The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane (i wanna iguana read aloud TXT) đ
- Author: Stephen Crane
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The body seemed to bounce a little way from the earth. âGod!â said the tattered soldier.
The youth had watched, spellbound, this ceremony at the place of meeting. His face had been twisted into an expression of every agony he had imagined for his friend.
He now sprang to his feet and, going closer, gazed upon the pastelike face. The mouth was open and the teeth showed in a laugh.
As the flap of the blue jacket fell away from the body, he could see that the side looked as if it had been chewed by wolves.
The youth turned, with sudden, livid rage, toward the battlefield. He shook his fist. He seemed about to deliver a philippic.
âHellââ
The red sun was pasted in the sky like a wafer.
The tattered man stood musing.
âWell, he was a regâlar jim-dandy fer nerve, waânât he,â said he finally in a little awestruck voice. âA regâlar jim-dandy.â He thoughtfully poked one of the docile hands with his foot. âI wonner where he got âis strenâth from? I never seen a man do like that before. It was a funny thing. Well, he was a regâlar jim-dandy.â
The youth desired to screech out his grief. He was stabbed, but his tongue lay dead in the tomb of his mouth. He threw himself again upon the ground and began to brood.
The tattered man stood musing.
âLook-a-here, pardner,â he said, after a time. He regarded the corpse as he spoke. âHe âs up anâ gone, ainât âe, anâ we might as well begin tâ look out fer olâ number one. This here thing is all over. He âs up anâ gone, ainât âe? Anâ he âs all right here. Nobody wonât bother âim. Anâ I must say I ainât enjoying any great health mâself these days.â
The youth, awakened by the tattered soldierâs tone, looked quickly up. He saw that he was swinging uncertainly on his legs and that his face had turned to a shade of blue.
âGood Lord!â he cried, âyou ainât goinâ tâânot you, too.â
The tattered man waved his hand. âNary die,â he said. âAll I want is some pea soup anâ a good bed. Some pea soup,â he repeated dreamfully.
The youth arose from the ground. âI wonder where he came from. I left him over there.â He pointed. âAnd now I find âim here. And he was coming from over there, too.â He indicated a new direction. They both turned toward the body as if to ask of it a question.
âWell,â at length spoke the tattered man, âthere ainât no use in our stayinâ here anâ tryinâ tâ ask him anything.â
The youth nodded an assent wearily. They both turned to gaze for a moment at the corpse.
The youth murmured something.
âWell, he was a jim-dandy, waânât âe?â said the tattered man as if in response.
They turned their backs upon it and started away. For a time they stole softly, treading with their toes. It remained laughing there in the grass.
âIâm commencinâ tâ feel pretty bad,â said the tattered man, suddenly breaking one of his little silences. âIâm commencinâ tâ feel pretty damnâ bad.â
The youth groaned. âOh Lord!â He wondered if he was to be the tortured witness of another grim encounter.
But his companion waved his hand reassuringly. âOh, Iâm not goinâ tâ die yit! There too much dependinâ on me fer me tâ die yit. No, sir! Nary die! I CANâT! Yeâd oughta see thâ swad aâ chilâren Iâve got, anâ all like that.â
The youth glancing at his companion could see by the shadow of a smile that he was making some kind of fun.
As the plodded on the tattered soldier continued to talk. âBesides, if I died, I wouldnât die thâ way that feller did. That was thâ funniest thing. Iâd jest flop down, I would. I never seen a feller die thâ way that feller did.
âYeh know Tom Jamison, he lives next door tâ me up home. Heâs a nice feller, he is, anâ we was allus good friends. Smart, too. Smart as a steel trap. Well, when we was a-fightinâ this atternoon, all-of-a-sudden he begin tâ rip up anâ cuss anâ beller at me. âYer shot, yeh blamed infernal!ââhe swear horribleâhe ses tâ me. I put up mâ hand tâ mâ head anâ when I looked at mâ fingers, I seen, sure ânough, I was shot. I give a holler anâ begin tâ run, but bâfore I could git away another one hit me in thâ arm anâ whirlâ me clean âround. I got skeared when they was all a-shootinâ bâhind me anâ I run tâ beat all, but I cotch it pretty bad. Iâve an idee Iâd a been fightinâ yit, if tâwas nât fer Tom Jamison.â
Then he made a calm announcement: âThereâs two of âemâlittle onesâbut they âre beginninâ tâ have fun with me now. I donât bâlieve I kin walk much furder.â
They went slowly on in silence. âYeh look pretty peekâed yerself,â said the tattered man at last. âI bet yeh âve got a worser one than yeh think. Yeâd better take keer of yer hurt. It donât do tâ let sech things go. It might be inside mostly, anâ them plays thunder. Where is it located?â But he continued his harangue without waiting for a reply. âI see a feller git hit plum in thâ head when my regâment was a-standinâ at ease onct. Anâ everybody yelled to âim: âHurt, John? Are yeh hurt much?â âNo,â ses he. He looked kinder surprised, anâ he went on tellinâ âem how he felt. He sed he didnât feel nothinâ. But, by dad, thâ first thing that feller knowed he was dead. Yes, he was deadâstone dead. So, yeh wanta watch out. Yeh might have some queer kind âa hurt yerself. Yeh canât never tell. Where is yourân located?â
The youth had been wriggling since the introduction of this topic. He now gave a cry of exasperation and made a furious motion with his hand. âOh, donât bother me!â he said. He was enraged against the tattered man, and could have strangled him. His companions seemed ever to play intolerable parts. They were ever upraising the ghost of shame on the stick of their curiosity. He turned toward the tattered man as one at bay. âNow, donât bother me,â he repeated with desperate menace.
âWell, Lord knows I donât wanta bother anybody,â said the other. There was a little accent of despair in his voice as he replied, âLord knows I âve gota ânough mâ own tâ tend to.â
The youth, who had been holding a bitter debate with himself and casting glances of hatred and contempt at the tattered man, here spoke in a hard voice. âGood-by,â he said.
The tattered man looked at him in gaping amazement. âWhyâwhy, pardner, where yeh goinâ?â he asked unsteadily. The youth looking at him, could see that he, too, like that other one, was beginning to act dumb and animal-like. His thoughts seemed to be floundering about in his head. âNowânowâlookâaâhere, you Tom Jamisonânowâ I wonât have thisâthis here wonât do. Whereâwhere yeh goinâ?â
The youth pointed vaguely. âOver there,â he replied.
âWell, now lookâaâhereânow,â said the tattered man, rambling on in idiot fashion. His head was hanging forward and his words were slurred. âThis thing wonât do, now, Tom Jamison. It wonât do. I know yeh, yeh pig-headed devil. Yeh wanta go trompinâ off with a bad hurt. It ainât rightânowâTom Jamison âit ainât. Yeh wanta leave me take keer of yeh, Tom Jamison. It ainâtârightâit ainâtâfer yeh tâ goâtrompinâ offâwith a bad hurtâit ainâtâainâtâainât rightâit ainât.â
In reply the youth climbed a fence and started away. He could hear the tattered man bleating plaintively.
Once he faced about angrily. âWhat?â
âLookâaâhere, now, Tom Jamisonânowâit ainâtââ
The youth went on. Turning at a distance he saw the tattered man wandering about helplessly in the field.
He now thought that he wished he was dead. He believed he envied those men whose bodies lay strewn over the grass of the fields and on the fallen leaves of the forest.
The simple questions of the tattered man had been knife thrusts to him. They asserted a society that probes pitilessly at secrets until all is apparent. His late companionâs chance persistency made him feel that he could not keep his crime concealed in his bosom. It was sure to be brought plain by one of those arrows which cloud the air and are constantly pricking, discovering, proclaiming those things which are willed to be forever hidden. He admitted that he could not defend himself against this agency. It was not within the power of vigilance.
He became aware that the furnace roar of the battle was growing louder. Great blown clouds had floated to the still heights of air before him. The noise, too, was approaching. The woods filtered men and the fields became dotted.
As he rounded a hillock, he perceived that the roadway was now a crying mass of wagons, teams, and men. From the heaving tangle issued exhortations, commands, imprecations. Fear was sweeping it all along. The cracking whips bit and horses plunged and tugged. The white-topped wagons strained and stumbled in their exertions like fat sheep.
The youth felt comforted in a measure by this sight. They were all retreating. Perhaps, then, he was not so bad after all. He seated himself and watched the terror-stricken wagons. They fled like soft, ungainly animals. All the roarers and lashers served to help him to magnify the dangers and horrors of the engagement that he might try to prove to himself that the thing with which men could charge him was in truth a symmetrical act. There was an amount of pleasure to him in watching the wild march of this vindication.
Presently the calm head of a forward-going column of infantry appeared in the road. It came swiftly on. Avoiding the obstructions gave it the sinuous movement of a serpent. The men at the head butted mules with their musket stocks. They prodded teamsters indifferent to all howls. The men forced their way through parts of the dense mass by strength. The blunt head of the column pushed. The raving teamsters swore many strange oaths.
The commands to make way had the ring of a great importance in them. The men were going forward to the heart of the din. They were to confront the eager rush of the enemy. They felt the pride of their onward movement when the remainder of the army seemed trying to dribble down this road. They tumbled teams about with a fine feeling that it was no matter so long as their column got to the front in time. This importance made their faces grave and stern. And the backs of the officers were very rigid.
As the youth looked at them the black weight of his woe returned to him. He felt that he was regarding a procession of chosen beings. The separation was as great to him as if they had marched with weapons of flame and banners of sunlight. He could never be like them. He could have wept in his longings.
He searched about in his mind for an adequate malediction for the indefinite cause, the thing upon which men turn the words of final blame. Itâwhatever it wasâwas responsible for him, he said. There lay the fault.
The haste of the column to reach the battle seemed to the forlorn young man to be something much finer than stout fighting. Heroes, he thought, could find excuses in that long seething lane. They could retire with perfect self-respect and make excuses to the
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