HE became aware that the furnace
roar of the battle was growing
louder. Great brown 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
107 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 pleas- ure 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 team- sters
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 ade- quate malediction
for the indefinite cause, the
thing upon which men turn the
words of final blame. It--whatever
it was--was 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 some-
thing 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 stars.
He wondered what those men
had eaten that they could be
in such haste to force their
way to grim chances of death.
As he watched his envy grew until
he thought that he wished to
change lives with one of them.
He would have liked to have used
a tremendous force, he said,
throw off himself and become
a better. Swift pictures of himself,
apart, yet in himself, came to
him--a blue desperate figure
leading lurid charges with one
knee forward and a broken blade
high--a blue, determined figure
standing before a crimson and
steel assault, getting calmly
killed on a high place before
the eyes of all. He thought of
the magnificent pathos of his
dead body.
These thoughts uplifted him.
He felt the quiver of war desire.
In his ears, he heard the ring
of victory. He knew the frenzy
of a rapid successful charge.
The music of the trampling feet,
the sharp voices, the clanking
arms of the column near him made
him soar on the red wings of
war. For a few moments he was
sublime.
He thought that he was about
to start for the front. Indeed,
he saw a picture of himself,
dust- stained, haggard, panting,
flying to the front at the proper
moment to seize and throttle
the dark, leering witch of calamity.
Then the difficulties of the
thing began to drag at him. He
hesitated, balancing awkwardly
on one foot.
He had no rifle; he could not
fight with his hands, said he
resentfully to his plan. Well,
rifles could be had for the picking.
They were extraordinarily profuse.
Also, he continued, it would
be a miracle if he found his
regiment. Well, he could fight
with any regiment.
He started forward slowly.
He stepped as if he expected
to tread upon some explosive
thing. Doubts and he were struggling.
He would truly be a worm if
any of his com- rades should
see him returning thus, the marks
of his flight upon him. There
was a reply that the intent fighters
did not care for what happened
rearward saving that no hostile
bayonets ap- peared there. In
the battle-blur his face would,
in a way be hidden, like the
face of a cowled man.
But then he said that his tireless
fate would bring forth, when
the strife lulled for a moment,
a man to ask of him an explanation.
In imagina- tion he felt the
scrutiny of his companions as
he painfully labored through
some lies.
Eventually, his courage expended
itself upon these objections.
The debates drained him of his
fire.
He was not cast down by this
defeat of his plan, for, upon
studying the affair carefully,
he could not but admit that the
objections were very formidable.
Furthermore, various ailments
had begun to cry out. In their
presence he could not persist
in flying high with the wings
of war; they rendered it almost
impossible for him to see him-
self in a heroic light. He tumbled
headlong.
He discovered that he had a
scorching thirst. His face was
so dry and grimy that he thought
he could feel his skin crackle.
Each bone of his body had an
ache in it, and seemingly threatened
to break with each movement.
His feet were like two sores.
Also, his body was calling for
food. It was more powerful than
a direct hunger. There was a
dull, weight like feeling in
his stom- ach, and, when he tried
to walk, his head swayed and
he tottered. He could not see
with distinct- ness. Small patches
of green mist floated before
his vision.
While he had been tossed by
many emotions, he had not been
aware of ailments. Now they beset
him and made clamor. As he was
at last compelled to pay attention
to them, his capacity for self-hate
was multiplied. In despair, he
declared that he was not like
those others. He now conceded
it to be impossible that he should
ever become a hero. He was a
craven loon. Those pictures of
glory were piteous things. He
groaned from his heart and went
staggering off.
A certain mothlike quality
within him kept him in the vicinity
of the battle. He had a great
desire to see, and to get news.
He wished to know who was winning.
He told himself that, despite
his unprecedented suffering,
he had never lost his greed for
a victory, yet, he said, in a
half-apologetic manner to his
conscience, he could not but
know that a defeat for the army
this time might mean many favor-
able things for him. The blows
of the enemy would splinter regiments
into fragments. Thus, many men
of courage, he considered, would
be obliged to desert the colors
and scurry like chickens. He
would appear as one of them.
They would be sullen brothers
in distress, and he could then
easily believe he had not run
any farther or faster than they.
And if he himself could believe
in his virtuous perfection, he
con- ceived that there would
be small trouble in con- vincing
all others.
He said, as if in excuse for
this hope, that previously the
army had encountered great defeats
and in a few months had shaken
off all blood and tradition of
them, emerging as bright and
valiant as a new one; thrusting
out of sight the memory of disaster,
and appearing with the valor
and confidence of unconquered
legions. The shrilling voices
of the people at home would pipe
dismally for a time, but various
generals were usually compelled
to listen to these ditties. He
of course felt no compunctions
for proposing a general as a
sacrifice. He could not tell
who the chosen for the barbs
might be, so he could center
no direct sympathy upon him.
The people were afar and he did
not conceive public opinion to
be accurate at long range. It
was quite probable they would
hit the wrong man who, after
he had recovered from his amazement
would perhaps spend the rest
of his days in writ- ing replies
to the songs of his alleged failure.
It would be very unfortunate,
no doubt, but in this case a
general was of no consequence
to the youth.
In a defeat there would be
a roundabout vindication of himself.
He thought it would prove, in
a manner, that he had fled early
because of his superior powers
of perception. A serious prophet
upon predicting a flood should
be the first man to climb a tree.
This would demon- strate that
he was indeed a seer.
A moral vindication was regarded
by the youth as a very important
thing. Without salve, he could
not, he thought, wear the sore
badge of his dishonor through
life. With his heart con- tinually
assuring him that he was despicable,
he could not exist without making
it, through his actions, apparent
to all men.
If the army had gone gloriously
on he would be lost. If the din
meant that now his army's flags
were tilted forward he was a
condemned wretch. He would be
compelled to doom himself to
isolation. If the men were advancing,
their indifferent feet were trampling
upon his chances for a successful
life.
As these thoughts went rapidly
through his mind, he turned upon
them and tried to thrust them
away. He denounced himself as
a villain. He said that he was
the most unutterably selfish
man in existence. His mind pictured
the soldiers who would place
their defiant bodies before the
spear of the yelling battle fiend,
and as he saw their dripping
corpses on an imagined field,
he said that he was their murderer.
Again he thought that he wished
he was dead. He believed that
he envied a corpse. Thinking
of the slain, he achieved a great
contempt for some of them, as
if they were guilty for thus
becoming lifeless. They might
have been killed by lucky chances,
he said, before they had had
opportunities to flee or before
they had been really tested.
Yet they would receive laurels
from tradition. He cried out
bitterly that their crowns were
stolen and their robes of glori-
ous memories were shams. However,
he still said that it was a great
pity he was not as they.
A defeat of the army had suggested
itself to him as a means of escape
from the consequences of his
fall. He considered, now, however,
that it was useless to think
of such a possibility. His education
had been that success for that
mighty blue machine was certain;
that it would make victories
as a contrivance turns out buttons.
He presently discarded all his
speculations in the other direction.
He returned to the creed of soldiers.
When he perceived again that
it was not possible for the army
to be defeated, he tried to bethink
him of a fine tale which he could
take back to his regiment, and
with it turn the expected shafts
of derision.
But, as he mortally feared
these shafts, it became impossible
for him to invent a tale he felt
he could trust. He experimented
with many schemes, but threw
them aside one by one as flimsy.
He was quick to see vulnerable
places in them all.
Furthermore, he was much afraid
that some arrow of scorn might
lay him mentally low before he
could raise his protecting tale.
He imagined
the whole regiment saying: "Where's Henry Fleming?
He run, didn't 'e? Oh, my!" He
recalled various persons who
would be quite sure to leave
him no peace about it. They would
doubtless question him with sneers,
and laugh at his stammering hesi-
tation. In the next engagement
they would try to keep watch
of him to discover when he would
run.
Wherever he
went in camp, he would en-
counter insolent and
lingeringly cruel stares. As
he imagined himself passing near
a crowd of comrades, he could
hear some one say, "There he
goes!"
Then, as if the heads were
moved by one muscle, all the
faces were turned toward him
with wide, derisive grins. He
seemed to hear some one make
a humorous remark in a low tone.
At it the others all crowed and
cackled. He was a slang phrase.
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