The Complete Short Stories and Sketches of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  Tom waited for them. Those in the lead evidently considered him to be one of their number since his face was grimed and his garments disheveled. One gigantic man, with bare and brawny arms and throat, gave him invitation with a fierce smile. “Come ahn, Swipsey, while we go roast ’em.”

  A raving gray-haired woman, struggling in the mud, sang a song which consisted of one endless line:

  “We’ll burn th’ foxes out,

  We’ll burn th’ foxes out

  We’ll burn th’ foxes out.”

  As for the others, they babbled and screamed in a vast variety of foreign tongues. Tom walked along with them listening to the cries that came from the terrible little army, marching with clenched fists and with gleaming eyes fastened upon the mansion that upreared so calmly before them.

  When they arrived, they hesitated a moment, as if awed by the impassive silence of the structure with closed shutters and barred doors, which stolidly and indifferently confronted them.

  Then from the center of the crowd came the voice of the gray-headed old woman: “Break in th’ door! Break in th’ door!” And then it was that Tom displayed the desperation born of his devotion to the girl within the house. Although he was perhaps braver than most men, he had none of that magnificent fortitude, that gorgeous tranquillity amid upheavals and perils which is the attribute of people in plays; but he stepped up on the porch and faced the throng. His face was wondrously pallid and his hands trembled but he said: “You fellows can’t come in here.”

  There came a great sarcastic howl from the crowd. “Can’t we?” They broke into laughter at this wildly ridiculous thing. The brawny, bare-armed giant seized Tom by the arm, “Get outa th’ way, you yap,” he said between his teeth. In an instant Tom was punched and pulled and knocked this way and that way, and amid the pain of these moments he was conscious that members of the mob were delivering thunderous blows upon the huge doors. Directly indeed they crashed down and he felt the crowd sweep past him and into the house. He clung to a railing; he had no more sense of balance than a feather. A blow in the head had made him feel that the ground swirled and heaved around him. He had no further interest in rioting, and such scenes of excitement. Gazing out over the common he saw two patrol wagons, loaded with policemen, and the lashed horses galloping in the mud. He wondered dimly why they were in such a hurry.

  But at that moment a scream rang from the house out through the open doors. He knew the voice and, like an electric shock, it aroused him from his semi-stupor. Once more alive, he turned and charged into the house as valiant and as full of rage as a Roman. Pandemonium reigned within. There came yells and roars, splinterings, cracklings, crashes. The scream of Mildred again rang out; this time he knew it came from the dining room before whose closed door four men were as busy as miners with improvised pick and drill.

  Tom grasped a heavy oaken chair that stood ornamentally in the hall and, elevating it above his head, ran madly at the four men. When he was almost upon them, he let the chair fly. It seemed to strike all of them. A heavy oak chair of the old English type is one of the most destructive of weapons. Still, there seemed to be enough of the men left, for they flew at him from all sides like dragons. In the dark of the hallway, Tom put down his head and half-closed his eyes and plied his fists. He knew he had but a moment in which to stand up, but there was a sort of grim joy in knowing that the most terrific din of this affray was going straight through the dining room door, and into the heart of Mildred and when she knew that her deliverer was— He saw a stretch of blood-red sky flame under his lids and then sank to the floor, blind, deaf, and nerveless.

  When the old colonel arrived in one of the patrol wagons, he did not wait to see the police attack in front but ran around to the rear. As he passed the dining room windows he saw his wife’s face. He shouted, and when they opened a window he clambered with great agility into the room. For a minute they deluged each other with shouts of joy and tears. Then finally the old colonel said: “But they did not get in here. How was that?”

  “Oh, papa,” said Mildred, “they were trying to break in when somebody came and fought dreadfully with them and made them stop.”

  “Heavens, who could it have been?” said the colonel. He went to the door and opened it. A group of police became visible, hurrying about the wide hall, but near the colonel’s feet lay a body with a white still face.

  “Why, it’s—it’s—” ejaculated the colonel in great agitation.

  “It’s Tom,” cried Mildred.

  When Tom came to his senses he found that his fingers were clasped tightly by a soft white hand which by some occult power of lovers he knew at once.

  “Tom,” said Mildred.

  And the old colonel from further away said: “Tom, my boy!”

  But Tom was something of an obstinate young man. So as soon as he felt himself recovered sufficiently, he arose and went unsteadily toward the door.

  “Tom, where are you going?” cried Mildred.

  “Where are you going, Tom?” called the colonel.

  “I’m going home,” said Tom doggedly. “I didn’t intend to cross this threshold—I—” He swayed unsteadily and seemed almost about to fall. Mildred screamed and ran toward him. She made a prisoner of him. “You shall not go home,” she told him.

  “Well,” began Tom weakly yet persistently, “I—”

  “No, no, Tom,” said the colonel, “you are to eat a Christmas dinner with us tomorrow and then I wish to talk with you about—about—”

  “About what?” said Tom.

  “About—about—damnitall, about marrying my daughter,” cried the colonel.

  January 1, 1895

  [The Plumbers’ Trade Journal, Vol. 17, pp. 26–27.]

  A LOVELY JAG IN A CROWDED CAR

  The crosstown car was bound for the great shopping district, and one side of it was lined with women who sat in austere silence regarding each other in occasional furtive glances and preserving their respectability with fierce vigilance. A solitary man sat in a corner meekly pretending that he was interested in his newspaper. The conductor came and went without discussion, like a well-bred servant. The atmosphere of the car was as decorous as that of the most frigid of drawing rooms.

  However, the decorous atmosphere was doomed to be destroyed by a wild red demon of drink and destruction. He was standing on a street corner, swaying gently on his wavering legs and blinking at the cobbles. Frequently he regarded the passing people with an expression of the most benign amiability.

  As the car came near to him he tottered greatly in his excitement. He waved his umbrella and shouted: “Stop sh’ car! Stop sh’ car!”

  The driver pulled stoutly at the reins with his gloved left hand, and with his right one swung the polished brass of the brake lever. The car halted and, upon the rear platform, the conductor reached down to help the wild, red demon of drink and destruction aboard the car. He climbed up the steps with an important and serious air, as if he were boarding a frigate; then he went smiling in jovial satisfaction into the car. As he was about to sit down there were two sharp, clanging notes on the bell, the driver released his brake and again tightened his reins, and the car started with a sudden jerk that caused the man to be precipitated violently into a seat as if some one had struck him. He seemed to feel a keen humor in the situation for, upon recovering himself, he looked at the other passengers and laughed.

  As for the women bound for the shopping district, they had suddenly turned into so many statues of ice. They stared out of the little windows which cut the street scenes in half and allowed but the upper parts of people to be seen, moving curiously without any legs. Whenever the eyes of the women were obliged to encounter the man they assumed at once an expression of the most heroic disgust and disdain. The man over in the corner grinned, urchinlike.

  The drunken man put his hands on his knees and beamed about him in absolute unalloyed happiness. He seemed to believe that he was engaged in carousing with a convivial party and these friends were
represented to his mind by the silent row of women who were going shopping. He had not the air of a man who was on a solitary spree; he was conducting a great celebration. The universe was engaged with him in a vast rakish song to flagon and cup, the sun had its hat over its eye, all of humanity staggered and smiled.

  Presently his excited spirits overflowed to such an extent that he was obliged to sing. He began to beat time with his forefinger as if he was leading a grand chorus.

  “But th’ younger shon was er shon-of-a-gun,

  He was! He was!

  ’E shuffle’ cards an’ ’e play fer mon,

  He did! He did!

  He wore shilk hat an’ er high stannin’ collar.

  He’d go out with’er boys an’ gi’ full an’ then holler.

  Oh, he was er—”

  He was interrupted by the conductor, who came in and said in a heavy undertone: “Close that trap now or I’ll put’che off!”

  The injustice of the conductor was both an astonishment and a grief to the man. He had been on the best of terms with each single atom in space, and now here suddenly appeared a creature who gruffly stated a dampening fact. He spoke very loudly in his pain and disappointment: “Pu’ me off? What ’che go pu’ me off fer? We ain’t doin’ er shing! G’wan way! Go shtand on er end z’car! Thash where you b’long! You ain’ got no business talk me.”

  The conductor returned scowling to the rear platform. He turned and looked at the man with a glance that was full of menace.

  Meanwhile, within the car, the inebriated passenger continued to conduct the grand celebration. “Hurray!” he said, at the conclusion of one of his little ballads. “Le’s all haver drink! Le’s all haver noz’ drink! Shay! Shay, look here a minute.” He began to pound on the floor with his umbrella and make earnest gestures at the conductor. “Shay, look here!”

  The conductor, watchful-eyed but self-contained, came forward. “Well,” he said.

  “Bringesh noz’ round drinkshs,” said the man. “Bringesh noz’ round drinkshs.”

  “Say, you’ll have to cool down some or I’ll put’che off th’ car. What d’yeh think?” said the conductor.

  But the man was busy trying to find out the preference of each of the passengers. “What’ll yeh take?” he demanded of each one, smiling genially. Whereupon the women opposite to him stared at the floor, at the ceiling, at the forward end of the car and at the rear end of the car, their lips set in stern lines.

  Notwithstanding all these icy expressions, his face remained lit with a sunny grin, as if he were convinced that every one regarded him affectionately. He insisted that they should all take something.

  “What’ll yeh take? What? Ain’che drinkin’? What? Shay, yeh mus’ take somethin’. What? Well, all ri’. I’ll order Manhattan fer yeh! Shay, Jim,” he called loudly to the conductor, “bringesh noz’ Manhattan.”

  With infinite pains and thoroughness he canvassed the passengers, putting to each one the formidable question, “What’ll yeh drink?” The faces of the women were set in lines of horror, dismay, and disgust. No one uttered a syllable in reply save the man over in the corner, who said indulgently: “Oh, I guess I’ll take a beer.”

  At the conclusion of his canvass the man spent some anxious moments in reflection, calculating carefully upon his fingers. Then he triumphantly ordered one beer and nine Manhattan cocktails of the conductor.

  The latter, who was collecting fares at the time, turned and said: “Say, lookahere, now, you’ve got t’ quit this thing. Just close your face or I’ll throw yeh out in th’ street.”

  “Tha’s all ri’,” said the other, nodding his head portentously and wisely. “Tha’s all ri’. You ain’t go’ throw me out. I ain’t doin’ er shing. Wha’ you throw me out fer? Tha’s all ri’.” Then he returned to his demeanor of command. “Come. Hur’ up! Bringesh nine Manhattans an’—an’—le’s see—somebody order beer, didn’ they? Who order beer?” He gazed inquiringly at the imperturbable faces. Finally he addressed the man over in the corner. “Shay, didn’ you order beer?”

  The man in the corner grinned. “Well, yes, I guess it was me.”

  “Look here, bringesh nine Manhattans an’ er beer,” called the celebrating man to the conductor. “Hur’ up! Bringesh ’em quick.”

  The conductor looked scornfully away.

  As the car passed through the region of the great stores the group of women gradually diminished until finally they disappeared altogether, and, as the car went on its way toward a distant ferry, there remained within only the celebrating individual and the man over in the corner. The celebrator became more jovial as time went forward. He rejoiced that the world was to him one vast landscape of pure rose color. The humming of the wheels and the clatter of the horses’ hoofs did not drown the sound of this high quavering voice that sang of the pearl-hued joys of life as seen through a pair of strange, oblique, temporary spectacles. The conductor, musing upon the rear platform, had grown indifferent.

  At last the celebrator seemed overcome by the wild thought that the car had passed the point where he had intended to leave it. He broke off in the midst of a ballad and scrambled for the door. “Stop sh’ car,” he yelled. The conductor reached for the bell strap, but before the car stopped the celebrator sprawled out upon the cobbles. He arose instantly and began a hurried and unsteady journey back up the street, retracing the way over which the car had just brought him. He seemed overwhelmed with anxiety.

  The man in the corner came to the rear platform and gazed after the form of the celebrator. “Well, he was a peach,” he said.

  “That’s what he was,” said the conductor.

  They both turned to watch him and they remained there deep in reflection, absorbed in contemplation of this wavering figure in the distance, until observation was no longer possible.

  January 6, 1895

  [New York Press, part 5, p. 6.]

  A MYSTERY OF HEROISM*

  The dark uniforms of the men were so coated with dust from the incessant wrestling of the two armies that the regiment almost seemed a part of the clay bank which shielded them from the shells. On the top of the hill a battery was arguing in tremendous roars with some other guns, and to the eye of the infantry the artillerymen, the guns, the caissons, the horses, were distinctly outlined upon the blue sky. When a piece was fired, a red streak as round as a log flashed low in the heavens, like a monstrous bolt of lightning. The men of the battery wore white duck trousers, which somehow emphasized their legs; and when they ran and crowded in little groups at the bidding of the shouting officers, it was more impressive than usual to the infantry.

  Fred Collins, of A Company, was saying: “Thunder! I wisht I had a drink. Ain’t there any water round here?” Then somebody yelled: “There goes th’ bugler!”

  As the eyes of half the regiment swept in one machinelike movement, there was an instant’s picture of a horse in a great convulsive leap of a death wound and a rider leaning back with a crooked arm and spread fingers before his face. On the ground was the crimson terror of an exploding shell, with fibers of flame that seemed like lances. A glittering bugle swung clear of the rider’s back as fell headlong the horse and the man. In the air was an odor as from a conflagration.

  Sometimes they of the infantry looked down at a fair little meadow which spread at their feet. Its long green grass was rippling gently in a breeze. Beyond it was the gray form of a house half torn to pieces by shells and by the busy axes of soldiers who had pursued firewood. The line of an old fence was now dimly marked by long weeds and by an occasional post. A shell had blown the well-house to fragments. Little lines of gray smoke ribboning upward from some embers indicated the place where had stood the barn.

  From beyond a curtain of green woods there came the sound of some stupendous scuffle, as if two animals of the size of islands were fighting. At a distance there were occasional appearances of swift-moving men, horses, batteries, flags, and with the crashing of infantry volleys were heard, often, wild and fre
nzied cheers. In the midst of it all Smith and Ferguson, two privates of A Company, were engaged in a heated discussion which involved the greatest questions of the national existence.

  The battery on the hill presently engaged in a frightful duel. The white legs of the gunners scampered this way and that way, and the officers redoubled their shouts. The guns, with their demeanors of stolidity and courage, were typical of something infinitely self-possessed in this clamor of death that swirled around the hill.

  One of a “swing” team was suddenly smitten quivering to the ground, and his maddened brethren dragged his torn body in their struggle to escape from this turmoil and danger. A young soldier astride one of the leaders swore and fumed in his saddle and furiously jerked at the bridle. An officer screamed out an order so violently that his voice broke and ended the sentence in a falsetto shriek.

  The leading company of the infantry regiment was somewhat exposed, and the colonel ordered it moved more fully under the shelter of the hill. There was the clank of steel against steel.

  A lieutenant of the battery rode down and passed them, holding his right arm carefully in his left hand. And it was as if this arm was not at all a part of him, but belonged to another man. His sober and reflective charger went slowly. The officer’s face was grimy and perspiring, and his uniform was tousled as if he had been in direct grapple with an enemy. He smiled grimly when the men stared at him. He turned his horse toward the meadow.

  Collins, of A Company, said: “I wisht I had a drink. I bet there’s water in that there ol’ well yonder!”

  “Yes; but how you goin’ to git it?”

  For the little meadow which intervened was now suffering a terrible onslaught of shells. Its green and beautiful calm had vanished utterly. Brown earth was being flung in monstrous handfuls. And there was a massacre of the young blades of grass. They were being torn, burned, obliterated. Some curious fortune of the battle had made this gentle little meadow the object of the red hate of the shells, and each one as it exploded seemed like an imprecation in the face of a maiden.