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                         THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE                 
                                                                  
                                    by                            
                                                                  
                              Stephen Crane                       
                                                                  
          This Special Edition Copyright (c) 1991 Spectrum Press  
                                                                  
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                                CHAPTER ONE

          The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring
     fog revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting. As the
     landscape changed from brown to green, the army awakened, and
     began to tremble with eagerness at the noise of rumors. It cast
     its eyes upon the roads, which were growing from long troughs of
     liquid mud to proper thoroughfares. A river, amber-tinted in the
     shadow of its banks, purled at the army's feet; and at night,
     when the stream had become of a sorrowful blackness, one could
     see across it the red, eyelike gleam of hostile camp fires set in
     the low brows of distant hills.
          Once a certain tall soldier developed virtues and went
     resolutely to wash a shirt. He came flying back from a brook
     waving his garment bannerlike. He was swelled with a tale he had
     heard from a reliable friend, who had heard it from a truthful
     cavalryman, who had heard it from his trustworthy brother, one of
     the orderlies at division headquarters. He adopted the important
     air of a herald in red and gold.
          "We're going to move tomorrow---sure," he said pompously to
     a group in the company street. "We're going way up the river, cut
     across, and come around in behind them."
          To his attentive audience he drew a loud and elaborate plan
     of a very brilliant campaign. When he had finished, the blue-
     clothed men scattered into small arguing groups between the rows
     of squat brown huts. A negro teamster who had been dancing upon a
     cracker box with the hilarious encouragement of two-score
     soldiers was deserted. He sat mournfully down. Smoke drifted
     lazily from a multitude of quaint chimneys.
          "It's a lie! That's all it is---a thundering lie!" said
     another private loudly. His smooth face was flushed, and his
     hands were thrust sulkily into his trousers' pockets. He took the
     matter as an affront to him. "I don't believe the darned old
     army's ever going to move. We're set. I've got ready to move
     eight times in the last two weeks, and we ain't moved yet."
          The tall soldier felt called upon to defend the truth of a
     rumor he himself had introduced. He and the loud one came near to
     fighting over it.
          A corporal began to swear before the assemblage. He had just
     put a costly board floor in his house, he said. During the early
     spring he had refrained from adding extensively to the comfort of
     his environment because he had felt that the army might start on
     the march at any moment. Of late, however, he had been impressed
     that they were in a sort of eternal camp.
          Many of the men engaged in a spirited debate. One outlined
     in a peculiarly lucid manner all the plans of the commanding
     general. He was opposed by men who advocated that there were
     other plans of campaign. They clamored at each other, numbers
     making futile bids for the popular attention. Meanwhile, the
     soldier who had fetched the rumor bustled about with much
     importance. He was continually assailed by questions.
          "What's up, Jim?"
          "The army's going to move."
          "Ah, what you talking about? How you know it is?"
          "Well, you can believe me or not, just as you like. I don't
     care a hang."
          There was much food for thought in the manner in which he
     replied. He came near to convincing them by disdaining to produce
     proofs. They grew much excited over it.
          There was a youthful private who listened with eager ears to
     the words of the tall soldier and to the varied comments of his
     comrades. After receiving a fill of discussions concerning
     marches and attacks, he went to his hut and crawled through an
     intricate hole that served it as a door. He wished to be alone
     with some new thoughts that had lately come to him.
          He lay down on a wide bunk that stretched across the end of
     the room. In the other end, cracker boxes were made to serve as
     furniture. They were grouped about the fireplace. A picture from
     an illustrated weekly was upon the log walls, and three rifles
     were paralleled on pegs. Equipments hung on handy projections,
     and some tin dishes lay upon a small pile of firewood. A folded
     tent was serving as a roof. The sunlight, without, beating upon
     it, made it glow a light yellow shade. A small window shot an
     oblique square of whiter light upon the cluttered floor, The
     smoke from the fire at times neglected the clay chimney and
     wreathed into the room, and this flimsy chimney of clay and
     sticks made endless threats to set ablaze the whole
     establishment.
          The youth was in a little trance of astonishment. So they
     were at last going to fight. On the morrow, perhaps, there would
     be a battle, and he would be in it. For a time he was obliged to
     labor to make himself believe. He could not accept with assurance
     an omen that he was about to mingle in one of those great affairs
     of the earth.
          He had, of course, dreamed of battles all his life---of
     vague and bloody conflicts that had thrilled him with their sweep
     and fire. In visions he had seen himself in many struggles. He
     had imagined peoples secure in the shadow of his eagle-eyed
     prowess. But awake he had regarded battles as crimson blotches on
     the pages of the past. He had put them as things of the bygone
     with his thought-images of heavy crowns and high castles. There
     was a portion of the world's history which he had regarded as the
     time of wars, but it, he thought, had been long gone over the
     horizon and had disappeared forever.
      From his home his youthful eyes had looked upon the war in his
     own country with disgust. It must be some sort of a play affair.
     He had long despaired of witnessing a Greeklike struggle. Such
     would be no more, he had said. Men were better, or more timid.
     Secular and religious education had effaced the throat-grappling
     instinct, or else firm finance held in check the passions.
          He had burned several times to enlist. Tales of great
     movements shook the land. They might not be distinctly Homeric,
     but there seemed to be much glory in them. He had read of
     marches, sieges, conflicts, and he had longed to see it all. His
     busy mind had drawn for him large pictures extravagant in color,
     lurid with breathless deeds.
          But his mother had discouraged him. She had affected to look
     with some contempt upon the quality of his war ardor and
     patriotism. She could calmly seat herself and with no apparent
     difficulty give him many hundreds of reasons why he was of vastly
     more importance on the farm than on the field of battle. She had
     had certain ways of expression that told him that her statements
     on the subject came from a deep conviction. Moreover, on her
     side, was his belief that her ethical motive in the argument was
     impregnable.
          At last however he had made firm rebellion against this
     yellow light thrown upon the color of his ambitions. The
     newspapers, the gossip of the village, his own picturings, had
     aroused him to an uncheckable degree. They were in truth fighting
     finely down there. Almost every day the newspapers printed
     accounts of a decisive victory.
          One night, as he lay in bed, the winds had carried to him
     the clangoring of the church bell as some enthusiast jerked the
     rope frantically to tell the twisted news of a great battle. This
     voice of the people rejoicing in the night had made him shiver in
     a prolonged ecstasy of excitement. Later, he had gone down to his
     mother's room and had spoken thus: "Ma, I'm going to enlist."
          "Henry, don't you be a fool," his mother had replied. She
     had then covered her face with the quilt. There was an end to the
     matter for that night.
          Nevertheless, the next morning he had gone to a town that
     was near his mother's farm and had enlisted in a company that was
     forming there. When he had returned home his mother was milking
     the brindle cow. Four others stood waiting. "Ma, I've enlisted,"
     he had said to her diffidently. There was a short silence. "The
     Lord's will be done, Henry," she had finally replied, and had
     then continued to milk the brindle cow. 
          When he had stood in the doorway with his soldier's clothes
     on his back, and with the light of excitement and expectancy in
     his eyes almost defeating the glow of regret for the home bonds,
     he had seen two tears leaving their trails on his mother's
     scarred cheeks.
          Still, she had disappointed him by saying nothing whatever
     about returning with his shield or on it. He had privately primed
     himself for a beautiful scene. He had prepared certain sentences
     which he thought could be used with touching effect. But her
     words destroyed his plans. She had doggedly peeled potatoes and
     addressed him as follows: "You watch out, Henry, and take good
     care of yourself in this here fighting business---you watch out,
     and take good care of yourself. Don't go a-thinking you can lick
     the whole rebel army at the start, because you can't. You're just
     one little fellow amongst a whole lot of others, and you've got
     to keep quiet and do what they tell you. I know how you are,
     Henry.
          "I've knit you eight pair of socks, Henry, and I've put in
     all your best shirts, because I want my boy to be just as warm
     and comfortable as anybody in the army. Whenever they get holes
     in them, I want you to send them right away back to me, so as I
     can darn them.
          "And always be careful and choose your company. There's lots
     of bad men in the army, Henry. The army makes them wild, and they
     like nothing better than the job of leading off a young fellow
     like you, as ain't never been away from home much and has always
     had a mother, and a-learning him to drink and swear. Keep clear
     of them folks, Henry. I don't want you to ever do anything,
     Henry, that you would be ashamed to let me know about. Just think
     as if I was a-watching you. If you keep that in your mind always,
     I guess you'll come out about right.
          "You must always remember your father too, child, and
     remember he never drunk a drop of liquor in his life, and seldom
     swore a cross oath. 
          "I don't know what else to tell you, Henry, excepting that
     you must never do no shirking, child, on my account. If so be a
     time comes when you have to be killed or do a mean thing, why,
     Henry, don't think of anything except what's right, because
     there's many a woman has to bear up against such things these
     times, and the Lord will take care of us all.
          "Don't forget about the socks and the shirts, child; and
     I've put a cup of blackberry jam with your bundle, because I know
     you like it above all things. Goodby, Henry. Watch out, and be a
     good boy."
          He had, of course, been impatient under the ordeal of this
     speech. It had not been quite what he expected, and he had borne
     it with an air of irritation. He departed feeling vague relief.
          Still, when he had looked back from the gate, he had seen
     his mother kneeling among the potato parings. Her brown face,
     upraised, was stained with tears, and her spare form was
     quivering. He bowed his head and went on, feeling suddenly
     ashamed of his purposes.
          From his home he had gone to the seminary to bid adieu to
     many schoolmates. They had thronged about him with wonder and
     admiration. He had felt the gulf now between them and had swelled
     with calm pride. He and some of his fellows who had donned blue
     were quite overwhelmed with privileges for all of one afternoon,
     and it had been a very delicious thing. They had strutted.
          A certain light-haired girl had made vivacious fun at his
     martial spirit, but there was another and darker girl whom he had
     gazed at steadfastly, and he thought she grew demure and sad at
     sight of his blue and brass. As he had walked down the path
     between the rows of oaks, he had turned his head and detected her
     at a window watching his departure. As he perceived her, she had
     immediately begun to stare up through the high tree branches at
     the sky. He had seen a good deal of flurry and haste in her
     movement as she changed her attitude. He often thought of it.
          On the way to Washington his spirit had soared. The regiment
     was fed and caressed at station after station until the youth had
     believed that he must be a hero. There was a lavish expenditure
     of bread and cold meats, coffee, and pickles and cheese. As he
     basked in the smiles of the girls and was patted and complimented
     by the old men, he had felt growing within him the strength to do
     mighty deeds of arms.
          After complicated journeyings with many pauses, there had
     come months of monotonous life in a camp. He had had the belief
     that real war was a series of death struggles with small time in
     between for sleep and meals; but since his regiment had come to
     the field the army had done little but sit still and try to keep
     warm.
          He was brought then gradually back to his old ideas.
     Greeklike struggles would be no more. Men were better, or more
     timid. Secular and religious education had effaced the throat-
     grappling instinct, or else firm finance held in check the
     passions.
          He had grown to regard himself merely as a part of a vast
     blue demonstration. His province was to look out, as far as he
     could, for his personal comfort. For recreation he could twiddle
     his thumbs and speculate on the thoughts which must agitate the
     minds of the generals. Also, he was drilled and drilled and
     reviewed, and drilled and drilled and reviewed.
          The only foes he had seen were some pickets along the river
     bank. They were a sun-tanned, philosophical lot, who sometimes
     shot reflectively at the blue pickets. When reproached for this
     afterward, they usually expressed sorrow, and swore by their gods
     that the guns had exploded without their permission. The youth,
     on guard duty one night, conversed across the stream with one of
     them. He was a slightly ragged man, who spat skillfully between
     his shoes and possessed a great fund of bland and infantile
     assurance. The youth liked him personally.
          "Yank," the other bad informed him, "you're a right damn
     good fellow." This sentiment, floating to him upon the still air,
     had made him temporarily regret war.
          Various veterans had told him tales. Some talked of gray,
     bewhiskered hordes who were advancing with relentless curses and
     chewing tobacco with unspeakable valor; tremendous bodies of
     fierce soldiery who were sweeping along like the Huns. Others
     spoke of tattered and eternally hungry men who fired despondent
     powders. "They'll charge through hell's fire and brimstone to get
     a hold on a haversack, and such stomachs ain't a-lasting long,"
     he was told. From the stories, the youth imagined the red, live
     bones, sticking out through slits in the faded uniforms.
          Still, he could not put a whole faith in veterans' tales,
     for recruits were their prey. They talked much of smoke, fire,
     and blood, but he could not tell how much might be lies. They
     persistently yelled, "Fresh fish!" at him, and were in no wise to
     be trusted.
          However, be perceived now that it did not greatly matter
     what kind of soldiers he was going to fight, so long as they
     fought, which fact no one disputed. There was a more serious
     problem. He lay in his bunk pondering upon it. He tried to
     mathematically prove to himself that he would not run from a
     battle.
          Previously he had never felt obliged to wrestle too serio-
     usly with this question. In his life he had taken certain things
     for granted, never challenging his belief in ultimate success,
     and bothering little about means and roads. But here he was
     confronted with a thing of moment. It had suddenly appeared to
     him that perhaps in a battle he might run. He was forced to admit
     that as far as war was concerned he knew nothing of himself.
          A sufficient time before he would have allowed the problem
     to kick its heels at the outer portals of his mind, but now he
     felt compelled to give serious attention to it.
          A little panic-fear grew in his mind. As his imagination
     went forward to a fight, he saw hideous possibilities. He
     contemplated the lurking menaces of the future, and failed in an
     effort to see himself standing stoutly in the midst of them. He
     recalled his visions of broken-bladed glory, but in the shadow of
     the impending tumult he suspected them to be impossible pictures.
          He sprang from the bunk and began to pace nervously to and
     fro. "Good Lord, what's the matter with me?" he said aloud.
          He felt that in this crisis his laws of life were useless.
     Whatever he had learned of himself was here of no avail. He was
     an unknown quantity. He saw that he would again be obliged to
     experiment as he had in early youth. He must accumulate
     information of himself, and mean while he resolved to remain
     close upon his guard lest those qualities of which he knew
     nothing should everlastingly disgrace him. "Good Lord!" he
     repeated in dismay.
          After a time the tall soldier slid dexterously through the
     hole. The loud private followed. They were wrangling.
          "That's all right," said the tall soldier as he entered. He
     waved his hand expressively. "You can believe me or not, just as
     you like. All you got to do is to sit down and wait as quiet as
     you can. Then pretty soon you'll find out I was right."
          His comrade grunted stubbornly. For a moment he seemed to be
     searching for a formidable reply. Finally he said: "Well, you
     don't know everything in the world, do you?"
          "Didn't say I knew everything in the world," retorted the
     other sharply. He began to stow various articles snugly into his
     knapsack.
          The youth, pausing in his nervous walk, looked down at the
     busy figure. "Going to be a battle, sure, is there, Jim?" he
     asked.
          "Of course there is," replied the tall soldier. "Of course
     there is. You just wait till tomorrow, and you'll see one of the
     biggest battles ever was. You just wait."
          "Thunder! " said the youth.
          "Oh, you'll see fighting this time, my boy, what'll be
     regular out-and-out fighting," added the tall soldier, with the
     air of a man who is about to exhibit a battle for the benefit of
     his friends.
          "Huh!" said the loud one from a corner.
          "Well," remarked the youth, "like as not this story'll turn
     out just like them others did."
          "Not much it won't," replied the tall soldier, exasperated.
     "Not much it won't. Didn't the cavalry all start this morning?"
     He glared about him. No one denied his statement. "The cavalry
     started this morning," he continued. "They say there ain't hardly
     any cavalry left in camp. They're going to Richmond, or some
     place, while we fight all the Johnnies. It's some dodge like
     that. The regiment's got orders, too. A fellow what seen them go
     to headquarters told me a little while ago. And they're raising
     blazes all over camp---anybody can see that.'
          "Shucks! " said the loud one.
          The youth remained silent for a time. At last he spoke to
     the tall soldier. "Jim!"
          "What?"
          "How do you think the regiment will do?"
          "Oh, they'll fight all right, I guess, after they once get
     into it," said the other with cold judgment. He made a fine use
     of the third person. "There's been heaps of fun poked at them
     because they're new, of course, and all that; but they'll fight
     all right, I guess."
          "Think any of the boys'll run?" persisted the youth.
          "Oh, there may be a few of them run, but there's them kind
     in every regiment, especially when they first goes under fire,"
     said the other in a tolerant way. "Of course it might happen that
     the whole kit-and-boodle might start and run, if some big
     fighting came first-off, and then again they might stay and fight
     like fun. But you can't bet on nothing. Of course they ain't
     never been under fire yet, and it ain't likely they'll lick the
     whole rebel army all-to-once the first time; but I think they'll
     fight better than some, if worse than others. That's the way I
     figure. They call the regiment `Fresh fish' and everything; but
     the boys come of good stock, and most of them'll fight like sin
     after they once get shooting," he added, with a mighty emphasis
     on the last four words.
          "Oh, you think you know---" began the loud soldier with
     scorn.
          The other turned savagely upon him. They had a rapid
     altercation, in which they fastened upon each other various
     strange epithets.
          The youth at last interrupted them. "Did you ever think you
     might run yourself, Jim?" he asked. On concluding the sentence he
     laughed as if he had meant to aim a joke. The loud soldier also
     giggled.
          The tall private waved his hand. "Well," said he profoundly,
     "I've thought it might get too hot for Jim Conklin in some of
     them scrimmages, and if a whole lot of boys started and run, why,
     I suppose I'd start and run. And if I once started to run, I'd
     run like the devil, and no mistake. But if everybody was a-
     standing and a-fighting, why, I'd stand and fight. By jiminy, I
     would. I'll bet on it."
          "Huh!" said the loud one.
          The youth of this tale felt gratitude for these words of his
     comrade. He had feared that all of the untried men possessed a
     great and correct confidence. He now was in a measure reassured.
     
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