Software Vault: The Gold Collection/Software Vault - The Gold Collection (American Databankers) (1993).ISO/cdr11/redbadge.zip/FILE15.TXT

Text File | 1993-06-14 | 7KB | 116 lines

                             CHAPTER FIFTEEN

          The regiment was standing at order arms at the side of a lane,
     waiting for the command to march, when suddenly the youth
     remembered the little packet enwrapped in a faded yellow envelope
     which the loud young soldier with lugubrious words had intrusted to
     him. It made him start. He uttered an exclamation and turned toward
     his comrade.
          "Wilson!"
          His friend, at his side in the ranks, was thoughtfully staring
     down the road. From some cause his expression was at that moment
     very meek. The youth, regarding him with sidelong glances, felt
     impelled to change his purpose. "Oh, nothing," he said.
          His friend turned his head in some surprise, "Why, what was
     you going to say?"
          "Oh, nothing," repeated the youth.
          He resolved 'not to deal the little blow. It was sufficient
     that the fact made him glad. It was not necessary to knock his
     friend on the head with the misguided packet.
          He had been possessed of much fear of his friend, for he saw
     how easily questionings could make holes in his feelings. Lately,
     he had assured himself that the altered comrade would not tantalize
     him with a persistent curiosity, but he felt certain that during
     the first period of leisure his friend would ask him to relate his
     adventures of the previous day.
          He now rejoiced in the possession of a small weapon with which
     he could prostrate his comrade at the first signs of a cross-
     examination. He was master. It would now be he who could laugh and
     shoot the shafts of derision.
          The friend had, in a weak hour, spoken with sobs of his own
     death. He had delivered a melancholy oration previous to his
     funeral, and had doubtless, in the packet of letters, presented
     various keepsakes to relatives. But he had not died, and thus he
     had delivered himself into the hands of the youth.
          The latter felt immensely superior to his friend, but he
     inclined to condescension. He adopted toward him an air of
     patronizing good humor.
          His self-pride was now entirely restored. In the shade of its
     flourishing growth he stood with braced and self-confident legs,
     and since nothing could now be discovered he did not shrink from an
     encounter with the eyes of judges, and allowed no thoughts of his
     own to keep him from an attitude of manfulness. He had performed
     his mistakes in the dark, so he was still a man.
          Indeed, when he remembered his fortunes of yesterday, and
     looked at them from a distance he began to see something fine
     there. He had license to be pompous and veteran-like.
          His panting agonies of the past he put out of his sight.
          In the present, he declared to himself that it was only the
     doomed and the damned who roared with sincerity at circumstance.
     Few but they ever did it. A man with a full stomach and the respect
     of his fellows had no business to scold about anything that he
     might think to be wrong in the ways of the universe, or even with
     the ways of society. Let the unfortunates rail; the others may play
     marbles.
          He did not give a great deal of thought to these battles that
     lay directly before him. It was not essential that he should plan
     his ways in regard to them. He had been taught that many
     obligations of a life were easily avoided. The lessons of yesterday
     had been that retribution was a laggard arid blind. With these
     facts before him he did not deem it necessary that he should become
     feverish over the possibilities of the ensuing twenty-four hours.
     He could leave much to chance. Besides, a faith in himself had
     secretly blossomed. There was a little flower of confidence growing
     within him. He was now a man of experience. He had been out among
     the dragons, he said, and he assured himself that they were not so
     hideous as he had imagined them. Also, they were inaccurate; they
     did not sting with precision. A stout heart often defied, and,
     defying, escaped.
          And, furthermore, how could they kill him who was the chosen
     of gods and doomed to greatness?
          He remembered how some of the men had run from the battle. As
     he recalled their terror-struck faces he felt a scorn for them.
     They had surely been more fleet and more wild than was absolutely
     necessary. They were weak mortals. As for himself, he had fled with
     discretion and dignity.
          He was aroused from this reverie by his friend, who, having
     hitched about nervously and blinked at the trees for a time,
     suddenly coughed in an introductory way, and spoke.
          "Fleming!"
          "What?"
          The friend put his hand up to his mouth and coughed again. He
     fidgeted in his jacket.
          "Well," he gulped, at last, "I guess you might as well give me
     back them letters." Dark, prickling blood had flushed into his
     cheeks and brow.
          "All right, Wilson," said the youth. He loosened two buttons
     of his coat, thrust in his hand, and brought forth the packet. As
     he extended it to his friend the latter's face was turned from him.
          He had been slow in the act of producing the packet because
     during it he had been trying to invent a remarkable comment upon
     the affair. He could conjure nothing of sufficient point. He was
     compelled to allow his friend to escape unmolested with his packet.
     And for this he took unto himself considerable credit. It was a
     generous thing.
          His friend at his side seemed suffering great shame. As he
     contemplated him, the youth felt his heart grow more strong and
     stout. He had never been compelled to blush in such manner for his
     acts; he was an individual of extraordinary virtues.
          He reflected, with condescending pity: "Too bad! Too bad! The
     poor devil, it makes him feel tough!"
          After this incident, and as he reviewed the battle pictures he
     had seen, he felt quite competent to return home and make the
     hearts of the people glow with stories of war. He could see himself
     in a room of warm tints telling tales to listeners. He could
     exhibit laurels. They were insignificant; still, in a district
     where laurels were infrequent, they might shine.
          He saw his gaping audience picturing him as the central figure
     in blazing scenes. And he imagined the consternation and the
     ejaculations of his mother and the young lady at the seminary as
     they drank his recitals. Their vague feminine formula for beloved
     ones doing brave deeds on the field of battle without risk of life
     would be destroyed.