The Complete Short Stories and Sketches of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  They were always very thirsty. There was always a howl for the half-bottle of lime juice. Five or six drops from it were simply heavenly in the warm water from the canteens. Point seemed to try to keep the lime juice in his possession, in order that he might get more benefit of it. Before the war was ended the others found themselves declaring vehemently that they loathed Point, and yet when men asked them the reason they grew quite inarticulate. The reasons seemed then so small, as childish as the reasons of a lot of women. And yet at the time his offences loomed enormous.

  The surety of impending battle still weighed upon them. Then it came that Shackles turned seriously ill. Suddenly he dropped his own and much of Point’s traps upon the trail, wriggled out of his blanket roll, flung it away, and took seat heavily at the roadside. They saw with surprise that his face was pale as death, and yet streaming with sweat.

  “Boys,” he said in his ordinary voice, “I’m clean played out. I can’t go another step. You fellows go on, and leave me to come as soon as I am able.”

  “Oh, no, that wouldn’t do at all,” said Little Nell and Tailor together.

  Point moved over to a soft place, and dropped amid whatever traps he was himself carrying.

  “Don’t know whether it’s ancestral or merely from the—sun—but I’ve got a stroke,” said Shackles, and gently slumped over to a prostrate position before either Little Nell or Tailor could reach him.

  Thereafter Shackles was parental; it was Little Nell and Tailor who were really suffering from a stroke, either ancestral or from the sun.

  “Put my blanket roll under my head, Nell, me son,” he said gently. “There now! That is very nice. It is delicious. Why, I’m all right, only—only tired.” He closed his eyes, and something like an easy slumber came over him. Once he opened his eyes. “Don’t trouble about me,” he remarked.

  But the two fussed about him, nervous, worried, discussing this plan and that plan. It was Point who first made a businesslike statement. Seated carelessly and indifferently upon his soft place, he finally blurted out:

  “Say! Look here! Some of us have got to go on. We can’t all stay here. Some of us have got to go on.”

  It was quite true; the Eclipse could take no account of strokes. In the end Point and Tailor went on, leaving Little Nell to bring on Shackles as soon as possible. The latter two spent many hours in the grass by the roadside. They made numerous abrupt acquaintances with passing staff officers, privates, muleteers, many stopping to inquire the wherefore of the death-faced figure on the ground. Favors were done often and often, by peer and peasant—small things, of no consequence, and yet warming.

  It was dark when Shackles and Little Nell had come slowly to where they could hear the murmur of the army’s bivouac.

  “Shack,” gasped Little Nell to the man leaning forlornly upon him, “I guess we’d better bunk down here where we stand.”

  “All right, old boy. Anything you say,” replied Shackles, in the bass and hollow voice which arrives with such condition.

  They crawled into some bushes, and distributed their belongings upon the ground. Little Nell spread out the blankets, and generally played housemaid. Then they lay down, supperless, being too weary to eat. The men slept.

  At dawn Little Nell awakened and looked wildly for Shackles, whose empty blanket was pressed flat like a wet newspaper on the ground. But at nearly the same moment Shackles appeared, elate.

  “Come on,” he cried; “I’ve rustled an invitation for breakfast.”

  Little Nell came on with celerity.

  “Where? Who?” he said.

  “Oh! some officers,” replied Shackles airily. If he had been ill the previous day, he showed it now only in some curious kind of deference he paid to Little Nell.

  Shackles conducted his comrade, and soon they arrived at where a captain and his one subaltern arose courteously from where they were squatting near a fire of little sticks. They wore the wide white trouser-stripes of infantry officers, and upon the shoulders of their blue campaign shirts were the little marks of their rank; but otherwise there was little beyond their manners to render them different from the men who were busy with breakfast near them. The captain was old, grizzled—a common type of captain in the tiny American army—overjoyed at the active service, confident of his business, and yet breathing out in some way a note of pathos. The war was come too late. Age was grappling him, and honors were only for his widow and his children—merely a better life insurance policy. He had spent his life policing Indians with much labor, cold, and heat, but with no glory for him or his fellows. All he now could do was to die at the head of his men. If he had youthfully dreamed of a general’s stars, they were now impossible to him, and he knew it. He was too old to leap so far; his sole honor was a new invitation to face death. And yet, with his ambitions lying half-strangled, he was going to take his men into any sort of holocaust, because his traditions were of gentlemen and soldiers, and because—he loved it for itself—the thing itself—the whirl, the unknown. If he had been degraded at that moment to be a pot-wrestler, no power could have starved him from going through the campaign as a spectator. Why, the army! It was in each drop of his blood.

  The lieutenant was very young. Perhaps he had been hurried out of West Point at the last moment, upon a shortage of officers appearing. To him, all was opportunity. He was, in fact, in great luck. Instead of going off in 1898 to grill for an indefinite period on some God-forgotten heap of red-hot sand in New Mexico, he was here in Cuba, on real business, with his regiment. When the big engagement came he was sure to emerge from it either horizontally or at the head of a company, and what more could a boy ask? He was a very modest lad, and talked nothing of his frame of mind, but an expression of blissful contentment was ever upon his face. He really accounted himself the most fortunate boy of his time; and he felt almost certain that he would do well. It was necessary to do well. He would do well.

  And yet in many ways these two were alike; the grizzled captain with his gently mournful countenance—“Too late”—and the elate young second lieutenant, his commission hardly dry. Here again it was the influence of the army. After all they were both children of the army.

  It is possible to spring into the future here and chronicle what happened later. The captain, after thirty-five years of waiting for his chance, took his Mauser bullet through the brain at the foot of San Juan Hill in the very beginning of the battle, and the boy arrived on the crest panting, sweating, but unscratched, and not sure whether he commanded one company or a whole battalion. Thus fate dealt to the hosts of Shackles and Little Nell.

  The breakfast was of canned tomatoes stewed with hard bread, more hard bread, and coffee. It was very good fare, almost royal. Shackles and Little Nell were absurdly grateful as they felt the hot bitter coffee tingle in them. But they departed joyfully before the sun was fairly up, and passed into Siboney. They never saw the captain again.

  The beach at Siboney was furious with traffic, even as had been the beach at Daiquiri. Launches shouted, jack-tars prodded with their boathooks, and load of men followed load of men. Straight, parade-like, on the shore stood a trumpeter playing familiar calls to the troop-horses who swam toward him eagerly through the salt seas. Crowding closely into the cove were transports of all sizes and ages. To the left and to the right of the little landing-beach green hills shot upward like the wings in a theater. They were scarred here and there with blockhouses and rifle pits. Up one hill a regiment was crawling, seemingly inch by inch. Shackles and Little Nell walked among palms and scrubby bushes, near pools, over spaces of sand holding little monuments of biscuit boxes, ammunition boxes, and supplies of all kinds. Some regiment was just collecting itself from the ships, and the men made great patches of blue on the brown sand.

  Shackles asked a question of a man accidently: “Where’s that regiment going to?” He pointed to the force that was crawling up the hill. The man grinned, and said, “They’re going to look for a fight!”

  “Looking for a fi
ght!” said Shackles and Little Nell together. They stared into each other’s eyes. Then they set off for the foot of the hill. The hill was long and toilsome. Below them spread wider and wider a vista of ships quiet on a gray sea; a busy, black disembarkation place; tall, still, green hills; a village of well separated cottages; palms; a bit of road; soldiers marching. They passed vacant Spanish trenches; little twelve-foot blockhouses. Soon they were on a fine upland near the sea. The path, under ordinary conditions, must have been a beautiful wooded way. It wound in the shade of thickets of fine trees, then through rank growths of bushes with revealed and fantastic roots, then through a grassy space which had all the beauty of a neglected orchard. But always from under their feet scuttled noisy land crabs, demons to the nerves, which in some way possessed a semblance of moon-like faces upon their blue or red bodies, and these faces were turned with expressions of deepest horror upon Shackles and Little Nell as they sped to overtake the pugnacious regiment. The route was paved with coats, hats, tent-and-blanket-rolls, ration-tins, haversacks—everything but ammunition belts, rifles and canteens.

  They heard a dull noise of voices in front of them—men talking too loud for the etiquette of the forest—and presently they came upon two or three soldiers lying by the roadside, flame-faced, utterly spent from the hurried march in the heat. One man came limping back along the path. He looked to them anxiously for sympathy and comprehension. “Hurt m’ knee. I swear I couldn’t keep up with th’ boys. I had to leave ’m. Wasn’t that tough luck?” His collar rolled away from a red, muscular neck, and his bare forearms were better than stanchions. Yet he was almost babyishly tearful in his attempt to make the two correspondents feel that he had not turned back because he was afraid. They gave him scant courtesy, tinctured with one drop of sympathetic yet cynical understanding. Soon they overtook the hospital squad; men addressing chaste language to some pack-mules; a talkative sergeant; two amiable, cool-eyed young surgeons. Soon they were amid the rear troops of the dismounted volunteer cavalry regiment which was moving to attack. The men strode easily along, arguing one to another on ulterior matters. If they were going into battle, they either did not know it or they concealed it well. They were more like men going into a bar at one o’clock in the morning. Their laughter rang through the Cuban woods. And in the meantime, soft, mellow, sweet, sang the voice of the Cuban wood dove, the Spanish guerilla calling to his mate—forest music; on the flanks, deep back on both flanks, the adorable wood dove, singing only of love. Some of the advancing Americans said it was beautiful. It was beautiful. The Spanish guerilla calling to his mate. What could be more beautiful?

  Shackles and Little Nell rushed precariously through waist-high bushes until they reached the center of the single-filed regiment. The firing then broke out in front. All the woods set up a hot sputtering; the bullets sped along the path and across it from both sides. The thickets presented nothing but dense masses of light green foliage, out of which these swift steel things were born supernaturally.

  It was a volunteer regiment going into its first action, against an enemy of unknown force, in a country where the vegetation was thicker than fur on a cat. There might have been a dreadful mess; but in military matters the only way to deal with a situation of this kind is to take it frankly by the throat and squeeze it to death. Shackles and Little Nell felt the thrill of the orders. “Come ahead, men! Keep right ahead, men! Come on!” The volunteer cavalry regiment, with all the willingness in the world, went ahead into the angle of a V-shaped Spanish formation.

  It seemed that every leaf had turned into a soda bottle and was popping its cork. Some of the explosions seemed to be against the men’s very faces, others against the backs of their necks. “Now, men! Keep goin’ ahead. Keep on goin’.” The forward troops were already engaged. They, at least, had something at which to shoot. “Now, captain, if you’re ready.” “Stop that swearing there.” “Got a match?” “Steady, now, men.”

  A gate appeared in a barbed wire fence. Within were billowy fields of long grass, dotted with palms and luxuriant mango trees. It was Elysian—a place for lovers, fair as Eden in its radiance of sun, under its blue sky. One might have expected to see white-robed figures walking slowly in the shadows. A dead man, with a bloody face, lay twisted in a curious contortion at the waist. Some one was shot in the leg, his pins knocked cleanly from under him.

  “Keep goin’, men.” The air roared, and the ground fled reelingly under their feet. Light, shadow, trees, grass. Bullets spat from every side. Once they were in a thicket, and the men, blanched and bewildered, turned one way and then another, not knowing which way to turn. “Keep goin’, men.” Soon they were in the sunlight again. They could see the long scant line, which was being drained man by man—one might say drop by drop. The musketry rolled forth in great full measure from the magazine carbines. “Keep goin’, men.” “Christ, I’m shot!” “They’re flankin’ us, sir.” “We’re bein’ fired into by our own crowd, sir.” “Keep goin’, men.” A low ridge before them was a bottling establishment blowing up in detail. From the right—it seemed at that time to be the far right—they could hear steady, crashing volleys—the United States regulars in action.

  Then suddenly—to use a phrase of the street—the whole bottom of the thing fell out. It was suddenly and mysteriously ended. The Spaniards had run away, and some of the regulars were chasing them. It was a victory.

  When the wounded men dropped in the tall grass they quite disappeared, as if they had sunk in water. Little Nell and Shackles were walking along through the fields, disputing.

  “Well, damn it, man!” cried Shackles, “we must get a list of the killed and wounded.”

  “That is not nearly so important,” quoth Little Nell, academically, “as to get the first account to New York of the first action of the army in Cuba.”

  They came upon Tailor, lying with a bared torso and a small red hole through his left lung. He was calm, but evidently out of temper. “Good God, Tailor!” they cried, dropping to their knees like two pagans; “are you hurt, old boy?”

  “Hurt?” he said gently. “No, ’tis not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door, but it’s enough, d’ you see? You understand, do you? Idiots!”

  Then he became very official. “Shackles, feel and see what’s under my leg. It’s a small stone, or a burr, or something. Don’t be clumsy now! Be careful! Be careful!” Then he said, angrily, “Oh, you didn’t find it at all. Damn it!”

  In reality there was nothing there, and so Shackles could not have removed it. “Sorry, old boy,” he said meekly.

  “Well, you may observe that I can’t stay here more than a year,” said Tailor, with some oratory, “and the hospital people have their own work in hand. It behooves you, Nell, to fly to Siboney, arrest a dispatch boat, get a cot and some other things, and some minions to carry me. If I get once down to the base I’m all right, but if I stay here I’m dead. Meantime Shackles can stay here and try to look as if he liked it.”

  There was no disobeying the man. Lying there with a little red hole in his left lung, he dominated them through his helplessness, and through their fear that if they angered him he would move and—bleed.

  “Well?” said Little Nell.

  “Yes,” said Shackles, nodding.

  Little Nell departed.

  “That blanket you lent me,” Tailor called after him, “is back there somewhere with Point.”

  Little Nell noted that many of the men who were wandering among the wounded seemed so spent with the toil and excitement of their first action that they could hardly drag one leg after the other. He found himself suddenly in the same condition. His face, his neck, even his mouth, felt dry as sunbaked bricks, and his legs were foreign to him. But he swung desperately into his five-mile task. On the way he passed many things: bleeding men carried by comrades; others making their way grimly, with encrimsoned arms; then the little settlement of the hospital squad; men on the ground everywhere, many in the path; one young captain dying, with gr
eat gasps, his body pale blue, and glistening, like the inside of a rabbit’s skin. But the voice of the Cuban wood dove, soft, mellow, sweet, singing only of love, was no longer heard from the wealth of foliage.

  Presently the hurrying correspondent met another regiment coming to assist—a line of a thousand men in single file through the jungle. “Well, how is it going, old man?” “How is it coming on?” “Are we doin’ ’em?” Then, after an interval, came other regiments, moving out. He had to take to the bush to let these long lines pass him, and he was delayed, and had to flounder amid brambles. But at last, like a successful pilgrim, he arrived at the brow of the great hill overlooking Siboney. His practised eye scanned the fine broad brow of the sea with its clustering ships, but he saw thereon no Eclipse dispatch boats. He zigzagged heavily down the hill, and arrived finally amid the dust and outcries of the base. He seemed to ask a thousand men if they had seen an Eclipse boat on the water, or an Eclipse correspondent on the shore. They all answered, “No.”

  He was like a poverty-stricken and unknown suppliant at a foreign Court. Even his plea got only ill hearings. He had expected the news of the serious wounding of Tailor to appall the other correspondents, but they took it quite calmly. It was as if their sense of an impending great battle between two large armies had quite got them out of focus for these minor tragedies. Tailor was hurt—yes? They looked at Little Nell, dazed. How curious that Tailor should be almost the first—how very curious—yes. But, as far as arousing them to any enthusiasm of active pity, it seemed impossible. He was lying up there in the grass, was he? Too bad, too bad, too bad!