The Complete Short Stories and Sketches of Stephen Crane

  “Yes?” said Patterson, his face set with some deep-rooted quality of determination. Still, he was a mere farm boy.

  “Go in to Knowles’s window and shoot at those people,” said the sergeant hoarsely. Afterward he coughed. Some of the fumes of the fight had made way to his lungs.

  Patterson looked at the door into this other room. He looked at it as if he suspected it was to be his death chamber. Then he entered and stood across the body of Knowles and fired vigorously into a group of plum trees.

  “They can’t take this house,” declared the sergeant in a contemptuous and argumentative tone. He was apparently replying to somebody. The man who had been shot in the throat looked up at him. Eight men were firing from the windows. The sergeant detected in a corner three wounded men talking together feebly. “Don’t you think there is anything to do?” he bawled. “Go and get Knowles’s cartridges and give them to somebody who can use them! Take Simpson’s too.” The man who had been shot in the throat looked at him. Of the three wounded men who had been talking, one said: “My leg is all doubled up under me, sergeant.” He spoke apologetically.

  Meantime the sergeant was reloading his rifle. His foot slipped in the blood of the man who had been shot in the throat, and the military boot made a greasy red streak on the floor.

  “Why, we can hold this place,” shouted the sergeant jubilantly. “Who says we can’t?”

  Corporal Flagler suddenly spun away from his window and fell in a heap.

  “Sergeant,” murmured a man as he dropped to a seat on the floor out of danger, “I can’t stand this. I swear I can’t. I think we should run away.”

  Morton, with the kindly eyes of a good shepherd, looked at the man. “You are afraid, Johnston, you are afraid,” he said softly. The man struggled to his feet, cast upon the sergeant a gaze full of admiration, reproach, and despair, and returned to his post. A moment later he pitched forward, and thereafter his body hung out of the window, his arms straight and the fists clenched. Incidentally this corpse was pierced afterward by chance three times by bullets of the enemy.

  The sergeant laid his rifle against the stonework of the window frame and shot with care until his magazine was empty. Behind him a man, simply grazed on the elbow, was wildly sobbing like a girl. “Damn it, shut up!” said Morton, without turning his head. Before him was a vista of a garden, fields, clumps of trees, woods, populated at the time with little fleeting figures.

  He grew furious. “Why didn’t he send me orders?” he cried aloud. The emphasis on the word “he” was impressive. A mile back on the road a galloper of the Hussars lay dead beside his dead horse.

  The man who had been grazed on the elbow still set up his bleat. Morton’s fury veered to this soldier. “Can’t you shut up? Can’t you shut up? Can’t you shut up? Fight! That’s the thing to do. Fight!”

  A bullet struck Morton, and he fell upon the man who had been shot in the throat. There was a sickening moment. Then the sergeant rolled off to a position upon the bloody floor. He turned himself with a last effort until he could look at the wounded who were able to look at him.

  “Kim up, the Kickers,” he said thickly. His arms weakened, and he dropped on his face.

  After an interval a young subaltern of the enemy’s infantry, followed by his eager men, burst into this reeking interior. But just over the threshold he halted before the scene of blood and death. He turned with a shrug to his sergeant. “God, I should have estimated them at least one hundred strong.”

  July 28, 1900

  [The Illustrated London News, Vol. 117, pp. 121–122.]

  * Spitzbergen Tales.

  THE UPTURNED FACE*

  “What will we do now?” said the adjutant, troubled and excited.

  “Bury him,” said Timothy Lean.

  The two officers looked down close to their toes where lay the body of their comrade. The face was chalk-blue; gleaming eyes stared at the sky. Over the two upright figures was a windy sound of bullets, and on the top of the hill Lean’s prostrate company of Spitzbergen infantry was firing measured volleys.

  “Don’t you think it would be better—” began the adjutant. “We might leave him until tomorrow.”

  “No,” said Lean. “I can’t hold that post an hour longer. I’ve got to fall back, and we’ve got to bury old Bill.”

  “Of course,” said the adjutant, at once. “Your men got entrenching tools?”

  Lean shouted back to his little line, and two men came slowly, one with a pick, one with a shovel. They started in the direction of the Rostina sharpshooters. Bullets cracked near their ears. “Dig here,” said Lean gruffly. The men, thus caused to lower their glances to the turf, became hurried and frightened, merely because they could not look to see whence the bullets came. The dull beat of the pick striking the earth sounded amid the swift snap of close bullets. Presently the other private began to shovel.

  “I suppose,” said the adjutant, slowly, “we’d better search his clothes for —things.”

  Lean nodded. Together in curious abstraction they looked at the body. Then Lean stirred his shoulders suddenly, arousing himself.

  “Yes,” he said, “we’d better see what he’s got.” He dropped to his knees, and his hands approached the body of the dead officer. But his hands wavered over the buttons of the tunic. The first button was brick-red with drying blood, and he did not seem to dare touch it.

  “Go on,” said the adjutant, hoarsely.

  Lean stretched his wooden hand, and his fingers fumbled the bloodstained buttons. At last he rose with ghastly face. He had gathered a watch, a whistle, a pipe, a tobacco pouch, a handkerchief, a little case of cards and papers. He looked at the adjutant. There was a silence. The adjutant was feeling that he had been a coward to make Lean do all the grisly business.

  “Well,” said Lean, “that’s all, I think. You have his sword and revolver?”

  “Yes,” said the adjutant, his face working, and then he burst out in a sudden strange fury at the two privates. “Why don’t you hurry up with that grave? What are you doing, anyhow? Hurry, do you hear? I never saw such stupid—”

  Even as he cried out in his passion the two men were laboring for their lives. Ever overhead the bullets were spitting.

  The grave was finished. It was not a masterpiece—a poor little shallow thing. Lean and the adjutant again looked at each other in a curious silent communication.

  Suddenly the adjutant croaked out a weird laugh. It was a terrible laugh, which had its origin in that part of the mind which is first moved by the singing of the nerves. “Well,” he said, humorously to Lean, “I suppose we had best tumble him in.”

  “Yes,” said Lean. The two privates stood waiting, bent over their implements. “I suppose,” said Lean, “it would be better if we laid him in ourselves.”

  “Yes,” said the adjutant. Then, apparently remembering that he had made Lean search the body, he stooped with great fortitude and took hold of the dead officer’s clothing. Lean joined him. Both were particular that their fingers should not feel the corpse. They tugged away; the corpse lifted, heaved, toppled, flopped into the grave, and the two officers, straightening, looked again at each other—they were always looking at each other. They sighed with relief.

  The adjutant said, “I suppose we should—we should say something. Do you know the service, Tim?”

  “They don’t read the service until the grave is filled in,” said Lean, pressing his lips to an academic expression.

  “Don’t they?” said the adjutant, shocked that he had made the mistake. “Oh, well,” he cried, suddenly, “let us—let us say something—while he can hear us.”

  “All right,” said Lean. “Do you know the service?”

  “I can’t remember a line of it,” said the adjutant.

  Lean was extremely dubious. “I can repeat two lines, but—”

  “Well, do it,” said the adjutant. “Go as far as you can. That’s better than nothing. And the beasts have got our range exactly.”
r />   Lean looked at his two men. “Attention!” he barked. The privates came to attention with a click, looking much aggrieved. The adjutant lowered his helmet to his knee. Lean, bareheaded, stood over the grave. The Rostina sharpshooters fired briskly.

  “O Father, our friend has sunk in the deep waters of death, but his spirit has leaped toward Thee as the bubble arises from the lips of the drowning. Perceive, we beseech, O Father, the little flying bubble, and—”

  Lean, although husky and ashamed, had suffered no hesitation up to this point, but he stopped with a hopeless feeling and looked at the corpse.

  The adjutant moved uneasily. “And from Thy superb heights—” he began, and then he too came to an end.

  “And from Thy superb heights,” said Lean.

  The adjutant suddenly remembered a phrase in the back part of the Spitzbergen burial service, and he exploited it with the triumphant manner of a man who has recalled everything, and can go on.

  “Oh God, have mercy—”

  “Oh God, have mercy—” said Lean.

  “Mercy,” repeated the adjutant, in quick failure.

  “Mercy,” said Lean. And then he was moved by some violence of feeling, for he turned suddenly upon his two men and tigerishly said, “Throw the dirt in.”

  The fire of the Rostina sharpshooters was accurate and continuous.

  One of the aggrieved privates came forward with his shovel. He lifted his first shovel load of earth, and for a moment of inexplicable hesitation it was held poised above this corpse, which from its chalk-blue face looked keenly out from the grave. Then the soldier emptied his shovel on—on the feet.

  Timothy Lean felt as if tons had been swiftly lifted from off his forehead. He had felt that perhaps the private might empty the shovel on—on the face. It had been emptied on the feet. There was a great point gained there—ha, ha!—the first shovelful had been emptied on the feet. How satisfactory!

  The adjutant began to babble. “Well, of course—a man we’ve messed with all these years—impossible—you can’t, you know, leave your intimate friends rotting on the field. Go on, for God’s sake, and shovel, you.”

  The man with the shovel suddenly ducked, grabbed his left arm with his right hand, and looked at his officer for orders. Lean picked the shovel from the ground. “Go to the rear,” he said to the wounded man. He also addressed the other private. “You get under cover, too; I’ll finish this business.”

  The wounded man scrambled hard still for the top of the ridge without devoting any glances to the direction from whence the bullets came, and the other man followed at an equal pace; but he was different, in that he looked back anxiously three times.

  This is merely the way—often—of the hit and unhit.

  Timothy Lean filled the shovel, hesitated, and then, in a movement which was like a gesture of abhorrence, he flung the dirt into the grave, and as it landed it made a sound—plop. Lean suddenly stopped and mopped his brow—a tired laborer.

  “Perhaps we have been wrong,” said the adjutant. His glance wavered stupidly. “It might have been better if we hadn’t buried him just at this time. Of course, if we advance tomorrow the body would have been—”

  “Damn you,” said Lean, “shut your mouth.” He was not the senior officer.

  He again filled the shovel and flung the earth. Always the earth made that sound—plop. For a space Lean worked frantically, like a man digging himself out of danger.

  Soon there was nothing to be seen but the chalk-blue face. Lean filled the shovel. “Good God,” he cried to the adjutant. “Why didn’t you turn him somehow when you put him in? This—” Then Lean began to stutter.

  The adjutant understood. He was pale to the lips. “Go on, man,” he cried, beseechingly, almost in a shout.

  Lean swung back the shovel. It went forward in a pendulum curve. When the earth landed it made a sound—plop.

  March, 1900

  [Ainslee’s Magazine, Vol. 5, pp. 108–110.]

  * Spitzbergen Tales.

  THE KNIFE*

  I

  Si Bryant’s place was on the shore of the lake, and his garden patch, shielded from the north by a bold little promontory and a higher ridge inland, was accounted the most successful and surprising in all Whilomville township. One afternoon Si was working in the garden patch, when Doctor Trescott’s man, Peter Washington, came trudging slowly along the road, observing nature. He scanned the white man’s fine agricultural results. “Take your eye off them there melons, you rascal,” said Si, placidly.

  The negro’s face widened in a grin of delight. “Well, Mist’ Bryant, I raikon I ain’t on’y make m’se’f covertous er-lookin’ at dem yere mellums, sure ’nough. Dey suhtainly is grand.”

  “That’s all right,” responded Si, with affected bitterness of spirit. “That’s all right. Just don’t you admire ’em too much, that’s all.”

  Peter chuckled and chuckled. “Ma Lode! Mist’ Bryant, y-y-you don’ think I’m gwine come prowlin’ in dish yer gawden?”

  “No, I know you hain’t,” said Si, with solemnity. “B’cause, if you did, I’d shoot you so full of holes you couldn’t tell yourself from a sponge.”

  “Um—no, seh! No, seh! I don’ raikon you’ll get chance at Pete, Mist’ Bryant. No, seh. I’ll take an’ run ’long an’ rob er bank ’fore I’ll come foolishin’ ’round your gawden, Mist’ Bryant.”

  Bryant, gnarled and strong as an old tree, leaned on his hoe and laughed a Yankee laugh. His mouth remained tightly closed, but the sinister lines which ran from the sides of his nose to the meetings of his lips developed to form a comic oval, and he emitted a series of grunts, while his eyes gleamed merrily and his shoulders shook. Pete, on the contrary, threw back his head and guffawed thunderously. The effete joke in regard to an American negro’s fondness for watermelons was still an admirable pleasantry to them, and this was not the first time they had engaged in badinage over it. In fact, this venerable survival had formed between them a friendship of casual roadside quality.

  Afterward Peter went on up the road. He continued to chuckle until he was far away. He was going to pay a visit to old Alek Williams, a negro who lived with a large family in a hut clinging to the side of a mountain. The scattered colony of negroes which hovered near Whilomville was of interesting origin, being the result of some contrabands who had drifted as far north as Whilomville during the great civil war. The descendants of these adventurers were mainly conspicuous for their bewildering number and the facility which they possessed for adding even to this number. Speaking, for example, of the Jacksons—one couldn’t hurl a stone into the hills about Whilomville without having it land on the roof of a hut full of Jacksons. The town reaped little in labor from these curious suburbs. There were a few men who came in regularly to work in gardens, to drive teams, to care for horses, and there were a few women who came in to cook or to wash. These latter had usually drunken husbands. In the main the colony loafed in high spirits, and the industrious minority gained no direct honor from their fellows, unless they spent their earnings on raiment, in which case they were naturally treated with distinction. On the whole, the hardships of these people were the wind, the rain, the snow, and any other physical difficulties which they could cultivate. About twice a year the lady philanthropists of Whilomville went up against them, and came away poorer in goods but rich in complacence. After one of these attacks the colony would preserve a comic air of rectitude for two days, and then relapse again to the genial irresponsibility of a crew of monkeys.

  Peter Washington was one of the industrious class who occupied a position of distinction, for he surely spent his money on personal decoration. On occasion he could dress better than the Mayor of Whilomville himself, or at least in more colors, which was the main thing to the minds of his admirers. His ideal had been the late gallant Henry Johnson, whose conquests in Watermelon Alley, as well as in the hill shanties, had proved him the equal if not the superior of any Pullman car porter in the country. Perhaps Peter had too mu
ch Virginia laziness and humor in him to be a wholly adequate successor to the fastidious Henry Johnson, but, at any rate, he admired his memory so attentively as to be openly termed a dude by envious people.

  On this afternoon he was going to call on old Alek Williams because Alek’s eldest girl was just turned seventeen and, to Peter’s mind, was a triumph of beauty. He was not wearing his best clothes, because on his last visit Alek’s half-breed hound Susie had taken occasion to forcefully extract a quite large and valuable part of the visitor’s trousers. When Peter arrived at the end of the rocky field which contained old Alek’s shanty he stooped and provided himself with several large stones, weighing them carefully in his hand, and finally continuing his journey with three stones of about eight ounces each. When he was near the house, three gaunt hounds, Rover and Carlo and Susie, came sweeping down upon him. His impression was that they were going to climb him as if he were a tree, but at the critical moment they swerved and went growling and snapping around him, their heads low, their eyes malignant. The afternoon caller waited until Susie presented her side to him; then he heaved one of his eight-ounce rocks. When it landed, her hollow ribs gave forth a drumlike sound, and she was knocked sprawling, her legs in the air. The other hounds at once fled in horror, and she followed as soon as she was able, yelping at the top of her lungs. The afternoon caller resumed his march.

  At the wild expressions of Susie’s anguish old Alek had flung open the door and come hastily into the sunshine. “Yah, you Suse, come erlong outa dat now. What fer you—Oh, how do, how do, Mist’ Wash’ton—how do?”

  “How do, Mist’ Willums? I done foun’ it necessa’y fer ter damnearkill dish yer dawg a’ yourn, Mist’ Willums.”

  “Come in, come in, Mist’ Wash’ton. Dawg no ’count, Mist’ Wash’ton.” Then he turned to address the unfortunate animal. “Hu’t, did it? Hu’t? ’Pears like you gwine lun some saince by time somebody brek yer back. ’Pears like I gwine club yer inter er frazzle ’fore you fin’ out some saince. G’w’on ’way f’m yah!”