody thought of doing anything but curse Washington.”

  “Of course,” rejoined the Senator harshly. “But supposing that you had been a competent and well-trained commissary officer. What then?”

  Again the son took time for consideration, and in the end deliberately replied “Well, if I had been a competent and well-trained Commissary I would have sat there and eaten up my heart and cursed Washington.”

  “Well, then, that’s all right. And now about this charge up San Juan? Did any of the Generals speak to you afterward and say that you had done well? Didn’t any of them see you?”

  “Why, n — n — no, I don’t suppose they did … any more than I did them. You see, this charge was a big thing and covered lots of ground, and I hardly saw anybody excepting a lot of the men.”

  “Well, but didn’t any of the men see you? Weren’t you ahead some of the time leading them on and waving your sword?”

  Caspar burst into laughter. “Why, no. I had all I could do to scramble along and try to keep up. And I didn’t want to go up at all.”

  “Why?” demanded the Senator.

  “Because — because the Spaniards were shooting so much. And you could see men falling, and the bullets rushed around you in — by the bushel. And then at last it seemed that if we once drove them away from the top of the hill t
here would be less danger. So we all went up.”

  The Senator chuckled over this description. “And you didn’t flinch at all?”

  “Well,” rejoined Caspar humorously, “I won’t say I wasn’t frightened.”

  “No, of course not. But then you did not let anybody know it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You understand, naturally, that I am bothering you with all these questions because I desire to hear how my only son behaved in the crisis. I don’t want to worry you with it. But if you went through the San Juan charge with credit I’ll have you made a Major.”

  “Well,” said Caspar, “I wouldn’t say I went through that charge with credit. I went through it all good enough, but the enlisted men around went through in the same way.”

  “But weren’t you encouraging them and leading them on by your example?”

  Caspar smirked. He began to see a point. “Well, sir,” he said with a charming hesitation. “Aw — er — I — well, I dare say I was doing my share of it.”

  The perfect form of the reply delighted the father. He could not endure blatancy; his admiration was to be won only by a bashful hero. Now he beat his hand impulsively down upon the table. “That’s what I wanted to know. That’s it exactly. I’ll have you made a Major next week. You’ve found your proper field at last. You stick to the Army, Caspar, and I’ll back you up. That’s the thing. In a few years it will be a great career. The United States is pretty sure to have an Army of about a hundred and fifty thousand men. And starting in when you did and with me to back you up — why, we’ll make you a General in seven or eight years. That’s the ticket. You stay in the Army.” The Senator’s cheek was flushed with enthusiasm, and he looked eagerly and confidently at his son.

  But Caspar had pulled a long face. “The Army?” he said. “Stay in the Army?”

  The Senator continued to outline quite rapturously his idea of the future. “The Army, evidently, is just the place for you. You know as well as I do that you have not been a howling success, exactly, in anything else which you have tried. But now the Army just suits you. It is the kind of career which especially suits you. Well, then, go in, and go at it hard. Go in to win. Go at it.”

  “But—” began Caspar.

  The Senator interrupted swiftly. “Oh, don’t worry about that part of it. I’ll take care of all that. You won’t get jailed in some Arizona adobe for the rest of your natural life. There won’t be much more of that, anyhow; and besides, as I say, I’ll look after all that end of it. The chance is splendid. A young, healthy and intelligent man, with the start you’ve already got, and with my backing, can do anything — anything! There will be a lot of active service — oh, yes, I’m sure of it — and everybody who — —”

  “But,” said Caspar, wan, desperate, heroic, “father, I don’t care to stay in the Army.”

  The Senator lifted his eyes and darkened. “What?” he said. “What’s that?” He looked at Caspar.

  The son became tightened and wizened like an old miser trying to withhold gold. He replied with a sort of idiot obstinacy, “I don’t care to stay in the Army.”

  The Senator’s jaw clinched down, and he was dangerous. But, after all, there was something mournful somewhere. “Why, what do you mean?” he asked gruffly.

  “Why, I couldn’t get along, you know. The — the — —”

  “The what?” demanded the father, suddenly uplifted with thunderous anger. “The what?”

  Caspar’s pain found a sort of outlet in mere irresponsible talk. “Well, you know — the other men, you know. I couldn’t get along with them, you know. They’re peculiar, somehow; odd; I didn’t understand them, and they didn’t understand me. We — we didn’t hitch, somehow. They’re a queer lot. They’ve got funny ideas. I don’t know how to explain it exactly, but — somehow — I don’t like ‘em. That’s all there is to it. They’re good fellows enough, I know, but — —”

  “Oh, well, Caspar,” interrupted the Senator. Then he seemed to weigh a great fact in his mind. “I guess — —” He paused again in profound consideration. “I guess — —” He lit a small, brown cigar. “I guess you are no damn good.”

  THE END

  THE MONSTER

  CONTENTS

  TWELVE O’CLOCK

  MOONLIGHT ON THE SNOW

  MANACLED

  AN ILLUSION IN RED AND WHITE

  Please note: the short stories The Monster, The Blue Hotel and His New Mittens appeared in the previous collection The Monster and Other Stories.

  TWELVE O’CLOCK

  “Where were you at twelve o’clock, noon, on the 9th of June, 1875?”

  QUESTION ON INTELLIGENT CROSS-EXAMINATION.

  I

  “EXCUSE ME,” said Ben Roddle with graphic gestures to a group of citizens in Nantucket’s store. “Excuse me! When them fellers in leather pants an’ six-shooters ride in, I go home an’ set in th’ cellar. That’s what I do. When you see me pirooting through the streets at th’ same time an’ occasion as them punchers, you kin put me down fer bein’ crazy. Excuse me!”

  “Why, Ben,” drawled old Nantucket, “you ain’t never really seen ’em turned loose. Why, I kin remember — in th’ old days — when — —”

  “Oh, damn yer old days!” retorted Roddle. Fixing Nantucket with the eye of scorn and contempt, he said, “I suppose you’ll be sayin’ in a minute that in th’ old days you used to kill Injuns, won’t you?”

  There was some laughter, and Roddle was left free to expand his ideas on the periodic visits of cowboys to the town. “Mason Rickets, he had ten big punkins a-sittin’ in front of his store, an’ them fellers from the Upside-down-P ranch shot ’em — shot ’em all — an’ Rickets lyin’ on his belly in th’ store a-callin’ fer ’em to quit it. An’ what did they do? Why, they laughed at ‘im — just laughed at ‘im! That don’t do a town no good. Now, how would an eastern capiterlist” — (it was the town’s humor to be always gassing of phantom investors who were likely to come any moment and pay a thousand prices for everything)—”how would an eastern capiterlist like that? Why, you couldn’t see ‘im fer th’ dust on his trail. Then he’d tell all his friends: ‘That there town may be all right, but ther’s too much loose-handed shootin’ fer my money.’ An’ he’d be right, too. Them rich fellers, they don’t make no bad breaks with their money. They watch it all th’ time b’cause they know blame well there ain’t hardly room fer their feet fer th’ pikers an’ tinhorns an’ thimble-riggers what are layin’ fer ‘em. I tell you, one puncher racin’ his cow-pony hell-bent-fer-election down Main Street an’ yellin’ an’ shootin’, an’ nothin’ at all done about it, would scare away a whole herd of capiterlists. An’ it ain’t right. It oughter be stopped.”

  A pessimistic voice asked: “How you goin’ to stop it, Ben?”

  “Organize,” replied Roddle, pompously. “Organize. That’s the only way to make these fellers lay down. I — —”

  From the street sounded a quick scudding of pony hoofs, and a party of cowboys swept past the door. One man, however, was seen to draw rein and dismount. He came clanking into the store. “Mornin’, gentlemen,” he said civilly.

  “Mornin’,” they answered in subdued voices.

  He stepped to the counter and said, “Give me a paper of fine cut, please.” The group of citizens contemplated him in silence. He certainly did not look threatening. He appeared to be a young man of twenty-five years, with a tan from wind and sun, with a remarkably clear eye from perhaps a period of enforced temperance, a quiet young man who wanted to buy some tobacco. A six-shooter swung low on his hip, but at the moment it looked more decorative than warlike; it seemed merely a part of his old gala dress — his sombrero with its band of rattlesnake-skin, his great flaming neckerchief, his belt of embroidered Mexican leather, his high-heeled boots, his huge spurs. And, above all, his hair had been watered and brushed until it lay as close to his head as the fur lies to a wet cat. Paying for his tobacco, he withdrew.

  Ben Roddle
resumed his harangue. “Well, there you are! Looks like a calm man now, but in less ‘n half an hour he’ll be as drunk as three bucks an’ a squaw, an’ then — excuse me!”

  II

  On this day the men of two outfits had come into town, but Ben Roddle’s ominous words were not justified at once. The punchers spent most of the morning in an attack on whiskey which was too earnest to be noisy.

  At five minutes of eleven, a tall, lank, brick-colored cowboy strode over to Placer’s Hotel. Placer’s Hotel was a notable place. It was the best hotel within two hundred miles. Its office was filled with armchairs and brown papier-maché spittoons. At one end of the room was a wooden counter painted a bright pink, and on this morning a man was behind the counter writing in a ledger. He was the proprietor of the hotel, but his customary humor was so sullen that all strangers immediately wondered why in life he had chosen to play the part of mine host. Near his left hand, double doors opened into the dining room, which in warm weather was always kept darkened in order to discourage the flies, which was not compassed at all.

  Placer, writing in his ledger, did not look up when the tall cowboy entered.

  “Mornin’, mister,” said the latter. “I’ve come to see if you kin grubstake th’ hull crowd of us fer dinner t’day.”

  Placer did not then raise his eyes, but with a certain churlishness, as if it annoyed him that his hotel was patronized, he asked: “How many?”

  “Oh, about thirty,” replied the cowboy. “An’ we want th’ best dinner you kin raise an’ scrape. Everything th’ best. We don’t care what it costs s’ long as we git a good square meal. We’ll pay a dollar a head: by God, we will! We won’t kick on nothin’ in th’ bill if you do it up fine. If you ain’t got it in the house, rustle th’ hull town fer it That’s our gait. So you just tear loose, an’ we’ll — —”