The Complete Short Stories and Sketches of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  There were no hurried words, no pallor, no plain agitation. The men simply looked at the shore. “Now, remember to get well clear of the boat when you jump,” said the captain.

  Seaward the crest of a roller suddenly fell with a thunderous crash, and the long white comber came roaring down upon the boat.

  “Steady now,” said the captain. The men were silent. They turned their eyes from the shore to the comber and waited. The boat slid up the incline, leaped at the furious top, bounced over it, and swung down the long back of the wave. Some water had been shipped, and the cook bailed it out.

  But the next crest crashed also. The tumbling, boiling flood of white water caught the boat and whirled it almost perpendicular. Water swarmed in from all sides. The correspondent had his hands on the gunwale at this time, and when the water entered at that place he swiftly withdrew his fingers, as if he objected to wetting them.

  The little boat, drunken with this weight of water, reeled and snuggled deeper into the sea.

  “Bail her out, cook! Bail her out!” said the captain.

  “All right, Captain,” said the cook.

  “Now, boys, the next one will do for us sure,” said the oiler. “Mind to jump clear of the boat.”

  The third wave moved forward, huge, furious, implacable. It fairly swallowed the dinghy, and almost simultaneously the men tumbled into the sea. A piece of lifebelt had lain in the bottom of the boat, and as the correspondent went overboard he held this to his chest with his left hand.

  The January water was icy, and he reflected immediately that it was colder than he had expected to find it off the coast of Florida. This appeared to his dazed mind as a fact important enough to be noted at the time. The coldness of the water was sad; it was tragic. This fact was somehow mixed and confused with his opinion of his own situation, so that it seemed almost a proper reason for tears. The water was cold.

  When he came to the surface he was conscious of little but the noisy water. Afterward he saw his companions in the sea. The oiler was ahead in the race. He was swimming strongly and rapidly. Off to the correspondent’s left, the cook’s great white and corked back bulged out of the water; and in the rear the captain was hanging with his one good hand to the keel of the overturned dinghy.

  There is a certain immovable quality to a shore, and the correspondent wondered at it amid the confusion of the sea.

  It seemed also very attractive; but the correspondent knew that it was a long journey, and he paddled leisurely. The piece of life preserver lay under him, and sometimes he whirled down the incline of a wave as if he were on a hand-sled.

  But finally he arrived at a place in the sea where travel was beset with difficulty. He did not pause swimming to inquire what manner of current had caught him, but there his progress ceased. The shore was set before him like a bit of scenery on a stage, and he looked at it and understood with his eyes each detail of it.

  As the cook passed, much farther to the left, the captain was calling to him, “Turn over on your back, cook! Turn over on your back and use the oar.”

  “All right, sir.” The cook turned on his back, and, paddling with an oar, went ahead as if he were a canoe.

  Presently the boat also passed to the left of the correspondent, with the captain clinging with one hand to the keel. He would have appeared like a man raising himself to look over a board fence if it were not for the extraordinary gymnastics of the boat. The correspondent marveled that the captain could still hold to it.

  They passed on nearer to shore—the oiler, the cook, the captain—and following them went the water jar, bouncing gaily over the seas.

  The correspondent remained in the grip of this strange new enemy—a current. The shore, with its white slope of sand and its green bluff topped with little silent cottages, was spread like a picture before him. It was very near to him then, but he was impressed as one who, in a gallery, looks at a scene from Brittany or Algiers.

  He thought: “I am going to drown? Can it be possible? Can it be possible? Can it be possible?” Perhaps an individual must consider his own death to be the final phenomenon of nature.

  But later a wave perhaps whirled him out of this small deadly current, for he found suddenly that he could again make progress toward the shore. Later still he was aware that the captain, clinging with one hand to the keel of the dinghy, had his face turned away from the shore and toward him, and was calling his name. “Come to the boat! Come to the boat!”

  In his struggle to reach the captain and the boat, he reflected that when one gets properly wearied drowning must really be a comfortable arrangement—a cessation of hostilities accompanied by a large degree of relief; and he was glad of it, for the main thing in his mind for some moments had been horror of the temporary agony. He did not wish to be hurt.

  Presently he saw a man running along the shore. He was undressing with most remarkable speed. Coat, trousers, shirt, everything flew magically off him.

  “Come to the boat!” called the captain.

  “All right, Captain.” As the correspondent paddled, he saw the captain let himself down to bottom and leave the boat. Then the correspondent performed his one little marvel of the voyage. A large wave caught him and flung him with ease and supreme speed completely over the boat and far beyond it. It struck him even then as an event in gymnastics and a true miracle of the sea. An overturned boat in the surf is not a plaything to a swimming man.

  The correspondent arrived in water that reached only to his waist, but his condition did not enable him to stand for more than a moment. Each wave knocked him into a heap, and the undertow pulled at him.

  Then he saw the man who had been running and undressing, and undressing and running, come bounding into the water. He dragged ashore the cook, and then waded toward the captain; but the captain waved him away and sent him to the correspondent. He was naked—naked as a tree in winter; but a halo was about his head, and he shone like a saint. He gave a strong pull, and a long drag, and a bully heave at the correspondent’s hand. The correspondent, schooled in the minor formulae, said, “Thanks, old man.” But suddenly the man cried, “What’s that?” He pointed a swift finger. The correspondent said, “Go.”

  In the shallows, face downward, lay the oiler. His forehead touched sand that was periodically, between each wave, clear of the sea.

  The correspondent did not know all that transpired afterward. When he achieved safe ground he fell, striking the sand with each particular part of his body. It was as if he had dropped from a roof, but the thud was grateful to him.

  It seems that instantly the beach was populated with men with blankets, clothes, and flasks, and women with coffeepots and all the remedies sacred to their minds. The welcome of the land to the men from the sea was warm and generous; but a still and dripping shape was carried slowly up the beach, and the land’s welcome for it could only be the different and sinister hospitality of the grave.

  When it came night, the white waves paced to and fro in the moonlight, and the wind brought the sound of the great sea’s voice to the men on the shore, and they felt that they could then be interpreters.

  June, 1897

  [Scribner’s Magazine, Vol. 21, pp. 728–740.]

  HOW THE DONKEY LIFTED THE HILLS

  Many people suppose that the donkey is lazy. This is a great mistake. It is his pride.

  Years ago, there was nobody quite so fine as the donkey. He was a great swell in those times. No one could express an opinion of anything without the donkey showing where he was in it. No one could mention the name of an important personage without the donkey declaring how well he knew him.

  The donkey was, above all things, a proud and aristocratic beast.

  One day a party of animals were discussing one thing and another, until finally the conversation drifted around to mythology.

  “I have always admired that giant, Atlas,” observed the ox in the course of the conversation. “It was amazing how he could carry things.”

  “Oh yes, At
las,” said the donkey. “I knew him very well. I once met a man and we got talking of Atlas. I expressed my admiration for the giant and my desire to meet him some day, if possible. Whereupon the man said there was nothing quite so easy. He was sure that his dear friend, Atlas, would be happy to meet so charming a donkey. Was I at leisure next Monday? Well, then, could I dine with him upon that date? So, you see, it was all arranged. I found Atlas to be a very pleasant fellow.”

  “It has always been a wonder to me how he could have carried the earth on his back,” said the horse.

  “Oh, my dear sir, nothing is more simple,” cried the donkey. “One has only to make up one’s mind to it, and then—do it. That is all. I am quite sure that if I wished I could carry a range of mountains upon my back.”

  All the others said, “Oh, my!”

  “Yes, I could,” asserted the donkey, stoutly. “It is merely a question of making up one’s mind. I will bet.”

  “I will wager also,” said the horse. “I will wager my ears that you can’t carry a range of mountains upon your back.”

  “Done,” cried the donkey.

  Forthwith the party of animals set out for the mountains. Suddenly, however, the donkey paused and said, “Oh, but look here. Who will place this range of mountains upon my back? Surely I can not be expected to do the loading also.”

  Here was a great question. The party consulted. At length the ox said, “We will have to ask some men to shovel the mountain upon the donkey’s back.”

  Most of the others clapped their hoofs or their paws and cried, “Ah, that is the thing.”

  The horse, however, shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t know about these men. They are very sly. They will introduce some deviltry into the affair.”

  “Why, how silly,” said the donkey. “Apparently you do not understand men. They are the most gentle, guileless creatures.”

  “Well,” retorted the horse, “I will doubtless be able to escape, since I am not to be encumbered with any mountains. Proceed.”

  The donkey smiled in derision at these observations by the horse.

  Presently they came upon some men who were laboring away like mad, digging ditches, felling trees, gathering fruits, carrying water, building huts.

  “Look at these men, would you,” said the horse. “Can you trust them after this exhibition of their depravity? See how each one selfishly—”

  The donkey interrupted with a loud laugh.

  “What nonsense!”

  And then he cried out to the men, “Ho, my friends, will you please come and shovel a range of mountains upon my back?”

  “What?”

  “Will you please come and shovel a range of mountains upon my back?”

  The men were silent for a time. Then they went apart and debated. They gesticulated a great deal.

  Some apparently said one thing and some another. At last they paused, and one of their number came forward.

  “Why do you wish a range of mountains shoveled upon your back?”

  “It is a wager,” cried the donkey.

  The men consulted again. And as the discussion became older, their heads went closer and closer together, until they merely whispered, and did not gesticulate at all. Ultimately they cried, “Yes, certainly we will shovel a range of mountains upon your back for you.”

  “Ah, thanks,” said the donkey.

  “Here is surely some deviltry,” said the horse behind his hoof to the ox.

  The entire party proceeded then to the mountains. The donkey drew a long breath and braced his legs.

  “Are you ready?” asked the men.

  “All ready,” cried the donkey.

  The men began to shovel.

  The dirt and stones flew over the donkey’s back in showers. It was not long before his legs were hidden. Presently only his neck and head remained in view. Then at last this wise donkey vanished. There had been made no great effect upon the range of mountains. They still towered toward the sky.

  The watching crowd saw a heap of dirt and stones make a little movement, and then was heard a muffled cry. “Enough! Enough! It was not two ranges of mountains! It is not fair! It is not fair!”

  But the men only laughed as they shoveled on.

  “Enough! Enough! Oh, woe is me—thirty snow-capped peaks upon my little back. Ah, these false, false men! Oh, virtuous, wise, and holy men, desist.”

  The men again laughed. They were as busy as fiends with their shovels.

  “Ah, brutal, cowardly, accursed men; ah, good, gentle, and holy men, please remove some of those damnable peaks. I will adore your beautiful shovels forever. I will be slave to the beckoning of your little fingers. I will no longer be my own donkey—I will be your donkey.”

  The men burst into a triumphant shout and ceased shoveling.

  “Swear it, mountain-carrier!”

  “I swear! I swear! I swear!”

  The other animals scampered away then, for these men in their plots and plans were very terrible. “Poor old foolish fellow,” cried the horse; “he may keep his ears. He will need them to hear and count the blows that are now to fall upon him.”

  The men unearthed the donkey. They beat him with their shovels. “Ho, come on, slave.” Encrusted with earth, yellow-eyed from fright, the donkey limped toward his prison. His ears hung down like leaves of the plantain during the great rain.

  So, now, when you see a donkey with a church, a palace, and three villages upon his back, and he goes with infinite slowness, moving but one leg at a time, do not think him lazy. It is his pride.

  June, 1897

  [The Pocket Magazine, Vol. 4, pp. 144–151.]

  THE VICTORY OF THE MOON

  The Strong Man of the Hills lost his wife. Immediately he went abroad, calling aloud. The people all crouched afar in the dark of their huts, and cried to him when he was yet a long distance away: “No, no, great chief, we have not even seen the imprint of your wife’s sandal in the sand. If we had seen it, you would have found us bowed down in worship before the marks of her ten glorious brown toes, for we are but poor devils of Indians, and the grandeur of the sun rays on her hair would have turned our eyes to dust.”

  “Her toes are not brown. They are pink,” said the Strong Man from the Hills. “Therefore do I believe that you speak the truth when you say you have not seen her, good little men of the valley. In this matter of her great loveliness, however, you speak a little too strongly. As she is no longer among my possessions, I have no mind to hear her praised. Whereabouts is the best man of you?”

  None of them had stomach for this honor at the time. They surmised that the Strong Man of the Hills had some plan for combat, and they knew that the best of them would have in this encounter only the strength of the meat in the grip of the fire. “Great King,” they said, in one voice, “there is no best man here.”

  “How is this?” roared the Strong Man. “There must be one who excels. It is a law. Let him step forward, then.”

  But they solemnly shook their heads. “There is no best man here.”

  The Strong Man turned upon them so furiously that many fell to the ground. “There must be one. Let him step forward.” Shivering, they huddled together and tried, in their fear, to thrust each other toward the Strong Man.

  At this time a young philosopher approached the throng slowly. The philosophers of that age were all young men in the full heat of life. The old graybeards were, for the most part, very stupid, and were so accounted.

  “Strong Man from the Hills,” said the young philosopher, “go to yonder brook and bathe. Then come and eat of this fruit. Then gaze for a time at the blue sky and the green earth. Afterward I have something to say to you.”

  “You are not so wise that I am obliged to bathe before listening to you?” demanded the Strong Man, insolently.

  “No,” said the young philosopher. All the people thought this reply very strange.

  “Why, then, must I bathe and eat of fruit and gaze at the earth and the sky?”

&nb
sp; “Because they are pleasant things to do.”

  “Have I, do you think, any thirst at this time for pleasant things?”

  “Bathe, eat, gaze,” said the young philosopher with a gesture.

  The Strong Man did, indeed, whirl his bronzed and terrible limbs in the silver water. Then he lay in the shadow of a tree and ate the cool fruit and gazed at the sky and the earth. “This is a fine comfort,” he said. After a time he suddenly struck his forehead with his finger. “By the way, did I tell you that my wife had fled from me?”

  “I know it,” said the young philosopher.

  Later the Strong Man slept peacefully. The young philosopher smiled.

  But in the night the little men of the valley came clamoring: “O, Strong Man of the Hills, the moon derides you!”

  The philosopher went to them in the darkness. “Be still, little people. It is nothing. The derision of the moon is nothing.”

  But the little men of the valley would not cease their uproar. “O, Strong Man! Strong Man, awake! Awake! The moon derides you!”

  Then the Strong Man aroused and shook his locks away from his eyes. “What is it, good little men of the valley?”

  “O, Strong Man, the moon derides you! O, Strong Man!”

  The Strong Man looked, and there, indeed, was the moon laughing down at him. He sprang to his feet and roared. “Ah, old, fat lump of moon, you laugh! Have you seen my wife?”

  The moon said no word, but merely smiled in a way that was like a flash of silver bars.

  “Well, then, moon, take this home to her,” thundered the Strong Man, and he hurled his spear.

  The moon clapped both hands to its eye, and cried: “Oh! Oh!”

  The little people of the valley cried: “Oh, this terrible Strong Man! He has smitten our sacred moon in the eye!”

  The young philosopher cried nothing at all.

  The Strong Man threw his coat of crimson feathers upon the ground. He took his knife and felt its edge. “Look you, philosopher,” he said. “I have lost my wife; and the bath, the meal of fruit in the shade, the sight of sky and earth are still good to me. But when this false moon derides me, there must be a killing.”