The Red Badge of Courage and Other Stories by Stephen Crane Page A

powerful.
    After a time he turned to the youth. “Where yeh hit, ol’ boy?” he asked in a brotherly tone.
    The youth felt instant panic at this question, although at first its full import was not borne in upon him.
    â€œWhat?” he asked.
    â€œWhere yeh hit?” repeated the tattered man.
    â€œWhy,” began the youth, “I—I—that is—why—I—”
    He turned away suddenly and slid through the crowd. His brow was heavily flushed, and his fingers were picking nervously at one of his buttons. He bent his head and fastened his eyes studiously upon the button as if it were a little problem.
    The tattered man looked after him in astonishment.

CHAPTER IX
    The youth fell back in the procession until the tattered soldier was not in sight. Then he started to walk on with the others.
    But he was amid wounds. The mob of men was bleeding. Because of the tattered soldier’s question he now felt that his shame could be viewed. He was continually casting sidelong glances to see if the men were contemplating the letters of guilt he felt burned into his brow.
    At times he regarded the wounded soldiers in an envious way. He conceived persons with torn bodies to be peculiarly happy. He wished that he, too, had a wound, a red badge of courage.
    The spectral soldier was at his side like a stalking reproach. The man’s eyes were still fixed in a stare into the unknown. His gray, appalling face had attracted attention in the crowd, and men, slowing to his dreary pace, were walking with him. They were discussing his plight, questioning him and giving him advice. In a dogged way he repelled them, signing to them to go on and leave him alone. The shadows of his face were deepening and his tight lips seemed holding in check the moan of great despair. There could be seen a certain stiffness in the movements of his body, as if he were taking infinite care not to arouse the passion of his wounds. As he went on, he seemed always looking for a place, like one who goes to choose a grave.
    Something in the gesture of the man as he waved the bloody and pitying soldiers away made the youth start as if bitten. He yelled in horror. Tottering forward he laid a quivering hand upon the man’s arm. As the latter slowly turned his waxlike features toward him, the youth screamed:
    â€œGawd! Jim Conklin!”
    The tall soldier made a little commonplace smile. “Hello, Henry,” he said.
    The youth swayed on his legs and glared strangely. He stuttered and stammered. “Oh, Jim—oh, Jim—oh, Jim—”
    The tall soldier held out his gory hand. There was a curious red and black combination of new blood and old blood upon it. “Where yeh been, Henry?” he asked. He continued in a monotonous voice, “I thought mebbe yeh got keeled over. There’s been thunder t’ pay t’-day. I was worryin’ about it a good deal.”
    The youth still lamented. “Oh, Jim—oh, Jim—oh, Jim—”
    â€œYeh know,” said the tall soldier, “I was out there.” He made a careful gesture. “An’, Lord, what a circus! An’, b’jiminey, I got shot—I got shot. Yes, b’jiminey, I got shot.” He reiterated this fact in a bewildered way, as if he did not know how it came about.
    The youth put forth anxious arms to assist him, but the tall soldier went firmly on as if propelled. Since the youth’s arrival as a guardian for his friend, the other wounded men had ceased to display much interest. They occupied themselves again in dragging their own tragedies toward the rear.
    Suddenly, as the two friends marched on, the tall soldier seemed to be overcome by a terror. His face turned to a semblance of gray paste. He clutched the youth’s arm and looked all about him, as if dreading to be overheard. Then he began to speak in a shaking whisper:
    â€œI tell yeh what I’m ’fraid of, Henry—I’ll tell yeh what