The Complete Short Stories and Sketches of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  The silence returned to the wilderness. The tired flames faintly illumined the blanketed thing and the flung corpse of the marauder, and sang the fire chorus, the ancient melody which bears the message of the inconsequence of human tragedy.

  V

  “Now you are worse off than ever,” said the young man, dry-voiced and awed.

  “No, I ain’t,” said Bill, rebelliously. “I’m one ahead.”

  After reflection, the stranger remarked, “Well, there’s seven more.”

  They were cautiously and slowly approaching the camp. The sun was flaring its first warming rays over the gray wilderness. Upreared twigs, prominent branches, shone with golden light, while the shadows under the mesquite were heavily blue.

  Suddenly the stranger uttered a frightened cry. He had arrived at a point whence he had, through openings in the thicket, a clear view of a dead face.

  “Gosh!” said Bill, who at the next instant had seen the thing; “I thought at first it was that there José. That would have been queer, after what I told ’im yesterday.”

  They continued their way, the stranger wincing in his walk, and Bill exhibiting considerable curiosity.

  The yellow beams of the new sun were touching the grim hues of the dead Mexican’s face, and creating there an inhuman effect which made his countenance more like a mask of dulled brass. One hand, grown curiously thinner, had been flung out regardlessly to a cactus bush.

  Bill walked forward and stood looking respectfully at the body. “I know that feller; his name is Miguel. He—”

  The stranger’s nerves might have been in that condition when there is no backbone to the body, only a long groove. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed, much agitated; “don’t speak that way!”

  “What way?” said Bill. “I only said his name was Miguel.”

  After a pause the stranger said: “Oh, I know; but—” He waved his hand. “Lower your voice, or something. I don’t know. This part of the business rattles me, don’t you see?”

  “Oh, all right,” replied Bill, bowing to the other’s mysterious mood. But in a moment he burst out violently and loud in the most extraordinary profanity, the oaths winging from him as the sparks go from the funnel.

  He had been examining the contents of the bundled gray blanket, and he had brought forth, among other things, his frying pan. It was now only a rim with a handle; the Mexican volley had centered upon it. A Mexican shotgun of the abbreviated description is ordinarily loaded with flatirons, stove-lids, lead pipe, old horseshoes, sections of chain, window weights, railroad sleepers and spikes, dumbbells, and any other junk which may be at hand. When one of these loads encounters a man vitally, it is likely to make an impression upon him, and a cooking utensil may be supposed to subside before such an assault of curiosities.

  Bill held high his desecrated frying pan, turning it this way and that way. He swore until he happened to note the absence of the stranger. A moment later he saw him leading his horse from the bushes. In silence and sullenly the young man went about saddling the animal. Bill said, “Well, goin’ to pull out?”

  The stranger’s hands fumbled uncertainly at the throat-latch. Once he exclaimed irritably, blaming the buckle for the trembling of his fingers. Once he turned to look at the dead face with the light of the morning sun upon it. At last he cried, “Oh, I know the whole thing was all square enough—couldn’t be squarer—but—somehow or other, that man there takes the heart out of me.” He turned his troubled face for another look. “He seems to be all the time calling me a—he makes me feel like a murderer.”

  “But,” said Bill, puzzling, “you didn’t shoot him, mister; I shot him.”

  “I know; but I feel that way, somehow. I can’t get rid of it.”

  Bill considered for a time; then he said diffidently, “Mister, you’re an eddycated man, ain’t you?”

  “What?”

  “You’re what they call a—a eddycated man, ain’t you?”

  The young man, perplexed, evidently had a question upon his lips, when there was a roar of guns, bright flashes, and in the air such hooting and whistling as would come from a swift flock of steam boilers. The stranger’s horse gave a mighty, convulsive spring, snorting wildly in its sudden anguish, fell upon its knees, scrambled afoot again, and was away in the uncanny death-run known to men who have seen the finish of brave horses.

  “This comes from discussin’ things,” cried Bill, angrily.

  He had thrown himself flat on the ground facing the thicket whence had come the firing. He could see the smoke winding over the bush tops. He lifted his revolver, and the weapon came slowly up from the ground and poised like the glittering crest of a snake. Somewhere on his face there was a kind of a smile, cynical, wicked, deadly, of a ferocity which at the same time had brought a deep flush to his face, and had caused two upright lines to glow in his eyes.

  “Hello, José!” he called, amiable for satire’s sake. “Got your old blunder-busses loaded up again yet?”

  The stillness had returned to the plain. The sun’s brilliant rays swept over the sea of mesquite, painting the far mists of the west with faint rosy light, and high in the air some great bird fled toward the south.

  “You come out here,” called Bill, again addressing the landscape, “and I’ll give you some shootin’ lessons. That ain’t the way to shoot.” Receiving no reply, he began to invent epithets and yell them at the thicket. He was something of a master of insult, and, moreover, he dived into his memory to bring forth imprecations tarnished with age, unused since fluent Bowery days. The occupation amused him, and sometimes he laughed so that it was uncomfortable for his chest to be against the ground.

  Finally the stranger, prostrate near him, said wearily, “Oh, they’ve gone.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” replied Bill, sobering swiftly. “They’re there yet—every man of ’em.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I do. They won’t shake us so soon. Don’t put your head up, or they’ll get you, sure.”

  Bill’s eyes, meanwhile, had not wavered from their scrutiny of the thicket in front. “They’re there, all right; don’t you forget it. Now you listen.” So he called out: “José! Ojo, José! Speak up, hombre! I want have talk. Speak up, you yaller cuss, you!”

  Whereupon a mocking voice from off in the bushes said, “Señor?”

  “There,” said Bill to his ally; “didn’t I tell you? The whole batch.” Again he lifted his voice. “José—look—ain’t you gittin’ kinder tired? You better go home, you fellers, and git some rest.”

  The answer was a sudden furious chatter of Spanish, eloquent with hatred, calling down upon Bill all the calamities which life holds. It was as if some one had suddenly enraged a cageful of wildcats. The spirits of all the revenges which they had imagined were loosened at this time, and filled the air.

  “They’re in a holler,” said Bill, chuckling, “or there’d be shootin’.”

  Presently he began to grow angry. His hidden enemies called him nine kinds of coward, a man who could fight only in the dark, a baby who would run from the shadows of such noble Mexican gentlemen, a dog that sneaked. They described the affair of the previous night, and informed him of the base advantage he had taken of their friend. In fact, they in all sincerity endowed him with every quality which he no less earnestly believed them to possess. One could have seen the phrases bite him as he lay there on the ground fingering his revolver.

  VI

  It is sometimes taught that men do the furious and desperate thing from an emotion that is as even and placid as the thoughts of a village clergyman on Sunday afternoon. Usually, however, it is to be believed that a panther is at the time born in the heart, and that the subject does not resemble a man picking mulberries.

  “B’ Gawd!” said Bill, speaking as from a throat filled with dust, “I’ll go after ’em in a minute.”

  “Don’t you budge an inch!” cried the stranger, sternly. “Don’t you budge!”

  “Well,” sa
id Bill, glaring at the bushes—“well——”

  “Put your head down!” suddenly screamed the stranger, in white alarm. As the guns roared, Bill uttered a loud grunt, and for a moment leaned panting on his elbow, while his arm shook like a twig. Then he upreared like a great and bloody spirit of vengeance, his face lighted with the blaze of his last passion. The Mexicans came swiftly and in silence.

  The lightning action of the next few moments was of the fabric of dreams to the stranger. The muscular struggle may not be real to the drowning man. His mind may be fixed on the far, straight shadows in back of the stars, and the terror of them. And so the fight, and his part in it, had to the stranger only the quality of a picture half drawn. The rush of feet, the spatter of shots, the cries, the swollen faces seen like masks on the smoke, resembled a happening of the night.

  And yet afterward certain lines, forms, lived out so strongly from the incoherence that they were always in his memory.

  He killed a man, and the thought went swiftly by him, like the feather on the gale, that it was easy to kill a man.

  Moreover, he suddenly felt for Bill, this grimy sheepherder, some deep form of idolatry. Bill was dying, and the dignity of last defeat, the superiority of him who stands in his grave, was in the pose of the lost sheepherder.

  The stranger sat on the ground idly mopping the sweat and powder stain from his brow. He wore the gentle idiot smile of an aged beggar as he watched three Mexicans limping and staggering in the distance. He noted at this time that one who still possessed a serape had from it none of the grandeur of the cloaked Spaniard, but that against the sky the silhouette resembled a cornucopia of childhood’s Christmas.

  They turned to look at him, and he lifted his weary arm to menace them with his revolver. They stood for a moment banded together, and hooted curses at him.

  Finally he arose and, walking some paces, stooped to loosen Bill’s gray hands from a throat. Swaying as if slightly drunk, he stood looking down into the still face.

  Struck suddenly with a thought, he went about with dulled eyes on the ground, until he plucked his gaudy blanket from where it lay, dirty from trampling feet. He dusted it carefully, and then returned and laid it over Bill’s form. There he again stood motionless, his mouth just agape and the same stupid glance in his eyes, when all at once he made a gesture of fright and looked wildly about him.

  He had almost reached the thicket when he stopped, smitten with alarm. A body contorted, with one arm stiff in the air, lay in his path. Slowly and warily he moved around it, and in a moment the bushes, nodding and whispering, their leaf-faces turned toward the scene behind him, swung and swung again into stillness and the peace of the wilderness.

  February, 1897

  [The Century Magazine, Vol. 53, pp. 601–607.]

  THE OPEN BOAT

  A Tale Intended to be after the Fact: Being

  the Experience of Four Men from the

  Sunk Steamer Commodore

  I

  None of them knew the color of the sky. Their eyes glanced level, and were fastened upon the waves that swept toward them. These waves were of the hue of slate, save for the tops, which were of foaming white, and all of the men knew the colors of the sea. The horizon narrowed and widened, and dipped and rose, and at all times its edge was jagged with waves that seemed thrust up in points like rocks.

  Many a man ought to have a bathtub larger than the boat which here rode upon the sea. These waves were most wrongfully and barbarously abrupt and tall, and each froth-top was a problem in small-boat navigation.

  The cook squatted in the bottom, and looked with both eyes at the six inches of gunwale which separated him from the ocean. His sleeves were rolled over his fat forearms, and the two flaps of his unbuttoned vest dangled as he bent to bail out the boat. Often he said, “Gawd! that was a narrow clip.” As he remarked it he invariably gazed eastward over the broken sea.

  The oiler, steering with one of the two oars in the boat, sometimes raised himself suddenly to keep clear of water that swirled in over the stern. It was a thin little oar, and it seemed often ready to snap.

  The correspondent, pulling at the other oar, watched the waves and wondered why he was there.

  The injured captain, lying in the bow, was at this time buried in that profound dejection and indifference which comes, temporarily at least, to even the bravest and most enduring when, willy-nilly, the firm fails, the army loses, the ship goes down. The mind of the master of a vessel is rooted deep in the timbers of her, though he command for a day or a decade; and this captain had on him the stern impression of a scene in the grays of dawn of seven turned faces, and later a stump of a topmast with a white ball on it, that slashed to and fro at the waves, went low and lower, and down. Thereafter there was something strange in his voice. Although steady, it was deep with mourning, and of a quality beyond oration or tears.

  “Keeper a little more south, Billie,” said he.

  “A little more south, sir,” said the oiler in the stern.

  A seat in this boat was not unlike a seat upon a bucking broncho, and by the same token a broncho is not much smaller. The craft pranced and reared and plunged like an animal. As each wave came, and she rose for it, she seemed like a horse making at a fence outrageously high. The manner of her scramble over these walls of water is a mystic thing, and, moreover, at the top of them were ordinarily these problems in white water, the foam racing down from the summit of each wave requiring a new leap, and a leap from the air. Then, after scornfully bumping a crest, she would slide and race and splash down a long incline, and arrive bobbing and nodding in front of the next menace.

  A singular disadvantage of the sea lies in the fact that after successfully surmounting one wave you discover that there is another behind it just as important and just as nervously anxious to do something effective in the way of swamping boats. In a ten-foot dinghy one can get an idea of the resources of the sea in the line of waves that is not probable to the average experience, which is never at sea in a dinghy. As each slaty wall of waterapproached, it shut all else from the view of the men in the boat, and it was not difficult to imagine that this particular wave was the final outburst of the ocean, the last effort of the grim water. There was a terrible grace in the move of the waves, and they came in silence, save for the snarling of the crests.

  In the wan light the faces of the men must have been gray. Their eyes must have glinted in strange ways as they gazed steadily astern. Viewed from a balcony, the whole thing would doubtless have been weirdly picturesque. But the men in the boat had no time to see it, and if they had had leisure, there were other things to occupy their minds. The sun swung steadily up the sky, and they knew it was broad day because the color of the sea changed from slate to emerald-green streaked with amber lights, and the foam was like tumbling snow. The process of the breaking day was unknown to them. They were aware only of this effect upon the color of the waves that rolled toward them.

  In disjointed sentences the cook and the correspondent argued as to the difference between a life-saving station and a house of refuge. The cook had said: “There’s a house of refuge just north of the Mosquito Inlet Light, and as soon as they see us they’ll come off in their boat and pick us up.”

  “As soon as who see us?” said the correspondent.

  “The crew,” said the cook.

  “Houses of refuge don’t have crews,” said the correspondent. “As I understand them, they are only places where clothes and grub are stored for the benefit of shipwrecked people. They don’t carry crews.”

  “Oh, yes, they do,” said the cook.

  “No, they don’t,” said the correspondent.

  “Well, we’re not there yet, anyhow,” said the oiler, in the stern.

  “Well,” said the cook, “perhaps it’s not a house of refuge that I’m thinking of as being near Mosquito Inlet Light; perhaps it’s a lifesaving station.”

  “We’re not there yet,” said the oiler in the stern.

  II


  As the boat bounced from the top of each wave the wind tore through the hair of the hatless men, and as the craft plopped her stern down again the spray slashed past them. The crest of each of these waves was a hill, from the top of which the men surveyed for a moment a broad tumultuous expanse, shining and wind-riven. It was probably splendid, it was probably glorious, this play of the free sea, wild with lights of emerald and white and amber.

  “Bully good thing it’s an onshore wind,” said the cook. “If not, where would we be? Wouldn’t have a show.”

  “That’s right,” said the correspondent.

  The busy oiler nodded his assent.

  Then the captain, in the bow, chuckled in a way that expressed humor, contempt, tragedy, all in one. “Do you think we’ve got much of a show now, boys?” said he.

  Whereupon the three were silent, save for a trifle of hemming and hawing. To express any particular optimism at this time they felt to be childish and stupid, but they all doubtless possessed this sense of the situation in their minds. A young man thinks doggedly at such times. On the other hand, the ethics of their condition was decidedly against any open suggestion of hopelessness. So they were silent.

  “Oh, well,” said the captain, soothing his children, “we’ll get ashore all right.”

  But there was that in his tone which made them think; so the oiler quoth, “Yes! if this wind holds.”

  The cook was bailing. “Yes! if we don’t catch hell in the surf.”

  Canton-flannel gulls flew near and far. Sometimes they sat down on the sea, near patches of brown seaweed that rolled over the waves with a movement like carpets on a line in a gale. The birds sat comfortably in groups, and they were envied by some in the dinghy, for the wrath of the sea was no more to them than it was to a covey of prairie chickens a thousand miles inland. Often they came very close and stared at the men with black bead-like eyes. At these times they were uncanny and sinister in their unblinking scrutiny, and the men hooted angrily at them, telling them to be gone. One came, and evidently decided to alight on the top of the captain’s head. The bird flew parallel to the boat and did not circle, but made short sidelong jumps in the air in chicken fashion. His black eyes were wistfully fixed upon the captain’s head. “Ugly brute,” said the oiler to the bird. “You look as if you were made with a jackknife.” The cook and the correspondent swore darkly at the creature. The captain naturally wished to knock it away with the end of the heavy painter, but he did not dare do it, because anything resembling an emphatic gesture would have capsized this freighted boat; and so, with his open hand, the captain gently and carefully waved the gull away. After it had been discouraged from the pursuit the captain breathed easier on account of his hair, and others breathed easier because the bird struck their minds at this time as being somehow gruesome and ominous.