Red Badge of Courage

Stephen Crane

Description

Hailed as one of American literature's most influential works, The Red Badge of Courage has a young recruit facing the trials and cruelties of war. Stephen Crane's 1895 novel is set in the American Civil War. Private Henry Fleming flees from battle and his battalion, considering all lost. Stumbling upon injured soldiers, he feels the shame of deserting and of not possessing the "red badge of courage", the wounds of war. But later when Henry rejoins his regiment and is ordered into a hopeless battle, he finds a chance to finally prove his courage as a man.

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 janvier 2009
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781775414490
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE
AN EPISODE OF THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR
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STEPHEN CRANE
 
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The Red Badge of Courage An Episode of the American Civil War First published in 1895.
ISBN 978-1-775414-49-0
© 2009 THE FLOATING PRESS.
While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike.
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Contents
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Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV
Chapter I
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THE cold passed reluctantly from the earth,and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretchedout on the hills, resting. As the landscapechanged from brown to green, the army awakened, and began to tremble with eagerness at thenoise of rumors. It cast its eyes upon the roads,which were growing from long troughs of liquidmud to proper thoroughfares. A river, amber-tinted in the shadow of its banks, purled at thearmy's feet; and at night, when the stream hadbecome of a sorrowful blackness, one could seeacross it the red, eyelike gleam of hostile campfires set in the low brows of distant hills.
Once a certain tall soldier developed virtuesand went resolutely to wash a shirt. He cameflying back from a brook waving his garmentbannerlike. He was swelled with a tale he hadheard from a reliable friend, who had heard itfrom a truthful cavalryman, who had heard itfrom his trustworthy brother, one of the orderlies at division headquarters. He adopted theimportant air of a herald in red and gold."We're goin' t' move t' morrah—sure," hesaid pompously to a group in the companystreet. "We're goin' 'way up the river, cutacross, an' come around in behint 'em."
To his attentive audience he drew a loudand elaborate plan of a very brilliant campaign.When he had finished, the blue-clothed menscattered into small arguing groups between therows of squat brown huts. A negro teamster whohad been dancing upon a cracker box with thehilarious encouragement of twoscore soldierswas deserted. He sat mournfully down. Smokedrifted lazily from a multitude of quaint chimneys.
"It's a lie! that's all it is—a thunderin' lie!"said another private loudly. His smooth face wasflushed, and his hands were thrust sulkily into histrousers' pockets. He took the matter as anaffront to him. "I don't believe the derned oldarmy's ever going to move. We're set. I'vegot ready to move eight times in the last twoweeks, and we ain't moved yet."
The tall soldier felt called upon to defendthe 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 inhis house, he said. During the early spring hehad refrained from adding extensively to thecomfort of his environment because he had feltthat the army might start on the march at anymoment. 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 theplans of the commanding general. He was opposed by men who advocated that there wereother plans of campaign. They clamored at eachother, numbers making futile bids for the popular attention. Meanwhile, the soldier who hadfetched the rumor bustled about with muchimportance. He was continually assailed byquestions.
"What's up, Jim?"
"Th' army's goin' t' move."
"Ah, what yeh talkin' about? How yeh knowit is?"
"Well, yeh kin b'lieve me er not, jest as yehlike. 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 excited over it.
There was a youthful private who listenedwith eager ears to the words of the tall soldierand to the varied comments of his comrades.After receiving a fill of discussions concerningmarches and attacks, he went to his hut andcrawled through an intricate hole that served itas a door. He wished to be alone with somenew thoughts that had lately come to him.
He lay down on a wide bank that stretchedacross 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 logwalls, and three rifles were paralleled on pegs.Equipments hunt on handy projections, and sometin dishes lay upon a small pile of firewood. Afolded tent was serving as a roof. The sunlight,without, beating upon it, made it glow a lightyellow shade. A small window shot an obliquesquare of whiter light upon the cluttered floor.The smoke from the fire at times neglected theclay chimney and wreathed into the room, andthis 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. Onthe morrow, perhaps, there would be a battle, andhe would be in it. For a time he was obligedto labor to make himself believe. He could notaccept with assurance an omen that he was aboutto mingle in one of those great affairs of the earth.
He had, of course, dreamed of battles allhis life—of vague and bloody conflicts that hadthrilled him with their sweep and fire. In visionshe had seen himself in many struggles. He hadimagined peoples secure in the shadow of hiseagle-eyed prowess. But awake he had regardedbattles as crimson blotches on the pages of thepast. He had put them as things of the bygonewith his thought-images of heavy crowns andhigh castles. There was a portion of the world'shistory which he had regarded as the time ofwars, but it, he thought, had been long gone overthe horizon and had disappeared forever.
From his home his youthful eyes had lookedupon the war in his own country with distrust.It must be some sort of a play affair. He hadlong despaired of witnessing a Greeklike struggle.Such would be no more, he had said. Men werebetter, or more timid. Secular and religiouseducation had effaced the throat-grappling instinct, or else firm finance held in check the passions.
He had burned several times to enlist. Talesof great movements shook the land. They mightnot be distinctly Homeric, but there seemed tobe 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 picturesextravagant in color, lurid with breathless deeds.
But his mother had discouraged him. Shehad affected to look with some contempt uponthe quality of his war ardor and patriotism. Shecould calmly seat herself and with no apparentdifficulty give him many hundreds of reasonswhy he was of vastly more importance on thefarm than on the field of battle. She had hadcertain ways of expression that told him that herstatements on the subject came from a deep conviction. Moreover, on her side, was his beliefthat her ethical motive in the argument wasimpregnable.
At last, however, he had made firm rebellionagainst this yellow light thrown upon the color ofhis ambitions. The newspapers, the gossip of thevillage, his own picturings had aroused him toan uncheckable degree. They were in truthfighting finely down there. Almost every daythe newspapers printed accounts of a decisivevictory.
One night, as he lay in bed, the winds hadcarried to him the clangoring of the church bellas some enthusiast jerked the rope frantically totell the twisted news of a great battle. Thisvoice of the people rejoicing in the night hadmade him shiver in a prolonged ecstasy of excitement. Later, he had gone down to hismother's room and had spoken thus: "Ma, I'mgoing to enlist."
"Henry, don't you be a fool," his mother hadreplied. She had then covered her face with thequilt. There was an end to the matter for thatnight.
Nevertheless, the next morning he had goneto a town that was near his mother's farm andhad enlisted in a company that was forming there.When he had returned home his mother wasmilking the brindle cow. Four others stoodwaiting. "Ma, I've enlisted," he had said to herdiffidently. There was a short silence. "TheLord's will be done, Henry," she had finallyreplied, and had then continued to milk thebrindle cow.
When he had stood in the doorway with hissoldier's clothes on his back, and with the light ofexcitement and expectancy in his eyes almostdefeating the glow of regret for the home bonds,he had seen two tears leaving their trails on hismother's scarred cheeks.
Still, she had disappointed him by sayingnothing whatever about returning with his shieldor on it. He had privately primed himself for abeautiful scene. He had prepared certain sentences which he thought could be used withtouching effect. But her words destroyed hisplans. She had doggedly peeled potatoes andaddressed him as follows: "You watch out,Henry, an' take good care of yerself in this herefighting business—you watch out, an' take goodcare of yerself. Don't go a-thinkin' you canlick the hull rebel army at the start, because yehcan't. Yer jest one little feller amongst a hull lotof others, and yeh've got to keep quiet an' do whatthey tell yeh. I know how you are, Henry.
"I've knet yeh eight pair of socks, Henry, andI've put in all yer best shirts, because I want myboy to be jest as warm and comf'able as anybodyin the army. Whenever they get holes in 'em, Iwant yeh to send 'em right-away back to me, so'sI kin dern 'em.
"An' allus be careful an' choose yer comp'ny.There's lots of bad