The Complete Short Stories and Sketches of Stephen Crane

  “Oh, no,” said the young aide. Then he repeated his orders rapidly. But he was hugely delighted. He knew Bas well; Bas was a pupil of Maceo; Bas invariably led his men; he never was a mere spectator of their battle; he was known for it throughout the western end of the island. The new officer had early achieved a part of his ambition—to be called a brave man by established brave men.

  “Well, if we get away from here quickly it will be better for us,” said Bas, bitterly. “I’ve lost six men killed, and more wounded. Rodriguez can’t hold his position there, and in a little time more than a thousand men will come from the other direction.”

  He hissed a low call, and later the young aide saw some of the men sneaking off with the wounded, lugging them on their backs as porters carry sacks. The fire from the blockhouse had become aweary, and as the insurgent fire also slackened, Bas and the young lieutenant lay in the weeds listening to the approach of the eastern fight, which was sliding toward them like a door to shut them off.

  Bas groaned. “I leave my dead. Look there.” He swung his hand in a gesture, and the lieutenant, looking, saw a corpse. He was not stricken as he expected; there was very little blood; it was a mere thing.

  “Time to travel,” said Bas suddenly. His imperative hissing brought his men near him; there were a few hurried questions and answers; then, characteristically, the men turned in the grass, lifted their rifles, and fired a last volley into the blockhouse, accompanying it with their shrill cries. Scrambling low to the ground, they were off in a winding line for safety. Breathing hard, the lieutenant stumbled his way forward. Behind him he could hear the men calling each to each: “Segue! Segue! Segue! Go on! Get out! Git!” Everybody understood that the peril of crossing the road was compounding from minute to minute.

  VII

  When they reached the gap through which the expedition had passed, they fled out upon the road like scared wild fowl tracking along a sea-beach. A cloud of blue figures far up this dignified shaded avenue fired at once. The men already had begun to laugh as they shied one by one across the road. “Segue! Segue!” The hard part for the nerves had been the lack of information of the amount of danger. Now that they could see it, they accounted it all the more lightly for their previous anxiety.

  Over in the other field, Bas and the young lieutenant found Rodriguez, his machete in one hand, his revolver in the other, smoky, dirty, sweating. He shrugged his shoulders when he saw them and pointed disconsolately to the brown thread of carriers moving toward the foothills. His own men were crouched in line just in front of him, blazing like a prairie fire.

  Now began the fight of a scant rear guard to hold back the pressing Spaniards until the carriers could reach the top of the ridge, a mile away. This ridge, by the way, was more steep than any roof; it conformed more to the sides of a French warship. Trees grew vertically from it, however, and a man burdened only with his rifle usually pulled himself wheezingly up in a sort of ladder-climbing process, grabbing the slim trunks above him. How the loaded carriers were to conquer it in a hurry, no one knew. Rodriguez shrugged his shoulders as one who would say with philosophy, smiles, tears, courage: “Isn’t this a mess!”

  At an order, the men scattered back for four hundred yards with the rapidity and mystery of a handful of pebbles flung in the night. They left one behind who cried out, but it was now a game in which some were sure to be left behind to cry out.

  The Spaniards deployed on the road and for twenty minutes remained there, pouring into the field such a fire from their magazines as was hardly heard at Gettysburg. As a matter of truth the insurgents were at this time doing very little shooting, being chary of ammunition. But it is possible for the soldier to confuse himself with his own noise, and undoubtedly the Spanish troops thought throughout their din that they were being fiercely engaged. Moreover, a firing line—particularly at night or when opposed to a hidden foe—is nothing less than an emotional chord, a chord of a harp that sings because a puff of air arrives or when a bit of down touches it. This is always true of new troops or stupid troops, and these troops were rather stupid troops. But the way in which they mowed the verdure in the distance was a sight for a farmer.

  Presently the insurgents slunk back to another position, where they fired enough shots to stir again the Spaniards into an opinion that they were in a heavy fight. But such a misconception could only endure for a number of minutes. Presently it was plain that the Spaniards were about to advance, and, moreover, word was brought to Rodriguez that a small band of guerillas were already making an attempt to worm around the right flank. Rodriguez cursed despairingly; he sent both Bas and the young lieutenant to that end of the line to hold the men to their work as long as possible.

  In reality the men barely needed the presence of their officers. The kind of fighting left practically everything to the discretion of the individual, and they arrived at concert of action mainly because of the equality of experience in the wisdoms of bushwhacking.

  The yells of the guerillas could plainly be heard, and the insurgents answered in kind. The young lieutenant found desperate work on the right flank. The men were raving mad with it, babbling, tearful, almost frothing at the mouth. Two terrible bloody creatures passed him, creeping on all fours, and one in a whimper was calling upon God, his mother, and a saint. The guerillas, as effectually concealed as the insurgents, were driving their bullets low through the smoke at sight of a flame, a movement of the grass, or sight of a patch of dirty brown coat. They were no column-o’-four soldiers; they were as slinky and snaky and quick as so many Indians. They were, moreover, native Cubans, and because of their treachery to the one-star flag they never by any chance received quarter if they fell into the hands of the insurgents. Nor, if the case was reversed, did they ever give quarter. It was life and life, death and death; there was no middle ground, no compromise. If a man’s crowd was rapidly retreating and he was tumbled over by a slight hit, he should curse the sacred graves that the wound was not through the precise center of his heart. The machete is a fine broad blade, but it is not so nice as a drilled hole in the chest; no man wants his deathbed to be a shambles. The men fighting on the insurgents’ right knew that if they fell they were lost.

  On the extreme right, the young lieutenant found five men in a little saucer-like hollow. Two were dead, one was wounded and staring blankly at the sky, and two were emptying hot rifles furiously. Some of the guerillas had snaked into positions only a hundred yards away.

  The young man rolled in among the men in the saucer. He could hear the barking of the guerillas and the screams of the two insurgents. The rifles were popping and spitting in his face, it seemed, while the whole land was alive with a noise of rolling and drumming. Men could have gone drunken in all this flashing and flying and snarling and din, but at this time he was very deliberate. He knew that he was thrusting himself into a trap whose door, once closed, opened only when the black hand knocked; and every part of him seemed to be in panic-stricken revolt. But something controlled him; something moved him inexorably in one direction; he perfectly understood, but he was only sad, sad with a serene dignity, with the countenance of a mournful young prince. He was of a kind—that seemed to be it; and the men of his kind, on peak or plain, from the dark northern ice fields to the hot wet jungles, through all wine and want, through all lies and unfamiliar truth, dark or light—the men of his kind were governed by their gods, and each man knew the law and yet could not give tongue to it, but it was the law; and if the spirits of the men of his kind were all sitting in critical judgment upon him even then in the sky, he could not have bettered his conduct; he needs must obey the law, and always with the law there is only one way. But from peak and plain, from dark northern ice fields and hot wet jungles, through wine and want, through all lies and unfamiliar truth, dark or light, he heard breathed to him the approval and the benediction of his brethren.

  He stooped and gently took a dead man’s rifle and some cartridges. The battle was hurrying, hurrying, hurrying, but h
e was in no haste. His glance caught the staring eye of the wounded soldier, and he smiled at him quietly. The man—simple doomed peasant—was not of his kind, but the law on fidelity was clear.

  He thrust a cartridge into the Remington and crept up beside the two unhurt men. Even as he did so, three or four bullets cut so close to him that all his flesh tingled. He fired carefully into the smoke. The guerillas were certainly not now more than fifty yards away.

  He raised him coolly for his second shot, and almost instantly it was as if some giant had struck him in the chest with a beam. It whirled him in a great spasm back into the saucer. As he put his two hands to his breast, he could hear the guerillas screeching exultantly, every throat vomiting forth all the infamy of a language prolific in the phrasing of infamy.

  One of the other men came rolling slowly down the slope, while his rifle followed him and, striking another rifle, clanged out. Almost immediately the survivor howled and fled wildly. A whole volley missed him, and then one or more shots caught him as a bird is caught on the wing.

  The young lieutenant’s body seemed galvanized from head to foot. He concluded that he was not hurt very badly, but when he tried to move he found that he could not lift his hands from his breast. He had turned to lead. He had had a plan of taking a photograph from his pocket and looking at it.

  There was a stir in the grass at the edge of the saucer, and a man appeared there, looking where lay the four insurgents. His negro face was not an eminently ferocious one in its lines, but now it was lit with an illimitable blood-greed. He and the young lieutenant exchanged a singular glance; then he came stepping eagerly down. The young lieutenant closed his eyes, for he did not want to see the flash of the machete.

  VIII

  The Spanish colonel was in a rage, and yet immensely proud; immensely proud, and yet in a rage of disappointment. There had been a fight, and the insurgents had retreated, leaving their dead; but still a valuable expedition had broken through his lines and escaped to the mountains. As a matter of truth, he was not sure whether to be wholly delighted or wholly angry, for well he knew that the importance lay not so much in the truthful account of the action as it did in the heroic prose of the official report, and in the fight itself lay material for a purple splendid poem. The insurgents had run away; no one could deny it; it was plain even to whatever privates had fired with their eyes shut. This was worth a loud blow and splutter. However, when all was said and done, he could not help but reflect that if he had captured this expedition he would have been a brigadier general, if not more.

  He was a short, heavy man with a beard, who walked in a manner common to all elderly Spanish officers, and to many young ones; that is to say, he walked as if his spine was a stick and a little longer than his body; as if he suffered from some disease of the backbone which allowed him but scant use of his legs. He toddled along the road, gesticulating disdainfully and muttering: “Ca! Ca! Ca!”

  He berated some soldiers for an immaterial thing, and as he approached, the men stepped precipitately back, as if he were a fire engine. They were most of them young fellows who displayed, when under orders, the manner of so many faithful dogs. At present they were black, tongue-hanging, thirsty boys, bathed in the nervous weariness of the after-battle time.

  Whatever he may truly have been in character, the colonel closely resembled a gluttonous and libidinous old pig, filled from head to foot with the pollution of a sinful life. “Ca!” he snarled, as he toddled. “Ca! Ca!” The soldiers saluted as they backed to the side of the road. The air was full of the odor of burnt rags. Over on the prairie guerillas and regulars were rummaging the grass. A few unimportant shots sounded from near the base of the hills.

  A guerilla, glad with plunder, came to a Spanish captain. He held in his hand a photograph. “Mira, señor. I took this from the body of an officer whom I killed machete to machete.”

  The captain shot from the corner of his eye a cynical glance at the guerilla, a glance which commented upon the last part of the statement. “M-m-m,” he said. He took the photograph and gazed with a slow faint smile, the smile of a man who knows bloodshed and homes and love, at the face of a girl. He turned the photograph presently, and on the back of it was written: “One lesson in English I will give you—this: I love you. Margharita.” The photograph had been taken in Tampa.

  The officer was silent for a half minute, while his face still wore the slow faint smile. “Pobrecito,” he murmured finally, with a philosophic sigh which was brother to a shrug. Without deigning a word to the guerilla he thrust the photograph in his pocket and walked away.

  High over the green earth, in the dizzy blue heights, some great birds were slowly circling with down-turned beaks.

  IX

  Margharita was in the gardens. The blue electric rays shone through the plumes of the palm and shivered in feathery images on the walk. In the little foolish fishpond some stalwart fish was apparently bullying the others, for often there sounded a frantic splashing.

  Her mother came to her rapidly. “Margharita! Mister Smith is here! Come!”

  “Oh, is he?” cried the girl. She followed her mother to the house. She swept into the little parlor with a grand air, the egotism of a savage. Smith had heard the whirl of her skirts in the hall, and his heart, as usual, thumped hard enough to make him gasp. Every time he called, he would sit waiting with the dull fear in his breast that her mother would enter and indifferently announce that she had gone up to heaven or off to New York with one of his dream rivals, and he would never see her again in this wide world. And he would conjure up tricks to then escape from the house without any one observing his face break up into furrows. It was part of his love to believe in the absolute treachery of his adored one. So whenever he heard the whirl of her skirts in the hall he felt that he had again leased happiness from a dark fate.

  She was rosily beaming and all in white. “Why, Mister Smith,” she exclaimed, as if he was the last man in the world she expected to see.

  “Good-evenin’,” he said, shaking hands nervously. He was always awkward and unlike himself at the beginning of one of these calls. It took him some time to get into form.

  She posed her figure in operatic style on a chair before him, and immediately galloped off a mile of questions, information of herself, gossip and general outcries which left him no obligation but to look beamingly intelligent and from time to time say “Yes?” His personal joy, however, was to stare at her beauty.

  When she stopped and wandered as if uncertain which way to talk, there was a minute of silence, which each of them had been educated to feel was very incorrect; very incorrect indeed. Polite people always babbled at each other like two brooks.

  He knew that the responsibility was upon him, and, although his mind was mainly upon the form of the proposal of marriage which he intended to make later, it was necessary that he should maintain his reputation as a well-bred man by saying something at once. It flashed upon him to ask: “Won’t you please play?” But the time for the piano ruse was not yet; it was too early. So he said the first thing that came into his head: “Too bad about young Manolo Prat being killed over there in Cuba, wasn’t it?”

  “Wasn’t it a pity?” she answered.

  “They say his mother is heartbroken,” he continued. “They’re afraid she’s goin’ to die.”

  “And wasn’t it queer that we didn’t hear about it for almost two months?”

  “Well, it’s no use tryin’ to git quick news from there.”

  Presently they advanced to matters more personal, and she used upon him a series of star-like glances which crumpled him at once to squalid slavery. He gloated upon her, afraid, afraid, yet more avaricious than a thousand misers. She fully comprehended; she laughed and taunted him with her eyes. She impressed upon him that she was like a will-o’-the-wisp, beautiful beyond compare, but impossible, almost impossible, at least very difficult; then again, suddenly, impossible—impossible—impossible. He was glum; he would never dare propose to thi
s radiance; it was like asking to be pope.

  A moment later, there chimed into the room something that he knew to be a more tender note. The girl became dreamy as she looked at him; her voice lowered to a delicious intimacy of tone. He leaned forward; he was about to outpour his bully-ragged soul in fine words, when—presto—she was the most casual person he had ever laid eyes upon, and was asking him about the route of the proposed trolley line.

  But nothing short of a fire could stop him now. He grabbed her hand. “Margharita,” he murmured gutturally, “I want you to marry me.”

  She glared at him in the most perfect lie of astonishment. “What do you say?”

  He arose, and she thereupon arose also and fled back a step. He could only stammer out her name. And thus they stood, defying the principles of the dramatic art.

  “I love you,” he said at last.

  “How—how do I know you really—truly love me?” she said, raising her eyes timorously to his face; and this timorous glance, this one timorous glance, made him the superior person in an instant. He went forward as confident as a grenadier, and, taking both her hands, kissed her.

  That night she took a stained photograph from her dressing table and, holding it over the candle, burned it to nothing, her red lips meanwhile parted with the intentness of her occupation. On the back of the photograph was written: “One lesson in English I will give you—this: I love you.”

  For the word is clear only to the kind who on peak or plain, from dark northern ice fields to the hot wet jungles, through all wine and want, through lies and unfamiliar truth, dark or light, are governed by the unknown gods; and, though each man knows the law, no man may give tongue to it.

  March, 1899?

  [Wounds in the Rain. New York: Frederick A. Stokes Co. (September, 1900), pp. 42–73.]

  * Wounds in the Rain.