The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane

Welcome to The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording has by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. Chapter one, The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting. As the landscape changed

from brown to green. The army awakened and began to tremble with eagerness at the noise of rumors. It cast its eyes upon the roads, which were growing from long troughs of liquid mud to proper thoroughfares. A river, amber tinted in the shadow of its banks, purled at the army's feet, and at night, when the stream had become of a sorrowful blackness, one could see across it. The red, eyelike gleam of hostile camp fires sat in

the low brows of distant hills. Once a certain tall soldier developed virtues and went resolutely to wash a shirt, He came flying back from a brook, waving his garment bannerlike he was swelled with a tail. He had heard from a reliable friend, who had heard it from a truthful cavalryman who had heard it from his trustworthy brother, one of the orderlies at division headquarters. He

adopted the important air of a herald in red and gold. We're going to move tomorrow shore, he said pompously to a group in the company street. We're going way up the river, cut across and come around in behind him. To his attentive audience, he drew a loud and elaborate plan of a very brilliant campaign. When he had finished, the blue clothed men scattered into

small, arguing groups between the rows of squat brown huts. A Negro teamster, who had been dancing upon a cracker box with the hilarious encouragement of two score soldiers, was deserted. He sat mournfully down. Smoke drifted lazily from a multitude of quaint chimneys. It's all a lie, that's all. It is, a thundering lie, said another private loudly. His smooth face was flushed, and his hands were thrust sulkily into his trousers. Pockets. He

took the matter as an affront to him. I don't believe the derned old Army's ever going to move. We're set. I've got ready to move eight times in the last two weeks, and we ain't moved yet. The tall soldier felt called upon to defend the truth of a rumor he himself had introduced. He and the loud one came near to fighting over it. A corporal began swear before the assemblage he had just put a costly board floor in his

house, he said, during the early spring. He had refrained from adding extensively to the comfort of his environment because he had felt that the army might start in the march at any moment. 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 the plans of the commanding general. He was opposed by men who advocated that

there were other plans of campaign. They clamored at each other numbers, making feudal bids for the popular attention. Meanwhile, the soldier who had fetched the rumor bustled about with much importance. He was continually assailed by questions, what's up, Jim, the army's gonna move? Ah? What you're talking about? How you know it is? Well? You can believe me or not, just as you like. 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 much excited over it. There was a youthful private who listened with eager ears to the words of the tall soldier and to the varied comments of his comrades. After receiving a fill of discussions concerning marches and attacks, he went to his hut and crawled through an intricate hole that served it as a door. He wished to be alone with some new thoughts that had lately come to him. He lay down on

a wide bunk that stretched across 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 log walls, and three rifles were paralleled on peg. Equipments hung on handy projections and some tin dishes. Lay upon a small pile of firewood. A folded tent was serving as a roof. The sunlight, without beating upon it, made it

glow a light yellow shade. A small window shot an oblique square of whiter light upon the cluttered floor. The smoke from the fire at times neglected the clay chimney and wreathed into the room. And this 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 on the morrow. Perhaps there would be a battle, and he would be in

it for a time. He was obliged to labor to make himself believe. He could not accept with assurance an omen that they were about to mingle in one of those great affairs of the earth. He had, of course, dreamed of battles all his life, of vague and bloody conflicts that had thrilled him with their sweep and fire. In visions he had seen himself in many struggles. He had imagined people's secure in the shadow of his eagle eyed prowess.

But awake. He had regarded battles as crimson blotches on the pages of the past. He had put them as things of the bygone, with his thought images of heavy crowns and high castles. There was a portion of the world's history which he had regarded as the time of wars. But it, he thought, had been long gone over the horizon and had disappeared forever from his home. His youthful eyes had looked upon the war in his own country with distrust. It must be some sort of a play affair. He had

long despaired of witnessing a Greek like struggle. Such would be no more, he had said. Men were better or more timid. Secular and religious education had effaced the throat grappling instinct, or else Firm finance held in check the passions. He had burned several times to enlist tales of great movements shook the land. They might not be distinctly Homeric, but there seemed to be 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 pictures, extravagant in color, lurid, with breathless deeds. But his mother had discouraged him. She had effected to look with some contempt upon the quality of his war ardor and patriotism. She could calmly seat herself, and with no apparent difficulty, gave him many hundreds of reasons why he was of

vastly more importance on the farm than on the field of battle. She had had certain ways of expression that told him that her statements on the subject came from a deep conviction. Moreover, on her side was his belief that her ethical motive in the argument was impregnable. At last, however, he had made firm rebellion against this yellow light thrown upon the color of his ambitions. The newspapers, the gossip of the village, his own picturings, had aroused

him to an uncheckable degree. They were, in truth, fighting finely down there. Almost every day the newspaper printed to counts of a decisive victory. One night, as he lay in bed, the winds had carried to him the clangoring of the church bell as some enthusiast jerked the rope frantically to tell the twisted news of a great battle. This voice of the people rejoicing in

the night had made him shiver in a prolonged ecstasy of excitement. Later, he had gone down to his mother's room and had spoken thus, MA, I'm going to enlist, Henry. Don't you be a fool? His mother had replied. She had then covered her face with a quilt. There was an end to the matter for that night. Nevertheless, the next morning, he had gone to a town that was near his mother's farm and had enlisted in a company that was forming there. When he had returned home, his

mother was milking the brindle cow. Four others stood waiting. MA I've enlisted, he had said to her. Diffidently. There was a short silence. The lord's will be done, Henry, she had finally replied, and had

then continued to milk the brindle cow. When he had stood in the doorway with his soldier's clothes on his back, and with a light of excitement and expectant see in his eyes, almost defeating the glow of regret for the home bonds, he had seen two tears leaving their trails on his mother's scarred cheeks. Still, she had disappointed him by saying nothing whatever about returning with his shield or on it. He had privately primed himself for a beautiful scene.

He had prepared certain sentences which he thought could be used with touching effect, but her words destroyed his plans. She had doggedly peeled potatoes and addressed him as follows. You watch out, Henry, and take good care of yourself. And this here fighting business, you watch and take good care of yourself. Don't go with thinking you can lick the whole rebel army at the start,

because you can't. You just one little feller amongst a whole lot of others, and you got to keep quiet and do what they tell you. I know how you are, Henry. I've met ye eight pair of socks, Henry, and I put in all your best shirts because I want my boy to be just as warm and comfortable as anybody in the army. Whenever they get holes in them, I want you to send them right away back to me, so eyes can darn em and all us be careful and choose

your company. There's lots of bad men in the army, Henry. The army makes them wild, and they like nothing better than the job of leading off a young feller like you, as ain't never been away from home much and as all has had a mother an a learnin em to drink and swear, keep clear of them folks, Henry, I don't want you to ever do anything, Henry, that it would be ashamed to let me know about.

Just think as if I was a watchin ya. If you keep that in your mind, all us, I guess you'll come out about right. You must all us. Remember your father too, child, and remember he never drunk a drop a liquor in his life, and Seldomen swore across oath.

I don't know what else to tell ye, Henry, excepting that you must never do no shirk and child, on my account, if so be a time comes when you have to be kilt or do a mean thing, why Henry, don't think if anything scept what's riot, Because there's many a woman has to bear up against such things these times. And the Lord'll take care of us all. Don't forget about the socks and the shirts, child, And I put a cup of BlackBerry jam with your bundle, because I

know you like it above all things. Goodbye, Henry, watch out and be a good boy. He had, of course, been impatient under the ordeal of this speech. It had not been quite what he expected, and he had borne it with an air of irritation. He departed feeling vague relief. Still, when he had looked back from the gate, he had seen his mother kneeling among the potato parings. Her brown face upraised, was stained with tears, and her spare form was quivering. He bowed his head and

went on, feeling suddenly ashamed of his purposes. From his home, he had gone to the seminary to bid adieu to many schoolmates. They had thronged about him with wonder and admiration. He had felt the gulf now between them, and had swelled with calm pride. He and some of his fellows who had donned blue, were quite overwhelmed with privileges for all of one afternoon, and had been a very delicious thing. They had strutted. A certain light

haired girl had made vivacious fun at his martial spirit. But there was another and darker girl whom he gazed at steadfastly, and he thought she grew demure and sad at sight of his blue and brass. As he had walked down the path between the rows of oaks, he had turned his head and detected her at a window, watching his departure. As he perceived her, she had immediately begun to stare up through the high tree branches at the sky. He had seen a good deal of flurry and haste in her movement as she

changed her attitude. He often thought of it. On the way to Washington, his spirit had soared. The regiment was fed and caressed at station after station, until the youth had believed that he must be a hero. There was a lavish expenditure of bread and cold meats, coffee and pickles and cheese. As he basted in the smiles of the girls, and was padded and complimented by the old men, he had felt growing within him the strength to

do mighty deeds of arms. After complicated journeyings with many pauses, there had come months of monotonous life in a camp. He had had the belief that real war was a series of death struggles, with small time in between for sleep and meals. But since his regiment had come to the field, the

army had done little but sit still and try to keep warm. He was brought then gradually back to his old ideas Greek like struggles would be no more men were better or more timid secular and religious education had effaced the throat grappling instinct, or else firm finance held in check the passions. He had grown to regard himself merely as a part of a vast blue demonstration. His province

was to look out as far as he could for his personal comfort. For recreation, he could twiddle his thumbs and speculate on the thoughts which must agitate the minds of the generals. Also, he was drilled and drilled, and reviewed, and drilled and drilled and reviewed. The only foes he had seen were some pickets along the river bank. They were a sun tanned philosophical lot

who sometimes shot reflectively at the blue pickets. When reproached for this afterward, they usually expressed sorrow and swore by their gods that the guns had exploded without their permission. The youth on guard duty one night conversed across the stream with one of them. He was a slightly ragged man who spat skillfully between his shoes, and possessed a great fund of bland and infantile assurance. The youth liked him personally, yank. The other had informed him, you're a right

dumb good feller. This sentiment, floating to him upon the still air, had made him temporarily regret war. Various veterans had told him tales. Some talked of gray bewhiskered hordes who were advancing with relentless curses and chewing tobacco with unspeakable valor, tremendous bodies of fierce soldiery who were sweeping along like the huns.

Others spoke of tattered and eternally hungry men who fired despondent powders. They all charged through hell's fire and brimstone to get a hold on a havisack and set stomachs aid a last and long, he was told from the stories the youth imagined the red live bones sticking out through slits in the faded uniforms. Still, he could not put a whole faith in veteran's tales, for recruits were their prey. They talked much of smoke, fire and blood, but

he could not tell how much might be lies. They persistently yelled fresh fish at him, and were in no wise to be trusted. However, he perceived now that it did not greatly matter what kind of soldiers he was going to fight so long as they fought, which fact no one disputed. There was a more serious problem. He lay in his bunk, pondering upon it. He tried to mathematically prove to himself that he would not run from a battle. Previously, he had never felt obliged to wrestle too seriously with this

question. In his life, he had taken certain things for granted, never challenging his belief in ultimate success, and bothering little about means and roads. But here he was confronted with a thing of moment. It had suddenly appeared to him that perhaps in a battle he might run. He was forced to admit that, as far as war was concerned, he knew nothing of himself. A sufficient time before, he would have allowed the problem to kick its

heels at the outer portals of his mind. But now he felt compelled to give serious attention to it. A little panic fear grew in his mind. As his imagination went forward to a fight. He saw hideous possibilities. He contemplated the lurking menaces of the future, and failed in an effort to see himself standing stoutly in the midst of them. He recalled his visions of broken bladed glory, but in the shadow of the impending tumult, he suspected them

to be impossible pictures. He sprang from the bunk and began to pace nervously too and fro Good Lord, what's the matter with me? He said aloud. He felt that in this crisis his laws of life were useless. Whatever he had learned of himself was here of no avail. He was an unknown quantity. He saw that he would again be obliged to experiment as he had

in early youth. He must accumulate information of himself. And meanwhile he resolved to remain close upon his guard, lest those qualities of which he knew nothing should everlastingly disgrace him. Good Lord, he repeated in dismay. After a time, the tall soldier slid dexterously through the hole. The loud private followed. They were wrangling. That's all right, said the tall soldier. As he entered. He waved his hand expressively. You can believe me or not,

just as you like. All you got to do is sit down and wait as quiet as you can. Then pretty soon you'll find out I was right. His comrade grunted dubbornly for a moment. He seemed to be searching for a formidable reply, and finally he said, Well, you don't know everything in the world, do you. I didn't say I knew everything in the world, retorted the other sharply. He began to stow various articles snugly into his knapsack. The youth, pausing in his nervous walk, looked down

at the busy figure. Going to be a battle? Sure is there, jim, he asked. Of course there is, replied the tall soldier. Of course there is. You just wait till tomorrow and you'll see one of the biggest battle ever was you. Just wait thunder, said the youth. Oh you'll see fighting this time, My boy? What'll be regular out and out fighting, added the tall soldier, with the air of a man who is about to exhibit a battle for the benefit of his friends. Huh,

said the loud one from a corner. Well, remarked the youth, like as not, this story'll turn out just like the others did. Not much, it won't, replied the tall soldier, exasperated, not much, it won't. Didn't the cavalry all start this morning, he glared about him. No one denied his statement. The cavalry started this morning, he continued. They say there ain't hardly any cavalry left in camp. They're going to Richmond or someplace while we fight all the Johnnies. It's some dodge like that.

The regiment's got orders too. A feller what's seen him go to headquarters told me a little while ago, And their raising blazes all over camp. Anybody can see that? Shucks, said the loud one. The youth remained silent for a time. At last he spoke to the tall soldier, Jim, what how do you think the regiment will do? Oh, they'll fight all right, I guess after they once get into it, said the other,

with cold judgment. He made a fine use of the third person. There's been heaps of fun poked at him because they're new, of course and all that. But they'll fight all right. I guess I think any of the boys will run, persisted the youth. Oh, there might be a few of them run. But there's them kind in every regiment, especially when they first goes under fire, said the other, in a tolerant way. Of course, it might happen that the whole kitten bootle might start and run.

If some big fighting come first off, and then again they might stay and fight like fun, but you can't bet on nothing. Of course, they ain't never been under fire yet, and it ain't likely they'll lick the whole rebel army all to once it the first time. But I think they'll fight better than some, if worse than others. That's the way I figure.

They call the regiment fresh fish and everything, but the boys come of good stock, and most of them will fight like sin after they once it get shooting, he added, with a mighty emphasis on the last four words. Oh you think you know? Began the loud soldier with scorn. The other turned savagely upon him. They had a rapid altercation in which they fastened upon each other various strange epithets. The youth at last interrupted them. Did you

ever think you might run yourself, Jim? He asked. On concluding the sentence, He laughed, as if he had meant to aim a joke. The loud soldier also giggled. The tall private waved his hand well, said he profoundly. I've thought it might get too hot for Jim Conklin and some of them scrimmages, And if a whole lot of boys started and run. Why I suppose I'd start and run. And if I once started to run, I'd run like the devil, and no mistake. But if everybody was

a standing in a fightin', why I'd stand and fight. By jimminy, I would. I'll bet on it, Huh, said the loud one. The youth of this tale felt gratitude for these words of his comrade. He had feared that all of the untried men possessed great and correct confidence. He now was, in a measure reassured. End of chapter one, Chapter two of The Red Badge of Courage. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. From or information or to volunteer, please

visit libervax dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, Chapter two. The next morning, the youth discovered that his tall comrade had been the fast flying messenger of a mistake. There was much scoffing at the latter by those who had yesterday been firm adherents of his views, and there was even a little sneering by men who had never believed the rumor, The tall one fought with

a man from Chatfield Corners and beat him severely. The youth felt, however, that his problem was in no wise lifted from him. There was, on the contrary, an irritating prolongation. The tale had created in him a great concern for himself. Now, with a newborn question in his mind, he was compelled to sink back into his old place as part of a blue demonstration. For days he made ceaseless calculations, but they were all wondrously unsatisfactory.

He found that he could establish nothing. He finally concluded that the only way to prove himself was to go into the blaze, and then figuratively to watch his legs to discover their merits and faults. He reluctantly admitted that he could not sit still and with a mental slate and pencil derive an answer. To gain it, he must have blaze, blood, and danger, even as a chemist requires this, that and the other. So he fretted for

an opportunity. Meanwhile, he continually tried to measure himself by his comrades. The tall soldier, for one, gave him some assurance. This man's serene unconcern dealt him a measure of confidence, for he had known him since childhood, and from his intimate knowledge he did not see how he could be capable

of anything that was on him. The youth still he thought that his comrade might be mistaken about himself, or on the other hand, he might be a man heretofore doomed to peace and obscurity, but in reality made to shine in war. The youth would have liked to have discovered another who suspected himself. A sympathetic comparison of mental notes would have been a joy to him. He occasionally tried to fathom a comrade with seductive sentences. He looked about to

find men in the proper mood. All attempts failed to bring forth any statement which looked in any way like a confession to those doubts which he privately acknowledged in himself. He was afraid to make an open declaration of his concern because he dreaded to place some unscrupulous confidant upon the high plane of the unconfessed, from which elevation he could be derided. In regard to his companions, his and waver between two opinions. According to his mood. Sometimes he inclined to

believing them all heroes. In fact, he usually admired in secret the superior development of the higher qualities. In others, he could conceive of men going very insignificantly about the world, bearing a load of courage unseen, And although he had known many of his comrades through boyhood, he began to fear that his judgment of them had been blind. Then, in other moments he flouted these theories and assured him that his fellows were all privately wandering and quaking.

His emotions made him feel strange in the presence of men who talked excitedly of a perspective battle as of a drama they were about to witness, with nothing but eagerness and curiosity apparent in their faces. It was often that he suspected them to be liars. He did not pass thoughts without severe condemnation of himself. He dinned reproaches. At times he was convicted by himself of many shameful crimes against the gods of traditions. In his great anxiety, his heart was

continually clamoring at what he considered the intolerable slowness of the generals. They seemed content to perch tranquility on the river bank and leave him bowed down by the weight of a great problem. He wanted it settled forthwith. He could not long bear such a load, he said. Sometimes his anger at the commanders reached an acute stage, and he grumbled about the camp like a veteran. One morning, however, he found himself in the ranks of his prepared regiment.

The men were whispering speculations and recounting the old rumors in the gloom before the break of the day. Their uniforms glowed a deep purple hue. From across the river of the red eyes were still peering in the eastern sky. There was a yellow patch like a rug laid for the feet of the coming sun, and against it, black and pattern like loomed the gigantic figure of the Colonel on a gigantic horse. From off in the darkness came the trampling

of feet. The youth could occasionally see dark shadows that moved like monsters. The regiment stood at rest for what seemed a long time. The youth grew impatient. It was unendurable the way these affairs were managed. He wondered how long they were to be kept waiting. As he looked all about him and pondered upon the mystic gloom, he began to believe that at any moment, the ominous distance might be a flare, and the rolling crashes of an engagement

come to his ears. Staring once at the red eyes across the river, he conceived them to be growing larger as the orbs of a row of dragons. Encing he turned toward the colonel and saw him lift his gigantic arm and calmly stroke his mustache. At last he heard from along the road at the foot of the hill, the clatter of a horse's galloping hoofs it must be the coming of orders. He bent forward, scarce breathing the exciting clikety click.

As it grew louder and louder, seemed to be beating upon his soul. Presently, a horseman with jangling equipment drew rein before the colonel of the regiment. The two held a short, sharp worded conversation. The men in the foremost ranks craned their necks as the horseman wheeled his animal and galloped away. He turned to shout over his shoulder, don't forget that box of cigars, the colonel mumbled in reply. The youth wandered what a box of cigars

had to do with war. A moment later the regiment went swinging off into the darkness. It was now like one of those moving monsters, wending with many feet. The air was heavy and cold with dew. A mass of wet grass marched upon rustled like silk. There was an occasional flash and glimmer of steel from the backs of all these huge crawling reptiles. From the road came creakings and grumblings. As some surly guns were dragged away. The men

stumbled along, still muttering speculations. There was a subdued debate. Once a man fell down, and as he reached for his rifle, a comrade, unseeing, trod upon his hand. He of the injured fingers, swore bitterly and aloud. A low, tittering laugh went among his fellows. Presently they passed into a roadway and marched forward with easy strides. A dark regiment roved before them, and from behind also came the tinkle of equipments on the bodies

of marching men. The rushing yellow of the developing day went on behind their backs. When the sun rays at last struck full and mellowingly upon the earth. The youth saw that the landscape was streaked with two long, thin, black columns, which disappeared on the brow of a hill in front and rearward vanished in a wood. They were like two serpents crawling from the cavern of the night. The river was not in view. The tall soldier burst into

praises of what he thought to be his powers of perception. Some of the tall Ones companions cried with emphasis that they too had evolved the same thing, and they congratulated themselves upon it. But there were others who said that the tall Ones plan was not the true one at all. They persisted with other theories. There was a vigorous discussion. The youth took no part in them. As he walked along in careless line. He was engaged with his own

eternal debate. He could not hider himself from dwelling upon it. He was despondent and sullen, and threw shifting glances about him. He looked ahead, often expecting to hear from the advance the rattle of firing. But the long serpents crawled slowly from hill to hill, without bluster of smoke. A dun colored cloud of dust floated away to the right. The sky overhead was of a fairy blue. The youth studied the faces of his companions, ever on

the watch to detect kindred emotions. He suffered disappointment. Some ardor of the air, which was causing the veteran commands to move with glee, almost with song, had infected the new regiment. The men began to speak of victory as of a thing they knew. Also, the tall soldier received his vindication they were certainly going to come around in behind the enemy, express commiseration for that part of the army which been left upon the river bank. Feliciting themselves

upon being a part of a blasting host. The youth, considering himself as separated from the others, was saddened by the blithe and merry speeches that went from rank to rank. The company wags all made their best endeavors. The regiment trapped to the tune of lefter. The blatant soldier often convulsed whole files by his biting sarcasms aimed at the tall one, and it was not long before all the men seemed to forget their mission. Whole brigades grinned in unison,

and the regiments laughed. A rather fat soldier attempted to pilfer a horse from a dooryard. He planned to load his knapsack upon it. He was escaping with his prize when a young girl rushed from the house and grabbed the animal's mane. There followed a wrangle. The young girl, with pink cheeks and showing eyes, stood like a dauntless statue. The observant regiment, standing at rest in the roadway, whooped at once and entered whole souled upon the

side of the maiden. The men became so engrossed in this affair that they entirely ceased to remember their own large war. They jeered the piratical private and called attention to various defects and his personal appearance, And they were wildly enthusiastic in support of the young girl. To her from some distance came bold advice hit him with a stick. There were crows and cat calls showered upon him. When he retreated without the horse, the regiment rejoiced at his downfall.

Loud and vociferous congratulations were showered upon the maiden, who stood panting and regarding the troops with defiance. At nightfall, the column broke into regimental pieces, and the fragments went into the fields to camp. Tents sprang up like strange plants, camp Fires, like red peculiar blossoms, dotted the night. The youth kept from intercourse with his companions as much as circumstances would allow him.

In the evening, he wandered a few paces into the gloom. From this little distance, the many fires, with the black forms of men passing to and fro before the crimson rays, made weird and satanic effects. He lay down in the grass, the blades pressed tenderly against his cheek. The moon had been lighted and was hung in a tree top. The liquid stillness of the night enveloping him made him feel vast pity for himself. There was a caress, and the soft winds, and the whole mood of the darkness,

he thought, was one of sympathy for himself. In his distress, he wished without reserve, he was at home again, making the endless rounds from the house to the barn, from the barn to the fields, from the fields to the barn, from the barn to the house. He remembered he had so often cursed the brindle cow and her mates, and had sometimes flung milking stools. But from his present point of view, there was a halo of happiness about each of their heads, and he would have sacrificed all the

brass buttons on the continent to have been enabled to return to them. He told himself that he was not formed for a soldier, and he mused seriously upon the radical differences between himself and these men who were dodging imp like about the fires. As he mused thus, he heard the rustle of grass, and, upon turning his head, discovered the loud soldier. He called out, oh, Wilson. The latter approached and looked down. Why hello, Henry, is it you? What are you doing here? Oh? Thinkin,

said the youth. The other sat down and carefully lighted his pipe. You'll gettin blue, my boy, you're lookin thunder, I piked, What the dickens is wrong with you? Oh nothin, said the youth. The loud soldier launched then into the subject of the anticipated fight. Oh we've got em now. As he spoke, his boyish face was wreathed in a gleeful smile, and his voice had an exultant ring. We've got'em now at last, by the eternal thunders. We'll lick'em good. If the truth was

known, he added more soberly. They've licked us about every clip up to now, But this time, this time, we'll lick'em good. I thought you were objecting to this march a little while ago, said the youth coldly. Oh it wasn't that, explained the other. I don't mind marching if there's going to be fighting at the end of it. What I hate is gettin moved here and move there with no good coming of it, as far as I can see, except in sore feet and damned short rations.

Well, Jim Coughlin says we'll get plenty of fighting this time. He's right for once, I guess, though I can't see how it come this time. We're in for a big battle, and we've got the best end of it. Certain, Sure, geer Rot, how we will thump him? He arose, and began to pace to and fro excitedly. The thrill of his enthusiasm made him walk with an elastic step. He was sprightly, vigorous,

fiery, in his belief and success. He looked into the future with clear, proud eye, and he swore with the air of an old soldier. Youth watched him for a moment in silence. When he finally spoke, his voice was as bitter as dregs. Oh, you're going to do great things, I suppose, The loud soldier blew a thoughtful cloud of smoke from his pipe. Oh I don't know, he remarked with dignity. I don't know. I suppose I'll do as well as the rest. I'm going to

try like thunder. He evidently complimented himself upon the modesty of this statement. How do you know you won't run when the time comes, asked the youth, run, said the loud one run, of course not, he laughed well, continued the youth. Lots of good enough men have thought they were going to do great things before the fight, but when the time come they skidaddled. Oh that's all true, I suppose, replied the other. But I'm not going to skidaddle. The man that bets him I runnin will lose

his money, that's all he nodded confidently. Oh shucks, said the youth. You ain't the bravest man in the world. Are you No, I ain't, exclaimed the loud soldier indignantly. And I didn't say I was the bravest man in the world. Neither I said I was going to do my share of fighting. That's what I said. And I am too. Who are you anyhow? You talk as if you thought you were Napoleon Bonaparte.

He glared at the youth for a moment, and then strode away. The youth called in a savage voice after his comrade, well you needn't get mad about it, But the other continued on his way and made no reply. He felt alone in space when his injured comrade had disappeared. His failure to discover any might of resemblance in their viewpoints made him more miserable than before. No one seemed to be wrestling with such a terrific personal problem. He was

a mental outcast. He went slowly to his tent and stretched himself on a blanket by the side of the snoring tall soldier. In the darkness, he saw visions of a thousand tongued fear that would babble at his back and cause him to flee while others were going coolly about their country's business. He admitted that he would not be able to cope with this monster. He felt that every nerve in his body would be an ear to hear the voices, while

other men would remain stolid and deaf. And as he sweated with the pain of these thoughts, he could hear low, serene sentences. I'll bid five, make it six, seven, seven goes. He stared at the red, shivering reflection of a fire on the white wall of his tent, until exhausted and ill from the monoton of his suffering, he fell asleep. End of chapter two, Chapter three of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.

For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, Chapter three. When another night came, the columns changing to purple streaks filed across two pontoon bridges, A glaring fire wine tinted the waters of the river, its rays shining upon the moving masses of troops.

Brought forth here, and there sudden gleams of silver or gold upon the other Sure, a dark and mysterious range of hills was curved against the sky. The insect voices of the night sang solemnly. After this crossing, the youth assured himself that at any moment they might be suddenly and fearfully assaulted from the caves of the lowering woods. He kept his eyes watchfully upon the darkness. But his regiment went unmolested to a camping place, and its soldiers slept

the brave sleep of wearied men. In the morning, they were routed out with early energy and hustled along a narrow road that led deep into the forest. It was during this rapid march that the regiment lost many of the marks of a new command. The men had begun to count the miles upon their fingers, and they grew tired, sore feet, and damned short rations.

That's all, said the loud soldier. There was perspiration and grumblings. After a time they began to shed their knapsacks, some them unconcernedly down, others hid them carefully, asserting their plans to return from them at some convenient time. Men extricated themselves from thick shirts. Presently few carried anything but their necessary clothing, blankets, haversacks, canteens, and arms and ammunition. You can now eat and shoot, said the tall soldier to the youth. That's all

you want to do. There was sudden change from the ponderous infantry of theory through the light and speedy infantry of practice. The regiment, relieved of a burden, received a new impetus. But there was much loss of valuable knapsacks, and on the whole very good shirts. But the regiment was not yet veteran like in appearance, Veteran regiments in the army were likely to be very

small aggregations of men. Once, when the command had first come to the field, some perambulating veterans, noting the length of their column, had accosted them, Thus, hey, fellers, what brigade is that? And when the men had replied that they formed a regiment and not a brigade, the older soldiers had laughed and said, oh God. Also, there was too great a similarity in the hats. The hats of a regiment should properly represent the history of heggear for a period of years, and Moreover, there were

no letters of faded gold speaking from the colors. They were new and beautiful, and the color bearer habitually oiled the pole. Presently, the army again sank down to think. The odor of the peaceful pines was in the men's nostrils. The sound of monotonous axe blows rang through the forest, and the insects, nodding upon their perches, crooned like old women. The youth returned

to his theory of a blue demonstration one gray dawn. However, he was kicked in the leg by the tall soldier, and then before he was entirely awake, he found himself running down a wood road in the midst of men who were panting from the first effects of speed. His canteen banged rhythmically upon his thigh, and his haversack bobbed softly. His musket bounced a trifle from his shoulder at each stride, and made his cat feel uncertain upon his head.

He could hear the men whispered jerky sentences, say, what's all this about? What the thunder? Weisk a deadline? This way, fur bill, He keep off my feet, You run like a cow, And the loud soldier's shrill voice could be heard. What the devil they in such a hurry? For youth thought, the damp fog of early morning moved from the rush of a great body of troops. From the distance came a sudden spatter

of firing. He was bewildered as he ran with his comrades. He strenuously tried to think, but all he knew was that if he fell down, those coming behind would tread upon him. All his faculties seemed to be needed to guide him over and past obstructions. He felt carried along by a mob. The sun spread disclosing rays, and one by one, regiments burst into view, like armed men just born of the earth. The youth perceived that the time had come. He was about to be measured for a moment.

He felt in the face of his great trial like a babe, and the flesh over his heart seemed very thin. He seized time to look about him, calculatingly, but he instantly saw that it would be impossible for him to escape from the regiment. It enclosed him, and there were iron laws of tradition and law on four sides. He was in a moving box. As he perceived this fact that occurred to him that he had never wished to come

to the war. He had not enlisted of his own free will. He had been dragged by the merciless government, and now they were taking him out to be slaughtered. The regiment slid down a bank and wallowed across a little stream. The mournful current moved slowly on and from the water, shaded black. Some white bubble eyes looked at the men as they climbed the hill. On the farther side, artillery began to boom. Here. The youth forgot

many things as he felt a sudden impulse of curiosity. He scrambled up the bank with a speed that could not be exceeded by a bloodthirsty man. He expected a battle scene. There were some little fields, girted and squeezed by a forest spread over the grass, and in among the tree trunks he could see knots and waving lines of skirmishers who were running hither and thither and firing at the landscape. A dark battle line lay upon a sun struck clearing that

gleamed orange color. A flag fluttered. Other regiments floundered up the bank. The brigade was formed in line of battle and after a pause, started slowly through the woods in the rear of the receding skirmishers, who were continually melting into the scene to appear again farther on. They were always busy as bees, deeply absorbed in their little combats. The youth tried to observe everything. He did not use care to avoid trees and branches, and his forgotten feet

were constantly knocking against stones or getting entangled in briars. He was aware that these battalions, with their commotions, were woven red and startling into the gentle fabric of softened greens and browns. It looked to be a wrong place for a battlefield. The skirmishers in advance fascinated him. Their shots into thickets and at distant and prominent trees spoke to him of tragedies hidden mysterious solemn. Once the lion encountered the body of a dead soldier, he lay upon his back,

staring at the sky. He was dressed in an awkward suit of yellowish brown. The youth could see that the soles of his shoes had been worn to the thinness of writing paper, and from a great rent in one the dead foot projected piteously, and it was as if fate had betrayed the soldier in death. It exposed to his enemies that poverty which in life he had perhaps concealed from his friends. The ranks opened covertly to avoid the corpse.

The invulnerable dead man forced a way for himself. The youth looked keenly at the ashen face. The wind raised the tawny beard. It moved as if a hand were stroking it. He vaguely desired to walk around and around the body and stare the impulse of the living, to try to read in dead eyes the answer to the question. During the march, the ardor which the youth had acquired, when out of view of the field, rapidly faded to

nothing. His curiosity was quite easily satisfied. If an intense scene had caught him with its wild swing as he came to the top of the bank, he might have gone roaring. On this advance upon nature was too calm. He had opportunity to reflect. He had time in which to wonder about himself and to attempt to probe his sensations. Absurd ideas took hold upon him. He thought that he did not relish the landscape. It threatened him. A coldness swept over his back, and it is true that his trousers felt to

him that they were no longer fit for his legs at all. A house standing placidly in distant fields had to him an ominous look. The shadows of the woods were formidable. He was certain that in this vista there lurked fierce eyed hosts. The swift thought came to him that the generals did not know what they were about. It was all a trap. Suddenly those close forests would bristle with rifle barrels. Iron like brigades would appear in the rear.

They were all going to be sacrificed. The generals were stupids. The enemy would presently swallow the whole command. He glared about him, expecting to see the stealthy approach of his death. He thought that he must break from the ranks and harangue his comrades. They must not all be killed like pigs. He was sure it would come to pass unless they were informed of these dangers. The generals were idiots to send them marching into a regular pen. There

was but one pair of eyes in the corps. He would step forth and make a speech. Shrill and passionate words came to his lips. The line, broken into moving fragments by the ground, went calmly on through fields and woods. The youth looked at the men nearest him, and saw, for the most part expressions of deep interest, as if they were investigating something that had fascinated them. One or two stepped with overvaliant airs, as if they

were already plunged into war. Others walked as upon thin ice. The greater part of the untested men appeared quiet and absorbed. They were going to look at war, the red animal, war, the blood swollen God, and they were deeply engrossed in this march. As he looked, the youth gripped his outcry at his throat. He saw that even if the men were tottering with fear, they would laugh at his warning. They would cheer him, and, if practicable, pelt him with missiles, admitting that he might be

wrong. A and seed declamation of the kind would turn him into a worm. He assumed, then, the demeanor of one who knows that he is doomed alone to unridden responsibilities. He lagged with tragic glances at the sky. He was surprised presently by the young lieutenant of his company, who began heartily to beat him with a sword, calling out in a loud and insolent voice, Come, young man, get up into ranks. There no skulking. He'll do here. He mended his pace with suitable haste, and he hated

the lieutenant, who had no appreciation of fine minds. He was a mere brute. After a time, the brigade was halted in the cathedral light of a forest. The busy skirmishers were still popping through the aisles of the wood. Could be seen the floating smoke from their rifles. Sometimes it went up in little balls, white and compact. During this halt, many men in the regiment began erecting tiny hills in front of them. They used stones,

sticks, earth, and anything they thought might turn a bullet. Some built comparatively large ones, while others seemed content with little ones. This procedure caused a discussion among the men. Some wished to fight like duellists, believing it to be correct to stand erect and be from their feet to their foreheads a mark. They said. They scorned the devices of the cautious, but the others scoffed in reply, and pointed to the veterans on the flanks, who

were digging at the ground like terriers. In a short time, there was quite a barricade along the regimental fronts directly. However, they were ordered to withdraw from that place. This astounded the youth. He forgot his stewing over the advance movement. Well, then, what did they march us out here?

For? He demanded of the tall soldier. The latter, with calm faith, began a heavy explanation, although he had been compelled to leave a little protection of stones and dirt to which he had devoted much care and skill. When the regiment was aligned in another position, each man's regard for his safety caused another line of small entrenchments. They ate their noon meal behind a third one. They were moved from this one. Also. They were marched

from place to place with apparent aimlessness. The youth had been taught that a man became another thing in battle. He saw his salvation and such a change. Hence, this waiting was an ordeal to him. He was in a fever of impatience. He considered that there was denoted a lack of purpose on the part of the general's He began to complain to the tall soldier. I can't stand this much longer, he cried. I don't see what good it

does to make us wear out our legs for nothing. He wished to return to camp, knowing that this affair was a blue demonstration, or else to go into a battle and discover that he had been a fool in his doubts and was, in truth a man of traditional courage that's strained of present circumstances. He felt to be intolerable. The philosophical tall soldier measured a sandwich of

cracker and pork and swallowed it in a nonchalant manner. Oh, I suppose we must go reconnoitering around the country just to keep him from getting too close, or to develop em or something. Huh, said the loud soldier. Well, cried the youth, still fidgeting. I'd rather do anything most than go trampin round the country all day, doing no good to nobody, and just tirin ourselves out, So would I, said the loud soldier. It

ain't right. I'll tell you if anybody with any sense was a runnin this army, it oh shut up, roared the tall private, You little fool, you little damn cuss. You ain't had that their coat and then pants on for six months, and yet you talk as if well, I want to do some fighting anyway, interrupted the other. I didn't come here to walk. I could have walked home round and round the barn if I just

wanted to walk. The tall one, red faced, swallowed another sandwich, as if taking poison in despair, but gradually, as he chewed, his face became again quiet and contented. He could not rage in fierce argument in the presence of such sandwiches. During his meals, he always wore an air of blissful contemplation of the food he had swallowed. His spirits seemed then to be communing with the viands. He accepted new environment and circumstances with great coolness,

eating from his half hersack at every opportunity. On the march, he went along with the stride of a hunter, objecting to neither gait nor distance. And he had not raised his voice when he had been ordered away from three little protective piles of earth and stone, each of which had been an engineering feat worthy of being made sacred to the name of his grandmother. In the afternoon, the regiment went out over the same ground it had taken in

the morning. The landscape then ceased to threaten the youth. He had been close to it and become familiar with it. When, however, they began to pass into a new region, his old fears of stupidity and incompetence reassailed him. But this time he doggedly let them babble. He was occupied with his problem, and in his desperation he concluded that the stupidity did not greatly matter. Once he thought, he had concluded that it would be better to

get killed directly and end his troubles regarding death. Thus, out of the corner of his eye, he conceived it to be nothing but rest, And he was filled with a momentary astonishment that he should have made an extraordinary emotion over the mere matter of getting killed. He would die, He would go to some place where he would be understood. It was useless to expect appreciation of his profound and fine sense from such men as the lieutenant. He must

look to the grave for comprehension. The skirmish fire increased to a long clattering sound. With it was mingled far away, cheering a battery spoke directly. The youth could see the skirmishers running. They were pursued by the sound of musketry fire. After a time, the hot, dangerous flashes of the rifles were visible. Smoke clouds went slowly and insolently across the fields like observant phantoms.

The din became crescendo like the roar of an uncoming train. A brigade ahead of them and on the right went into action with a rending roar. It was as if it had exploded, And thereafter it lay stretched in the distance behind a gray wall that one was obliged to look twice at to make sure that it was smoke. The youth, forgetting his neat plan of getting killed, gazed spellbound. His eyes grew wide and busy with the action of the scene. His mouth was a little ways open. All of a sudden,

he felt a heavy and sad hand laid upon his shoulder. Awakening from his trance of observation, he turned and beheld the loud soldier. It's my first and last battle, old boy, said the latter, with intense gloom. He was quite pale, and his girlish lip was trembling. He murmured the youth in great astonishment. It's my first and last battle, old boy, continued the loud soldier. Something tells me what. I'm a gone coon this first time, and I want you to take these here things to my

folks. Ended in a quavering sob of pity for himself. He handed the youth a little packet done up in a yellow envelope. Why what, the devil, began the youth again, But the other gave him a glance as from the depths of a tomb, and raised his limp hand in a prophetic manner, and turned away. End of chapter three, Chapter four of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer,

please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. Chapter four. The brigade was halted in the fringe of a grove. Men crouched among the trees and pointed their restless guns out at the fields. They tried to look beyond the smoke. Out of this haze. They could see running men.

Some shouted information and gestured as they hurried. The men of the new regiment watched and listened eagerly while their tongues ran on in gossip of the battle. They mouthed rumors that had flown like birds out of the unknown. They say Perry has been driven in with big loss. Yes, Carrott went to the hospital. He said he was sick that smart lieutenant is commanded G company. The boys say they won't be under Carrott no more if they all have to

dessert. They allays knew he was a Hannis's battery as took it. Ain't neater. I saw Hannis's battery off to the left, not more than fifteen minutes ago. Well, the general, he says he's going to take the whole command of the three h fourth when we go into action. Then he says we'll do such fighting as never another one regiment done. They say we're catching it over on the left. They say the enemy driven our line into a devil of a swamp and took Hannis's battery. No such thing. Hannas's

battery was long here, about a minute ago. That young hasbrouck. He makes a good officer. He ain't afraid of nothing. I met one of the one forty eight main boys, and he says his brigade fit the whole rebel army for four hours over on the Turnpike road and killed about five thousand of them. He says, one more such fight as that, and the world be over. Bill wasn't scared either, No, sir, it wasn't that. Bill ain't a getting scared easy. He was just mad, That's

what he was. When that feller trod on his hand, he up and said that he was willing to give his hand to his country, but he'd be dumbed if he was and a half to have every dumb bushwhacker in the country walking round on it. So he went to the hospital disregardless of the fight. Three fingers was crunched. The derned doctor wanted to amputate him, and Bill he raised a hill of a row. I here he's a funny feller. The din in front swelled to a tremendous chorus. The youth and

his fellows were frozen to silence. They could see a flag that tossed in the smoke. Angrily near it were the blurred and agitated forms of troops. There came a turbulent stream of men across the fields. A battery, changing position at a frantic gallop, scattered the stragglers right and left a shell screaming like a storm. Bansheet went over the huddled heads of the reserves. It landed in the grove, and, exploding redly, flung the brown earth.

There was a little shower of pine needles. Bullets began to whistle among the branches and nip at the trees. Twigs and leaves came sailing down. It was as if a thousand axes wee and invisible were being wielded. Many of the men were constantly dodging and ducking their heads. The lieutenant of the youth's company was shot in the hand. He began to swear so wondrously that a nervous laugh went along the wrenge ofmental line. The officer's profanity sounded conventional.

It relieved the tightened senses of the new men. It was as if he had hit his fingers with attack hammer at home. He held the wounded member carefully away from his side, so that the blood would not drip upon his trousers. The captain of the company tucking his sword under his arm, produced a handkerchief and began to bind with it the lieutenant's wound, and they disputed as to how the binding should be done. The battle flag in the distance

jerked about madly. It seemed to be struggling to free itself from an agony. The billowing smoke was filled with horizon mountal flashes. Men rushing swiftly emerged from it. They grew in numbers until it was seen that the whole command was fleeing. The flag suddenly sank down, as if dying. Its motion as it fell was a gesture of despair. Wild yells came from behind the walls of smoke. A sketching gray and red dissolved into a moblike body of

men who galloped like wild horses. The veteran regiments on the right and left of the three or fourth immediately began to jeer with the passionate song of the bullets, and the banshee shrieks of shells were mingled loud catcalls and bits of facetious advice concerning places of safety. But the new regiment was breathless with horror. God Saunders got crushed, whispered the man at the youth's elbow. They shrank back and crouched, as if compelled to await a flood. The youth

shot a swift glance along the blue ranks of the regiment. The profiles were motionless, carven, and afterward he remembered that the color sergeant was standing with his legs apart, as if he expected to be pushed to the ground. The following throng went whirling around the flank. Here and there were officers carried along on the stream like exasperated chips. They were striking about them with their swords and with their left fists, punching every head they could reach. They

cursed like highwaymen. A mounted officer displayed the furious anger of a spoiled child. He raged with his head, his arms, and his legs. Another, the commander of the brigade, was galloping about, bawling. His hat was gone and his clothes were awry. He resembled a man who has come from bed to go to a fire. The hoofs of his horse often threatened the heads of the running men, but they scampered with singular fortune. In this rush. They were apparently all deaf and blind. They heeded the largest

and longest of the oasts that were thrown at them from all directions. Frequently over this tumult could be heard the grim jokes of the critical veterans, but the retreating men apparently were not even conscious of the presence of an audience. The battle reflection that shone for an instant in the faces on the mad current made the youth feel that forceful hands from heaven would not have been able to have held him in place if he could have got intelligent control of his legs.

There was an appalling imprint upon these faces. The struggle and the smoke head pictured an exaggeration of itself on the bleached cheeks, and in the eyes wild with one desire. The sight of this stampede exerted a floodlike force that seemed able to drag sticks and stones and men from the ground. They of the reserves had to hold on. They grew pale and firm, and red

and quaking. The youth achieved one little thought in the midst of this chaos, the composite monster which had caused the other troops to flee, had not then appeared. He resolved to get a view of it, and then he thought he might very likely run better than the best of them. And of chapter four Chapter five of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For

more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, Chapter five. There were moments of waiting. The youth thought of the village street at home, before the arrival of the circus parade on a day in the spring. He remembered how he had stood a small thrillful boy, prepared to follow the dingy lady upon the white horse or the band

in its faded chariot. He saw the yellow road, the lines of expectant people, and the sober houses. He particularly remembered an old fellow who used to sit upon a cracker box in front of the store and feigned to despise such exhibitions. A thousand details of color and form surged in his mind. The old fellow upon the cracker box appeared in middle prominence. Someone cried, here they come. There was rustling and muttering among the men, they displayed

a feverish desire to have every possible cartridge ready to their hands. The boxes were pulled around into various positions and adjusted with great care. It was as his seven hundred new bonnets were being tried on. The tall soldier, having haired his rifle, produced a red handkerchief of some kind. He was engaged in knotting it about his throat with exquisite attention to its position. When the cry was repeated up and down the line, in a muffled roar of sound,

here they come, Here they come. Gunnocks clicked. Across the smoke infested fields came a brown swarm of running men who were giving shrill yells. They came on, stooping and swinging their rifles at all angles. A flag tilted forward sped near the front. As he caught sight of them, the youth was momentarily startled by a thought that perhaps his gun was not loaded. He stood, trying to rally his faltering intellects so that he might recollect the

moment when he had loaded, But he could not. A hatless general pulled his dripping horse to a stand near the kernel of the three oh fourth. He shook his fist in the other's face. You've got to hold him back, he shouted savagely, You've got to hold him back. In his agitation, the colonel began to stammer, all right, General, all right, by God, we'll do our best. General. The general made a passionate gesture and galloped away. The colonel, perchanced to relieve his feelings, began

to scold like a wet parrot. The youth, turning swiftly to make sure that the rear was unmolested, saw the commander regarding his men in a highly resentful manner, as if he had regretted, above everything his association with them. The man at the youth's elbow was mumbling, as if to himself, Oh, we're in for it now, We're in for it now. The captain of the company had been pacing excitedly to and fro in the rear.

He coaxed in schoolmistress fashion as to a congregation of boys with primers. His talk was an endless repetition, Reserve your fire, boys, don't shoot till I tell you, save your fire, wait till they get close up. Don't be damned fools, perspiration streamed down the youth's face, which was soiled like that of a weeping urchin. He frequently, with a nervous movement, wiped his eyes with his coat sleeve. His mouth was still a little ways

open. He got the one glance at the faux swarming field in front of him, and instantly ceased to debate the question of his piece being loaded before he was ready to begin, Before he had announced to himself that he was about to fight, he threw the obedient, well balanced rifle into position and fired a first wild shot directly. He was working at his weapon like an automatic affair. He suddenly lost concern for himself and forgot to look at a

menacing fate. He became not a man but a member. He felt that something of which he was a part, a regiment, an army, a cause, or a country, was in crisis. He was welded into a common personality which was dominated by a single desire. For some moments, he could not flee, no more than a little finger can commit a revolution from a hand. If he had thought the regiment was about to be annihilated, perhaps he could have amputated himself from it. But its noise gave him assurance.

The regiment was like a firework that, once ignited, proceeds superior to circumstances until its blazing vitality fades. It wheezed and banged with a mighty power. He pictured the ground before it as strewn with the discomfited. There was a consciousness always of the presence of his comrades about him. He felt the subtle battle brotherhood, more potent even than the cause for which they were fighting. It was a mysterious fraternity born of the smoke and danger of death.

He was at a task. He was like a carpenter who has made many boxes, making still another box. Only there was furious haste in his movements. He and his thoughts was careering off in other places, even as the carpenter who as he works whistles and thinks of his friend or his enemy, his home or a saloon. And these jolted dreams were never perfect to him

afterward, but remained a mass of blurred shapes. Presently, he began to feel the effects of the war atmosphere, a blistering sweat, a sensation that his eyeballs were about to crack like hot stones, a burning roar, filled his ears. Following this came a red rage. He developed the acute exaspiration of a pestured animal, a well meeting cow worried by dogs. He had a mad feeling against his rifle, which could only be used against one life

at a time. He wished to rush forward and strangle with his fingers. He craved a power that would enable him to make a world sweeping gesture and brush all back. His impotency appeared to him and made his rage into that of a driven beast buried in the smoke of many rifles. His anger was directed not so much against the men whom he knew were rushing toward him, as against the swirling battle phantoms which were choking him, stuffing their smoke robes

down his parched throat. He fought frantically for respite, for his senses, for air, as a babe being smothered attacks the deadly blankets. There was a blare of heated rage, mingled with a certain expression of intentness on all faces. Many of the men were making low toned noises with their mouths, and these subdued cheers, snarls, imprecations prayers made a wild, barbaric song that went as an undercurrent of sound, strange and chant like with the resounding

chords of the war march. The man at the youth's elbow was babbling in it. There was something soft and tender, like the monologue of a babe. The tall soldier was swearing in a loud voice. From his lips came a black procession of curious oaths. Of a sudden, another broke out in a querulous way, like a man who has mislaid his hat. Well, why don't they support us? Why don't they send supports? Do they think? The youth, in his battle sleep heard this as one who dozes hears.

There was a singular absence of heroic poses. The men, bending and surging in their haste and rage, were in every impossible attitude. The steel ramrods clanked, then clanged with incessant din as the men pounded them furiously into the hot rifle barrels. The flaps of the cartridge boxes were all unfastened and

bobbed idiotically with each movement. The rifles, once loaded, were jerked to the soldier and fired without apparent aim into the smoke or at one of the blurred and shifting forms which upon the field before the regiment had been growing larger and larger, like puppets under a magician's hand. The officers, at their intervals rearward neglected to stand in picturesque attitudes. They were bobbing to and fro

roaring directions and encouragements. The dimensions of their housework extraordinary. They expended their lungs with prodigal wills, and often they nearly stood upon their heads and their anxiety to observe the enemy. On the other side of the tumbling smoke, the lieutenant of the youth's company had encountered a soldier who had fled, screaming at the first volley of his comrades. Behind the lines. These two were

acting a little isolated scene. The man was blubbering and staring with sheeplike eyes at the lieutenant, who had seized him by the collar and was pommeling him. He drove him back into the ranks with many blows. The soldier went mechanically dully with his animal like eyes upon the officer. Perhaps there was to him a divinity expressed in the voice of the other stern hard, with no reflection of fear in it. He tried to reload his gun, but his

shaking hands prevented. The lieutenant was obliged to assist him. The men dropped here and there like bundles. The captain of the youth's company had been killed in an early part of the action. His body lay stretched out in the position of a tired man resting, but upon his face there was an astonished and sorrowful look, as if he thought some friend had done him an ill turn. The babbling man was grazed by a shot that made the blood stream

widely down his face. He clapped both hands to his head, oh, he said, and ran another grunted suddenly, as if he had been struck by a club in the stomach. He sat down and gazed ruefully. In his eyes. There was mute, indefinite reproach. Farther up the line, a man standing behind a tree had had his knee joints splintered by a ball. Immediately he had dropped his rifle and gripped the tree with both arms, and there he remained, clinging desperately and crying for assistance that he might withdraw

his hold upon the tree. At last, an exultant yell went up along the quivering line. The firing dwindled from an uproar to a last vindictive popping. As the smoke slowly eddied away, the youth saw that the charge had been repulsed. The enemy were scattered into reluctant groups. He saw a man climb to the top of the fence, straddled the rail, and fire a parting shot. The waves had receded, leaving bits of dark debris upon the

ground. Some in the regiment began to whoop frenziedly. Many were silent, apparently they were trying to contemplate themselves. After the fever had left his veins, the youth thought that at last he was going to suffocate. He became aware of the foul atmosphere in which he had been struggling. It was grimy and dripping, like a laborer in a foundry. He grasped his canteen and took a long swallow of the warmed water. A sentence with variations went up

and down the line. Well, we've helped them back, We've helped them back. Darned if we haven't, The men said it, blissfully, leering at each other with dirty smiles. The youth turned to look behind him, and off to the right, and off to the left. He experienced the joy of a man who at last finds leisure in which to look about him. Under there were a few ghastly forms, motionless. They lay twisted in

fantastic contortions. Arms were bent, heads were turned in incredible ways. It seemed that the dead men must have fallen from some great height to get into such positions. They looked to be dumped out upon the ground from the sky. From a position in the rear of the grove, a battery was throwing shells over it. The flash of the guns startled the youth. At first he thought they were aimed directly at him. Through the trees, he watched

the black figures of the gunners as they worked swiftly and intently. Their labor seemed a complicated thing. He wondered how they could remember its formula. In the midst of confusion, the guns squatted in a row like savage chiefs. They argued with abrupt violence. It was a grim Powell. Their busy servants ran hither and thither. A small procession of wounded men were going drearily toward the rear. It was a flow of blood from the torn body of the

brigade. To the right and to the left were the dark lines of other troops. Far in front, he thought he could see lighter masses protruding in points from the forest. They were suggestive of unnumbered thousands. Once he saw a tiny battery go dashing along the line of the horizon. The tiny riders were beating the tiny horses. From a sloping hill came the sound of cheerings and clashes. Smoke welled slowly through the leaves. Batteries were speaking with thunderous

oratorical effort. Here and there were flags, the red and the stripes dominating. They splashed bits of warm color upon the dark lines of troops. The felt the old thrill at the sight of the emblems. They were like beautiful

birds, strangely undaunted in a storm. As he listened to the din from the hillside, to a deep, pulsating thunder that came from afar to the left, and to the lesser clamors which came from many directions, it occurred to him that they were fighting two over there, and over there and over there. Heretofore he had supposed that all the battle was directly under his nose. As he gazed about him, The youth felt a flash of astonishment at the blue, pure sky and the sun gleaming on the trees and fields.

It was surprising that nature had gone tranquility on with her golden process in the midst of so much devilment. End of chapter five, Chapter six of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recordings by Mark Smith of Sampsonville, South Korea, lineup The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, Chapter six.

The youth awakened slowly. He came gradually back to a position from which he could regard himself. For moments he had been scrutinizing his person in a dazed way, as if he had never before seen himself. Then he picked up his cap from the ground. He wriggled in his jacket to make a more comfortable fit, and kneeling, relased his shoe. He thoughtfully mopped his reeking features. So it was all over. At last, The Supreme trial had

been passed the red formidable difficulties of war had been vanquished. He went into an ecstasy of self satisfaction. He had the most delightful sensations of his life. Standing as if apart from himself. He viewed that last scene, He perceived that the man who had fought thus was magnificent. He felt that he was a fine fellow. He saw himself even with those ideals which he had considered as far beyond him. He smiled in deep gratification upon his fellows.

He beamed tenderness and goodwill. Gee ain't it hot? Hey, he said affably to a man who was polishing his streaming face with his coat sleeves. You bet, said the other, grinning sociably. I've never seen such dub hotness. He sprawled out luxuriously on the ground. Gee. Yes, and I hope we don't have no more fight until a week from Monday. There were some handshakings and deep speeches with men whose features were familiar, but with

whom the youth now felt the bonds of tied hearts. He helped a cursing comrade to bind up a wound of the shin, but of a sudden cries of amazement broke out along the ranks of the new regiment. Here they come again, Here they come again. The man who had sprawled upon the ground started up and said, gosh. The youth turned quick eyes upon the field. He discerned forms begin to swell in masses. Out of a distant wood.

He again saw the tilted flags speeding forward. The shells, which had ceased to trouble the regiment for a time, came swirling again and exploded in the grass or among the leaves of the trees. They looked to be strange war flowers bursting into fierce bloom. The men groaned, the luster faded from their eyes. Their smudged countenances now expressed a profound dejection. They moved their stiffened bodies slowly and watched in sullen mood the frantic approach of the enemy.

The slaves toiling in the temple of this god began to feel rebellion at his harsh tasks. They fretted and complained each to each, Oh, say this is too much of a good thing. Why can't somebody send us supports? We ain't never gonna stand this second bangin'. I didn't come here to fight the whole damn rebel army. There was one who raised a doleful cry, I wish Bill Smithers had trod on my hand insteader me treadin on his'n.

The sore joints of the regiment creaked as it painfully floundered into position to repulse. The youth stared surely he thought this impossible thing was not about to happen. He waited as if he expected the enemy to suddenly stop, apologize, and retire, bowing it was all a mistake. But the firing began somewhere

on the regimental line and ripped along in both directions. The level sheets of flame developed great clouds of smoke that tumbled and tossed in the mild wind near the ground for a moment, and then rolled through the ranks as through a gate. The clouds were tinged and earth like yellow in the sun rays, and in the shadow were a sorry blue. The flag was sometimes eaten and lost in this mass of vapor, but more often it projected suntouched, resplendent

into the youth's eyes. There came a look that one can see in the orbs of a jaded horse. His neck was quivering with nervous weakness, and the muscles of his arms felt numb and bloodless. His hands, too, seemed large and awkward, as if he were wearing invisible mittens, and there was a great uncertainty about his knee joints. The words the comrades had uttered previous to the firing began to recur to him. Oh, say, this is too much of a good thing. What did they take us for?

Why don't they send supports? I didn't come here to fight the whole damned rebel army. He began to exaggerate the endurance, the skill, and the valor of those who were coming. Himself reeling from exhaustion, he was astonished beyond measure at such persistency. They must be machines of steel. Was very gloomy, struggling against such affairs. Wound up, perhaps to fight until sundown. He slowly lifted his rifle, and, catching a glimpse of the thick

spread field, he blazed at a cantering cluster. He stopped then and began to peer as best as he could through the smoke. He caught changing views of the ground covered with men who were all running like pursued imps. And yelling to the youth. It was an onslaught of redoubtable dragons. He became like the man who had lost his legs at the approach of the red and green monster. He waited in a sort of horrified, listening attitude. He

seemed to shut his eyes and wait to be gobbled. A man near him, who up to this time had been working feverishly at his rifle, suddenly stopped and ran with howls. A lad whose face had borne an expression of exalted courage. The majesty of he who dares give his life was at an instant smitten abject. He blanched, like one who has come to the edge of a cliff at midnight and is suddenly made aware there was a revelation. He too, threw down his gun and fled. There was no shame in

his face. He ran like a rabbit. Others began to scamper away through the smoke. The youth turned his head, shaken from his trance by this movement, as if the regiment was leaving him behind. He saw the few fleeting forms. He yelled, then with fright and swung about for a moment, and the great clamor he was like a proverbial chicken. He lost the direction of safety. Destruction threatened him from all points directly. He began to

speed toward the rearing great leaps. His rifling cap were gone, his unbuttoned coat bulged in the wind, the flap of his cartridge box bobbed wildly, and his canteen, by its slender cord, swung out behind. On his face was all the horror of those things which he imagined. The lieutenant sprang forward, bawling. The youth saw his features wrathfully read, and saw him make a dab with his sword. His one thought of the incident was that

the lieutenant was a peculiar creature to feel interested in such manners. Upon this occasion, he ran like a blind man. Two or three times. He fell down. Once he knocked his shoulders so heavily against a tree that he went headlong. Since he had turned his back upon the fight, his fears had been wondrously magnified. Death about to thrust him between the shoulder blades was

far more dreadful than death about to smite him between the eyes. When he thought of it later, he conceived the impression that it is better to view the appalling than to be merely within hearing the noises of the battle were like stones. He believed himself liable to be crushed. As he ran on, he mingled with others. He dimly saw men on his right and on his left, and he heard footsteps behind him. He thought that all the regiment

was fleeing, pursued by those ominous crashes. In his flight, the sound of these following footsteps gave him his one meager relief. He felt vaguely that death must make a first choice of the men who were nearest. The initial morsels for the dragons would be then those who were following him. So he displayed the zeal of an insane sprinter in his purpose to keep them in the rear. There was a race. As he leading went across the little field,

he found himself in a region of shells. They hurtled over his head with long, wild screams. As he listened, he imagined them to have rows of cruel teeth that grinned at him. One lit before him, and the livid lightning of the explosion effectually barred the way in his chosen direction. He groveled on the ground, and then springing up, went careering off through some bushes, he experienced a thrill of amazement when he came within view of

a battery in action. The men there seemed to be in conventional moods, altogether unaware of the impending annihilation. The battery was disputing with a distant antagonist, and the gunners were wrapped in admiration of their shooting. They were continually bending and coaxing postures over the guns. They seemed to be patting them on the back and encouraging them with words. The guns, stolid and undaunted,

spoke with dogged valor. The precise gunners were coolly enthusiastic. They lifted their eyes every chance to the smoke wreathed hillock, from whence the hostile battery addressed them. The youth pitied them as he ran. The thought idiots machine like fools. The refined joy of planting shells in the midst of the other battery's formation would appear a little thing. When the infantry came swooping out of the

woods. The face of a youthful rider, who was jerking his frantic horse with an abandon of temper he might display in a placid barnyard was impressed deeply upon his mind. He knew that he looked upon a man who would presently be dead. Two he felt a pity for the guns. Standing six good comrades in a bold row, he saw a brigade going to the relief of its pestered fellows. He scrambled upon a wee hill and watched it sweeping finely,

keeping formation in difficult places. The blue of the line was crusted with steel color, and the brilliant flags projected. Officers were shouting. This sight also filled him with wonder The brigade was hurrying briskly to be gulped into to the infernal mouths of the war God. What manner of men were they anyhow, Ah, it was some wondrous breed, or else They didn't comprehend the fools. A furious order caused commotion in the artillery. An officer on a

bounding horse made maniacal motions with his arms. The teams went swinging up from the rear, The guns were whirled about, and the battery scampered away. The cannon with their noses poked slantingly at the ground, grunted and grumbled like stout men, brave but with objections to hurry. The youth went on moderating his pace, since he had left the place of noises. Later he came upon a general of division seated upon a horse that pricked its ears in an

interested way. At the battle there was a great gleaming of yellow and patent leather about the saddle and bridle. The quiet man astride looked mouse colored upon such a splendid charger. A jingling staff was galloping hither and thither. Sometimes the general was surrounded by horsemen, and at other times he was quite alone. He looked to be much harassed. He had the appearance of a business man whose market is swinging up and down. The youth went slinking around this

spot. He went as near as he dared, trying to overhear words. Perhaps the general, unable to comprehend chaos, might call upon him for information, and he could tell him he knew all concerning it. Of a surety. The force was in a fix, and any fool could see that if they did not retreat while they had opportunity. Why he felt that he would like to thrash the general, or at least approach and tell him in plain words exactly what he thought. Him to be it was criminal to stay calmly

in one spot and make no effort to stay destruction. He'd loitered in a fever of eagerness for the division commander to apply to him. As he warily moved about, he heard the general call out irritably Tompkins. Go over and see Taylor and tell him not to be in such an all fired hurry. Tell him to hauld his brigade in the edge of the woods. Tell him to detach a regiment. Say I think the center will break if we don't

help it out. Some tell him to hurry up. A slim youth on a fine chestnut horse caught these swift words from the mouth of his superior. He made his horse bound into a gallop, almost from a walk, in his haste to go upon his mission. There was a cloud of dust. A moment later, the youth saw the general bounce excitedly in his saddle. Yes, by heavens, they have The officer leaned forward. His face was aflame with excitement. Yes, by heavens, they've held him, They've held

him. He began to blithely roar at his staff. We'll wap him, now, wallop him now we've got him. Sure, He turned suddenly upon an aid. Here you Jones, quick ride after Topkins. See Taylor, tell him to go in everlastingly like blazes anything. As another officer sped his horse after the first messenger, the general beamed upon the earth like a sun. In his eyes was a desire to chant a paeon. He kept repeating, They've held him by heavens. His excitement made his horse plunge, and

he merrily kicked and swore at it. He held a little carnival of joy on horseback. End of chapter six, chapter seven of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, Chapter seven. The youth cringed

as if discovered in a crime by heavens. They had won after all the imbecile line had remained and become victors. He could hear cheering. He lifted himself upon his toes and looked in the direction of the fight. A yellow fog lay wallowing on the tree tops. From beneath it came the clatter of musketry. Hoarse cries told him an advance. He turned away, amazed and angry. He felt that he had been wronged. He had fled, he had told himself, because annihilation approached. He had done a good part in

saving himself. Who was a little piece of the army. He had considered the time, he said, to be one in which it was the duty of every little piece to rescue itself if possible. Later the officers could fit the little pieces together again and make a battle front. If none of the little pieces were wise enough to save themselves from the flurry of death at such a time, why then, where would be the army. It was all

plain that he had proceeded according to very correct and commendable rules. His actions have been sagacious things. They had been full of strategy. They were the work of a master's legs. Thoughts of his comrades came to him. The brittle blue line had withstood the blows, and one he grew bitter over it. It seemed that the blind ignorance and stupidity of those little pieces had betrayed

him. He had been overturned and crushed by their lack of sense in holding the position, when intelligent deliberation would have convinced them that it was impossible. He, the enlightened man who looks afar the dark, had fled because of his superior perceptions and knowledge. He felt a great anger against his comrades. He knew it could be proved that they had been fools. He wondered what they would remark when later he appeared in camp. His mind heard howls of

derision. Their density would not enable them to understand his sharper point of view. He began to pity himself acutely. He was ill used. He was trodden beneath the feet of an iron injustice. He had proceeded with wisdom and from the most righteous motives under Heaven's blue, only to be frustrated by hateful circumstances. A dull, animal like rebellion against his fellows war in the abstract, and fate grew within him. He shambled along with bowed head, his

brain in a tumult of agony and despair. When he looked loweringly up, quivering at each sound, his eyes had the expression of those of a criminal who thinks his guilt and his punishment great, and knows that he can find no words. He went from the fields into a thick woods, as if resolved to bury himself. He wished to get out of hearing of the crackling shots, which were to him like voices. The ground was cluttered with vines and bushes, and the trees grew close and spread out like bouquets. He

was obliged to force his way with much noise. The creepers catching against his legs cried out harshly as their sprays were torn from the barks of trees. The swishing saplings tried to make known his presence to the world. He could not conciliate the forest. As he made his way, it was always calling out protestations. When he separated embraces of trees and vines, the disturbed foliages waved their arms and turned their face leaves toward him. He dreaded lest these

noisy motions and cries should bring men to look at him. So he went far, seeking dark and intricate places. After a time, the sound of musketry grew faint, and the cannon boomed in the distance. The sun suddenly apparent blazed among the trees. The insects were making rhythmical noises. They seemed to be grinding their teeth in unison. A woodpecker stuck his impudent head around the side of a tree. A bird flew on, light hearted wing off

was the rumble of death. It seemed now that nature had no ears. This landscape gave him assurance, a fair field holding life. It was the religion of peace. It would die if its timid eyes were compelled to see blood. He conceived nature to be a woman with a deep aversion to tragedy. He threw a pine cone at a jovial squirrel, and he ran, with chattering fear, high in a tree top. He stopped, and, poking his head cautiously from behind a branch, looked down with an air of

trepidation. The youth felt triumphant at this exhibition. There was the law. He said, Nature had given him a sign. The squirrel, immediately upon recognizing danger, had taken to his legs without ado. He did not stand stolidly, bearing his furry belly to the missile, and die with an upward glance at the sympathetic heavens. On the contrary, he had fled as fast as his legs could carry him, and he was but an ordinary squirrel,

too, doubtless no philosopher of his race. The youth wended, feeling that nature was of his mind. She reinforced his argument with proofs that lived where the sun shone. Once he found himself almost into a swamp, he was obliged to walk upon bog tufts and watch his feet to keep from the oily mire. Pausing at one time to look about him, he saw out at some black water a small animal pounced in and emerged directly with a gleaming fish.

The youth went again into the deep thickets. The brushed branches made a noise that drowned the sounds of cannon. He walked on, going from obscurity into promises of a greater obscurity. At length he reached a place where the high arching boughs made a chapel. He softly pushed the green doors aside and entered. Pine needles were a gentle brown carpet. There was a religious half

light. Nearer the threshold. He stopped, horror stricken at the sight of a thing he was being looked at by a dead man who was seated with his back against a column like tree. The corpse was dressed in a uniform that had once been blue, but was now faded to a melancholy shade of green. The eyes staring at the youth had changed to the dull hue to be seen on the side of a dead fish. The mouth was open, its red had changed to an appalling yellow. Over the gray skin of the

face ran little ants. One was trundling some sort of bundle along the upper lip. The youth gave a shriek as he confronted the thing. He was, for moments turned to stone before it. He remained staring into the liquid looking eyes. The dead man and the living man exchanged a long look. Then the youth cautiously put one hand behind him and brought it against a tree. Leaning upon this, he retreated step by step, with his face still toward the thing. He feared that if he turned his back, the body

might spring up and stealthily pursue him. The branches pushing against him threatened to throw him over upon it. His unguided feet, too, caught aggravatingly in brambles, and with it all he received a subtle suggestion to touch the corpse. As he thought of his hand upon it, he shuddered profoundly. At last, he burst the bonds which had fastened him to the spot, and fled, unheeding the underbrush. He was pursued by the sight of black ants

swarming greedily upon the gray face and venturing horribly near to the eyes. After a time, he paused, and, breathless and panting, listened. He imagined some strange voice would come from the dead throat and squawk after him in horrible menaces. The trees about the portal of the chapel moved softingly in a soft wind. A sad silence was upon the little guarding edifice. And of chapter seven Chapter eight of The Red Badge of Courage. This is a LibriVox

recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. Chapter eight, the trees began softly to sing a hymn of twilight. The sun sank until slanted bronze rays struck the forest. There was a lull on the noises of insects, as if they had bowed their beaks and were making

a devotional pause. There was silence save for the chanted course of the trees. Then upon this stillness, there suddenly broke a tremendous clangor of sounds. A crimson roar came from the distance. The youth stopped. He was transfixed by this terrific medley of all noises. It was as if worlds were being rendered. There was the ripping sound of musketry and the breaking crash of the artillery. His mind flew in all directions. He conceived the two armies to

be at each other panther fashion. He listened for a time, then he began to run in the direction of the battle. He saw that it was an ironical thing for him to be running thus toward that which he had been at such pains to avoid. But he said in substance to himself that if the earth and the moon were about to clash, many persons would doubtless plan to get upon the roofs to witness the collision. As he ran, he became aware that the forest had stopped its music as if at last becoming capable

of hearing the foreign sounds. The trees hushed and stood motionless. Everything seemed to be listening to the crackle and clatter and earth shaking thund the chorus peaked over the still earth. It suddenly occurred to the youth that the fight in which he had been was, after all but perfunctory popping. In the hearing of this present din, he was doubtful if he had seen real battle scenes. This uproar explained a celestial battle. It was tumbling hordes, a struggle

in the air. Reflecting, he saw a sort of a humor in the point of view of himself and his fellows. During the late encounter. They had taken themselves and the enemy very seriously, and had imagined that they were deciding the war. Individuals must have supposed that they were cutting the letters of their names deep into everlasting tablets of brass, or enshrining their reputations forever in the hearts of their countrymen, while has in fact the affair would appear imprinted

reports under a meek and immaterial title. But he saw that it was good. Else, he said, in battle, everyone would surely run, save forlorn hopes and their ilk. He went rapidly on. He wished to come to the edge of the forest that he might peer out. As he hastened there, passed through his mind pictures of stupendous conflicts. His accumulated thought upon such subjects was used to form scenes. The noise was as the voice of

an eloquent being describing. Sometimes the brambles formed chains and tried to hold him back. Trees confronting him stretched out their arms and forbade him to pass. After its previous hostility, this new resistance of the forest filled him with a fine bitterness. It seemed that nature could not be quite ready to kill him. But he obstinately took round about ways, and presently he was where he could see long gray walls of vapor, where lay battle lines. The voices

of cannon shook him. The musketry sounded in long, regular surges that played havoc with his ears. He stood regardant. For a moment. His eyes had an awe struck expression. He gawked in the direction of the fight. Presently he proceeded again on his forward way. The battle was like the grinding of an immense and terrible machine. To him, its complexities and powers, its grim processes fascinated him. He must go close and see it produce corpses.

He came to a fence and clambered over it. On the far side, the ground was littered with clothes and guns. A newspaper folded up lay in the dirt. A dead soldier was stretched with his face hidden in his arm. Farther off there was a group of four or five corpses keeping mournful company. A hot sun had blazed upon this spot. In this place, the youth felt that he was an invader. This forgotten part of the battleground was owned by the dead men, and he hurried in the vague apprehension that

one of the swollen forms would rise and tell him to begone. He came finally to a road from which he could see in the distance, dark and agitated bodies of troops. Smoke fringed in the lane was a bloodstained crowd streaming to the rear. The wounded men were cursing, groaning, and wailing. In the air. Always was a mighty swell of sound that it seemed could

sway the earth. With the courageous words of the artillery and the spiteful sentences of the musketry mingled red cheers, and from this region of noises came the steady current of the maimed. One of the wounded men had a shoe full of blood. He hopped like a schoolboy in a game. He was laughing hysterically. One was swearing that he had been shot in the arm through the commanding general's mismanagement of the army. One was marching with an air imitative of

sublime drum major. Upon his features was an unholy mixture of merriment and agony. As he marched, he sang a bit of doggerel in a high and quavering voice, sing the song of victory. A pocketful of bullets, five and twenty men baked in a pie. One of the procession limped and staggered to this tune. Another had the gray seal of death already upon his face. His lips were curled in hard lines, and his teeth were clenched. His hands were bloody from where he had pressed them upon his wound. He

seemed to be awaiting the moment when he should pitch headlong. He stalked like the specter of a soldier, his eyes burning with the power of a stare into the unknown. There were some who proceeded sullenly, full of anger at their wounds, and ready to turn upon anything as an obscure cause. An officer was carried along by two privates. He was peevish. Don't joggle so Johnson, you fool, he cried, Think my legs made a iron. If you can't carry me decent, put me down and let someone else do

it. He bellowed at the tottering crowd, who blocked the quick march of his bearers, Say make way there, kit't you make way? Dickens take it all. They sulkily parted and went to the roadsides. As he was carried past, they made pert remarks to him. When he raged in reply and threatened them, they told him to be damned. The shoulder of one of the tramping bearers knocked heavily against the spectral soldier, who was staring into

the unknown. The youth joined this crowd and marched along with it. The torn bodies expressed the awful machinery in which the men had been entangled. Orderlies and couriers occasionally broke through the throng and the roadway, scattering wounded men right and left galloping on, followed by Howel. The melancholy march was continually disturbed by the messengers, and sometimes by bustling batteries that came swinging and thumping down

upon them, the officers shouting orders to clear the way. There was a tattered man, fouled with dust, blood and powder stain from hair to shoes, who trudged quietly at the youth's side. He was listening with eagerness and much humility to the lurid descriptions of a bearded sergeant. His lean features wore an expression of awe and admiration. He was like a listener in a country store to wondrous tales told among the sugar barrels. He eyed the storyteller with

unspeakable wonder His mouth was a gape in yokel fashion. The sergeant, taking note of this, gave pause to his elaborate history while he administered a sardonic comet. Be careful, honey, you'll be a catchen flies, he said. The tattered man shrank back, abashed. After a time, he began to sidle near to the youth, and in a diffident way, tried to make him a friend. His voice was gentle as a girl's voice, and

his eyes were pleading. The youth saw was surprised that the soldier had two wounds, one in the head, bound with a blood soaked rag, and the other in the arm, making that member dangle like a broken bow. After they had walked together for some time, the tattered man mustered sufficient courage to speak. Who was pretty good fight, wasn't it? He timidly said. The youth, deep in thought, glanced up at the bloody and grim figure with his lamb like eyes. What was pretty good fight? Warndon,

Yes, said the youth. Shortly he quickened his pace, but the other hobbled industriously after him. There was an air of apology in his manner, but he evidently thought he needed only to talk for a time and the youth would perceive that he was a good fellow. Was pretty good fight, weren't it? He began in a small voice, and then he achieved the fortitude to continue. Durn me if I ever see fellers fight? So laws how

they did fight. I knowed the boys that'd like it once they once it got square at it, The boys aunt had no fair chance st up to now, But this time they show what they was. I knowed it had turned out this way. You can't lick them boys, No, sir, they're fighters, they be. He breathed a deep breath of humble admiration. He had looked at the youth for encouragement several times he received none, but gradually he seemed to get absorbed into subject. I was talking cross pickets with

a boy from Georgie. Want and that boy he says, your fellers will all run like hell when they wants it here and a gun. He says, maybe they will. I says, but I don't believe none of it. I says, And by Jimminy, I says back to him, Maybe your fellers are all run like how once they hearn our guns, I says. He laughed. Well, they didn't run today, did they. Hey? No, sir, they fit and fit and fit. His homely face was suffused with a light of love for the army, which was to him

all things beautiful and powerful. After a time, he turned to the youth, Were you hit, old boy? He asked, in a brotherly tone. Do you felt instant panic at this question? Although at first its full import was not borne in upon him. What he asked where are you hit, repeated the tattered man. Why began the youth? That is why 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. End of chapter eight chapter nine of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by

Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, Chapter nine. 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. This youth screamed, God, Jim Coplin. 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 you been, Henry, he asked. He continued, in a monotonous voice. I thought maybe you got keeled over. There been thunder to pay today. I was worrying about it. A good deal. The youth still lamented. Oh Jim, oh, Jim, oh, Jim, you know, said the tall soldier. I was out there. He made a careful gesture, and Lord, what a circus.

And by jiminy I got shot. I got shot, yes, but jiminy 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, 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 and dragging their own tragedies toward the rear. Suddenly, as the two friends marched on, the

tall soldier seemed to be overcome by a tremor. 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. I'll tell you what I'm afraid of, Henry, I'll tell you what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid I'll fall down and them, you know, them damned artillery wagons, they'll like as not run over me. That's what I'm fraid of. The youth right out to him, hysterically.

I'll take care of you, Jim, I'll take care of you. I swear to God I will, sure will. Yeah, Henry, the tall soldier beseeched, Yes, Yes, I'd tell you I'd take care of you, Jim, protested the youth. He could not speak accurately because of the gulpings in his throat, but the tall soldier continued to beg in a lowly way. He now hung babe like to the youth's arm. His eyes rolled in the wildness of his terror. I was all as a good friend to you, wardn't I, Henry? I allays been a pretty good feller,

ain't I? And it ain't much to ask? Is it? Just to pull me along out of the road. I'd do it for you, wouldn't I, Henry? He paused, in piteous anxiety to await his friend's reply. The youth had reached an anguish where the sobs scorched him. He strove to express his loyalty, but he could only make fantastic jetures. However, the tall soldier seemed suddenly to forget all those fears. He became again the

grim, stalking specter of a soldier. He went stonily forward. Youth wished his friend to lean upon him, but the other always shook his head and strangely protested, no, no, leave me be, leave me be. The youth had to follow. Presently, the latter heard a voice talking softly near his shoulder. Turning, he saw that it belonged to the tattered soldier. You better take him out of the road, partner. There's a batcher coming. Hell. It to whoop down the road and he'll get runned over.

He's a goner anyhow, In about five minutes, you can see that you better take him out of the road. Where the blazes does he get his strength from? Lord knows? Cried the youth. He was shaking his hands helplessly. He ran forward presently and grasped the tall soldier by the arm. Jim, Jim, He coaxed, Come with me. The tall soldier weakly tried to wrench himself free. Huh, he said vacantly. He stared at the youth for a moment. At last he spoke, as if dimly

comprehending, Oh, into the fields. Oh, He started blindly through the grass. The youth turned once to look at the lashing riders and jouncing guns of the battery. He was startled from this view by a shrill outcry from the tattered man. God, he's running. Turning his head swiftly, the youth saw his friend running in a staggering and stumbling way. Toward a little clump of bushes. His heart seemed to wrench itself, almost free from his body. At the sight, he made a noise of pain. He and

the tattered man began a pursuit. There was a singular race. When he overtook the tall soldier. He began to plead with all the words he could fine, Jim, Jim, what are you doing? What makes you do this way? You'll hurt yourself? The same purpose was in the tall soldier's face. He protested in a dulled way, keeping his eyes fastened on the mystic place of his intentions. No, no, don't touch me, Leave me be, Leave me be. The youth, aghast and filled with wonder

at the tall soldier, began quaveringly to question him. Where you going, Jim? What you're thinking about? Where you going? Tell me, won't you Jim? The tall soldier faced about as upon relentless pursuers. In his eyes there was a great appeal Leave me be? Can't you leave me be for a minute? The youth recoiled, Why Jim, he said, in

a dazed way, what's the matter with you? The tall soldier turned, and, lurching dangerously, went on the youth and the tat soldier followed, sneaking as if whipped, feeling unable to face the stricken man if he should again confront them. They began to have thoughts of a solemn ceremony. There was something right like in these movements of the doomed soldier, and there was a resemblance in him to a devotee of a mad religion. Blood sucking,

muscle wrenching, bone crushing. They were awed and afraid. They hung back, lest he have at command a dreadful weapon. At last they saw him stop and stand motionless, hastening up. They perceived that his face wore an expression telling that he had at last found the place for which he had struggled. His spare figure was erect, His bloody hands were quietly at his side. He was waiting with patience for something that he had come to meet.

He was at the rendezvous. They paused and stood expectant. There was a silence. Finally, the chest of the doomed soldier began to heave with a strained motion. It increased in violence until it was as if an animal was within and was kicking and tumbling furiously to be free. This spectacle of gradual strangulation made the youth writhe and once as his friend rolled his eyes, he saw something in them that made him sink wailing to the ground. He raised

his voice in the last supreme call. Jim, Jim, Jim. The tall soldier opened his lips and spoke. He made a gesture, leave me be, don't touch me, leave me be. There was another silence while he waited. Suddenly his form stiffened and straightened. Then it was shaken by a prolonged ague. He stared into space. To the two watchers, there was a curious and profound dignity in the firm lines of his awful face.

He was invaded by a creeping strangeness that slowly enveloped him. For a moment, the tremor of his legs caused him to dance a sort of hideous hornpipe. His arms beat wildly about his head, an expression of imp like enthusiasm. His tall figure stretched itself to its full height. There was a slight rending sound. Then it began to swing forward, slow and straight, in the manner of a falling tree. A swift, muscular contortion made the left

shoulder strike the ground first. The body seemed to bounce a little way from the earth, God, said the tattered soldier. The youth had watched spellbound this ceremony at the place of meeting. His face had been twisted into an expression of every agony he had imagined for his friend. He now sprang to his feet, and, going closer, gazed upon the pacelike face. Mouth was open, and the teeth showed in a laugh. As the flap of the blue jacket fell away from the body, he could see that the side

looked as if it had been chewed by wolves. The youth turned with sudden livid rage toward the battlefield. He shook his fist. He seemed about to deliver a Philippic hell. The red sun was pasted in the sky like a wafer. End of chapter nine Chapter ten of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org.

This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. Chapter ten, The tattered man stood musing well he was a regular Jim Dandy for nerve, wonn't he said? He finally, in a little awe struck voice. A regular Jim Dandy, he thoughtfully poked one of the docile hands with his foot. I wonder where he got his strength from. I've never seen a man do like that before. It was a funny thing. Well, he was a regular Jim Dandy.

The youth desired to screech out his grief. He was stabbed, but his tongue lay dead in the tomb of his mouth. He threw himself again upon the ground and began to brood. The tattered man stood musing, look a here, pardner, he said. After a time. He regarded the corpse as he spoke. He's up and gone, ain't he? And we might as well begin to look out for ole number one. This here thing is all over. He's up and gone, ain't he? And he's all right

here. Nobody won't bother him. And I must say I ain't enjoying any great health myself these days. The youth, awakened by the tattered soldier's tone, looked quickly up. He saw that he was swinging uncertainly on his legs, and that his face had turned to a shade of blue. Good lord, he cried, you ain't gotta not you too. The tattered man waved his hand. Nary die, he said. All I want is some peace soup in a good bed. Some peace soup, he repeated dreamfully. The

youth arose from the ground. I wonder where he came from. I left him over there, he pointed, And now I find him here. And he was coming from over there too, he indicated a new direction. They both turned toward the body, as if to ask it a question. Well, at spoke the tattered man. There ain't no use in our stayin here and tryin to ask him anything. The youth nodded an assent. Wearily.

They both turned to gaze for a moment at the corpse. The youth murmured something, Well, he was a Jim Dandy, wantn't he said the tattered man. As if in response, they turned their backs upon it and started away. For a time they stole softly, treading with their toes. It remained laughing there in the grass. I'm commencin to feel pretty bad, said the tattered man, suddenly, breaking one of his little silences. I'm commencin to feel pretty damn bad. The youth groaned. Oh Lord, he wondered

if he was to be the tortured witness of another grim encounter. But his companion waved his hand reassuringly. Oh, I'm not going to die yet. They're too much dependent on me for me to die yet. No, sir, Nery die, I can't. You ought to see the swatted children I've gotten all like that. The youth, glancing at his companion, could see, by the shadow of a smile that he was making some kind of fun. As they plodded on, the tattered soldier continued to talk. Besides,

if I died, I wouldn't die the way that Feller did. That was the funniest thing. I'd just flopped down. I would I'd never seen a feller die the way that Feller. Did. You know Tom Jamison? He lives next door to me up home. He's a nice feller, he is. And we was all as good friends, smart too, smart as a steel trap. Well, when we was a fightin this afternoon, all of a sudden he began to rip up and cuss and beller at me. You're

shot, you blamed infertile. He swear horrible, he said to me, I put up my hand to my head, and when I look at my fingers, I seen sure enough I was shot. I gave a holler and began to run, but before I could get away, another one hit me in the arm and whirl me clean round. I got scared when they were all a shooting behind me, and I run to beat all. But I caught you pretty bad. I have an idea I've been fighting yet if it

weren't for Tom Jamieson. Then he made a calm announcement. There's two of them, little ones, but they're beginning to have fun with me now. I don't believe I can walk much further. They went slowly on in silence. You look pretty peaked yourself, said the tattered man at last. I bet you've got a worser one than you think. You better take care of your hurt. It don't do to let such things go. It might be inside mostly and then placed thunder. Where is it located? But he continued

his harangue without waiting for a reply. I see a feller get hit plumb on the head when my regiment was a standard at ease oncet, and everybody yelled to him hurt, John are you hurt much, no, says he. He looked kinder surprised, and he went on telling him how he felt. He said, he didn't feel nothing, but by Dad. The first thing that Feller knowed he was dead. Yes, he was dead, stone dead. So you want to watch out. You might have some queer kind

of hurt yourself. You can't never tell where is yourn located. The youth had been wriggling since the introduction of this topic. He now gave a cry of exasperation and made a furious motion with his hand. Oh don't bother me, he said. He was enraged against the tattered man and could have strangled him. His companions seemed ever to play intolerable parts. They were ever upraising the ghost of shame on the stick of their curiosity. He turned toward the

tattered man as one at bay. Now, don't bother me, he repeated, with desperate menace. Well, Lord knows, I don't want to bother anybody, said the other. There was a little accent of despair in his voice as he replied, Lord knows, I've got enough my own to tend to the youth, who had been holding a bitter debate with himself and casting glances of hatred and contempt at the tattered man. Here spoke in a hard voice. Goodbye, he said. The tattered man looked at him in gaping

amazement. Why why, partner, where you going? He asked unsteadily. The youth looking at him, could see that he, too, like that other one, was beginning to act dumb and animal like. His thoughts seemed to be floundering about in his head. Now look look a here you, Tom Jamieson. Now I won't have this. This here won't do well. Where where are you going? The youth pointed vaguely over there? He replied, Well, now look here now, said the tattered man, rambling on

an idiot fashion. His head was hanging forward and his words were slurred. This thing won't do now, Tom Jamieson, it won't do. I know you, your pigheaded devil. You want to go tromping off with a bad hurt. It ain't right now, Tom Jamison. It ain't you want to leave me? Take care of you, Tom Jamison, It ain't right. It ain't for you to go tromping off with a bad hurt. It ain't ain't ain't right, it ain't. In reply, the youth clambed a fence

and started away. He could hear the tattered man bleeding plaintively. Once he faced about angrily. What look a here now, Tom Jamieson, Now it ain't The youth went on turning at a distance, he saw the tattered man wandering about helplessly in the field. He now thought that he wished he was dead. He believed he envied those men whose bodies lay strewn over the grass of the fields and on the fallen leaves of the forest. The simple questions

of the tattered man had been knife thrust to him. They asserted a society that probes pitilessly at secrets until all is apparent. His late companion's chance persistency made him feel that he could not keep his crime concealed in his bosom. It was sure to be brought play by one of those arrows which cloud the air and are constantly pricking, discovering, proclaiming those things which are willed to be forever hidden. He admitted that he could not defend himself against this agency.

It was not within the power of vigilance. End of chapter ten, Chapter eleven of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, Chapter eleven. He became aware that the furnace roar of the battle was

growing louder. Great blown clouds had floated to the still heights of air before him. The noise, too was approaching. The woods filtered men, and the fields became dotted. As he rounded a hillock, he perceived that the roadway was now a crying mass of wagons. Teams and men from the heaving tangle issued exhortations, commands, imprecations. Fear was sweeping it all along. The cracking whips bit and horses plunged and tugged. The white topped wagons strained

and stumbled in their exertions like fat sheep. The youth felt comforted in a measure by this sight. They were all retreating. Perhaps then he was not so bad after all. He seated himself and watched the terror stricken wagons. They fled like soft, ungainly animals. All the roarers and lashers served to help him to magnify the dangers and horrors of the engagement, that he might try to prove to himself that the thing with which men could charge him was

in truth a symmetrical act. There was an amount of pleasure to him in watching the wild march of this vindication. Presently, the calm head of a forward going column of infantry appeared in the road. It came swiftly on, avoiding the obstructions, gave it the sinuous movement of a serpent. The men at the head budded mules with their musket stocks. They prodded seamsters indifferent to all howls. The men forced their way through parts of the dense mass by

strength. The blunt head of the column pushed the raving teamsters swore many strange oaths. The commands to make way had the ring of a great importance in them. The men were going forward to the heart of the din. They were to confront the eager rush of the enemy. They felt the pride of their onward movement. When the remainder of the army seemed trying to dribble down this road, they tumbled teams about with a fine feeling that it was no

matter so long as their column got to the front in time. This importance made their faces grave and stern, and the backs of the officers were very rigid. As the youth looked at them, the black weight of his woe returned to him. He felt that he was regarding a procession of chosen beings. The separation was as great to him as if they had marched with weapons of flame and banners of sunlight. He could never be like them, He

could have wept. In his longings. He searched about in his mind for an adequate malediction for the indefinite cause, the thing upon which men turned the words of final blame. It, whatever it was, was responsible for him, he said, there lay the fault. The haste of the column to reach the battle. Seemed the forlorn young man to be something much finer than stout fighting heroes. He thought could find excuses in that long, seething lane.

They could retire with perfect self respect and excuses to the stars. He wondered what those men had eaten that they could be in such haste to force their way to grim chances of death. As he watched his envy grew until he thought that he wished to change lives with one of them. He would have liked to have used a tremendous force, he said, They're off himself and become a better swift. Pictures of himself apart, yet in himself came

to him. A blue desperate figure leading lurid charges with one knee forward and a broken blade high. A blue determined figure standing before a crimson and steel assault, getting calmly killed on a high place, before the eyes of all. He thought of the magnificent pathos of his dead body. These thoughts uplifted him. He felt the quiver of war desire in his ears. He heard the ring of victory. He knew the frenzy of a rapid successful charge.

The musick of the trampling feet, the sharp voices, the clanking arms of the column near him made him soar on the red wings of war. For a few moments he was sublime. He thought that he was about to start for the front. Indeed, he saw a picture of himself, dust stained, haggard, panting, flying to the front at the proper moment to seize and throttle the dark, leering witch of calamity. Then the difficulties of the thing began to drag at him. He hesitated, balancing awkwardly on one foot.

He had no rifle. He could not fight with his hands, said he resentfully to his plan. Well, rifles could be had for the picking. They were extraordinarily profuse. Also, he continued, it would be a miracle if he found his regiment well. He could fight with any regiment. He started forward slowly. He stepped as if he expected to tread upon some explosive thing. Doubts and he were struggling. He would truly be a worm if any of his comrades should see him returning. Thus the marks of his

flight upon him. There was a reply that the intent fighters did not care for what happened rearward, saving that no hostile bayonets appeared there in the battle blur, His face would in a way be hidden like the face of a cowled man. But then he said that his tireless fate would bring forth when the strife lulled for a moment a man to ask of him an explanation in imagination. He felt the scrutiny of his companions as he painfully labored through some

lies Eventually his courage expended itself upon these objections. The debates drained him of his fire. He was not cast down by this defeat of his plan, for upon studying the affair carefully, he could not but admit that the objection were very formidable. Furthermore, various ailments had begun to cry out. In their presence, he could not persist in flying high with the wings of war. They rendered it almost impossible for him to see himself in a heroic light.

He tumbled headlong. He discovered that he had a scorching thirst. His face was so dry and grimy that he thought he could feel his skin crackle. Each bone of his body had an ache in it and seemingly threatened to break with each movement. His feet were like two sores. Also, his body was calling for food. It was more powerful than a direct hunger. There was a dull, weight like feeling in his stomach, and when he tried to walk, his head swayed and he tottered. He could not see

with distinctness. Small patches of green mist floated before his vision. While he had been tossed by many emotions, he had not been aware of ailments. Now they beset him and made clamor. As he was at last compelled to pay attention to them, his capacity for self hate was multiplied. In despair, he declared that he was not like those others. He now conceded it to be impossible that he should ever become a hero. He was a craven

loon. Those pictures of glory were piteous things. He groaned from his heart and went staggering off. A certain mothlike quality within him kept him in the vicinity of the battle. He had a great desire to see and to get news. He wished to know who was winning. He told himself that despite

his unprecedented suffering, he had never lost his greed for a victory. Yet, he said in a half apologetic manner, to his conscience, he could not but know that a defeat for the army this time might mean many favorable things for him. The blows of the enemy would splinter regiments into fragments. Thus, many men of courage, he considered, would be obliged to desert the colors and scurry like chickens. He would appear as one of them.

They would be sullen brothers in distress, and he could then easily believe he had not run any farther or faster than they, And if he himself could believe in his virtuous perfection, he conceived that there would be small trouble in

convincing all others. He said, as if an excuse for this hope, that previously the army had encountered great defeats, and in a few months had shaken off all blood and tradition of them, emerging as bright and valiant as a new one, thrusting out of sight the memory of disaster, and appearing with the valor and confidence of unconquered legions. The shrilling voices of the people at home would pipe dismally for a time, but various generals were usually compelled

to listen to these ditties. He of course felt no compunctions for proposing a general as a sacrifice. He could not tell who the chosen for the barbs might be, so he would center no direct sympathy upon him. The people were afar, and he did not conceive public opinion to be accurate. At long range. It was quite probable they would hit the wrong man, who, after he had recovered from his amazement, would perhaps spend the rest of

his days in writing replies to the songs of his alleged failure. It would be very unfortunate, no doubt, But in this case a general was of no consequence to the youth. In a defeat, there would be a roundabout vindication of himself. He thought. It would prove in a manner that he had fled early because of his superior powers of perception. A serious prophet, upon predicting a flood, should be the first man to climb a tree would

demonstrate that he was indeed a seer. A moral vindication was regarded by the youth as a very important thing. Without save he could not, he thought, where the sore badge of his dishonor through life with his heart continually assuring him that he was despicable. He could not exist without making it through his actions apparent to all men. If the army had gone gloriously on, he would be lost. If the din meant that now his army's flags were tilted

forward, he was a condemned wretch. He would be compelled to do himself to isolation. If the men were advancing, their indifferent feet were trampling upon his chances for a successful life. As these thoughts went rapidly through his mind. He turned upon them and tried to thrust them away. He denounced himself as a villain. He said that he was the most unutterably selfish man in

existence. His mind pictured the soldiers who would placed their defiant bodies before the spear of the yelling battle fiend, and as he saw their dripping corpses on an imagined field, he said that he was their murderer. Again, he thought that he wished he was dead. He believed that he envied a corpse. Thinking of the slain, he achieved a great contempt for some of them,

as if they were guilty for thus becoming lifeless. They might have been killed by lucky chances, he said, before they had had opportunities to flee, or before they had been really tested. Yet they would receive laurels from tradition. He cried out bitterly that their crowns were stolen and their robes of glorious memories were shams. However, he still said that it was a great pity he was not as they a defeat of the army had suggested itself to

him as a means of escape from the consequences of his fall. He considered now, however, that it was useless to think of such a possibility. His education had been that success for that mighty blue machine, was certain that it would make victories. As a contrivance turns out buttons. He presently discarded all his speculations in the other direction. He returned to the creed of soldiers.

When he perceived again that it was not possible for the army to be defeated, he tried to bethink him of a fine tale which he could take back to his regiment, and with it turned the expected shafts of derision. But as he mortally feared these shafts, it became impossible for him to invent a tale he felt he could trust. He experimented with many schemes, but threw them aside one by one as flimsy. He was quick to see vulnerable

places in them all. Furthermore, he was much afraid that some arrow scorn might lay him mentally low before he could raise his protecting tale. He imagined the whole regiment saying, where's Henry Fleming? He run? Didn't he? Oh? My? He recalled various persons who would be quite sure to leave him no peace about it. They would doubtless question him with sneers and laugh at his stammering hesitation. In the next engagement, they would try to keep

watch of him to discover when he would run. Whenever he was in camp, he would encounter insolent and lingeringly cruel stairs. As he imagined himself passing near a crowd of comrades, he could hear one say, there he goes. Then, as if the heads were moved by one muscle, all the faces were turned toward him with wide, derisive grins. He seemed to hear someone make a humorous remark in a low tone at it. The others all crowed and cackled. He was a slang for end of chapter eleven Chapter twelve

of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, Chapter twelve. The column that had budded stoutly at the obstacles in the roadway was barely out of the youth's site before he saw dark waves of men come sweeping

out of the woods and down through the fields. He knew at once that the steel fibers have been washed from their hearts. They were bursting from their coats and their equipments as from entanglements. They charged down upon him like terrified buffaloes. Behind them, blue smoke curled and clouded above the tree tops and through the thickets. He could sometimes see a distant pink blare. The voices of the cannons were clamoring an interminable chorus. The youth was horror stricken.

He stared in agony and amazement. He forgot that he was engaged in combating the universe. He threw aside his mental pamphlets on the philosophy of the Retreated and Rules for the Guidance of the damned. The fight was lost. The dragons were coming with invincible strides. The army, helpless in the matted thickets and blinded by the overhanging night, was going to be swallowed. War, the red animal war, the blood swollen God would have bloated fill within him.

Something bade to cry out. He had the impulse to make a rallying speech, to sing a battle him, but he could only get his tongue to call into the air, Oh, why, why, what's the matter? Sony was in the midst of them. They were leaping and scampering all about him. Their blanched faces shone in the dusk. They seemed, for the most part to be very burly men. The youth turned from one to another of them as they galloped along. His incoherent questions were lost. They

were heedless of his appeals. They did not seem to see him. They sometimes gabbled insanely. One huge man was asking of the sky, say where de plank road? Where to plank road? It was as if he had lost a child. He wept in his pain, in dismay. Presently, men were running hither and thither in all ways. The artillery booming forward, rearward, and on the flanks, made jumble of ideas at direction. Landmarks

had vanished into the gathered gloom. The youth began to imagine that he had got into the center of the tremendous quarrel, and he could perceive no way out of it. From the mouths of them fleeing men came a thousand wild questions, but no one made answers. The youth, after rushing about and throwing interrogations at the heedless bands of retreating infantry, finally clutched a man by the arm. He swung around face to face. Why why, stammered the

youth. Struggling with his balking tongue, the man screamed, let go me, let go me. His face was livid and his eyes were rolling uncontrolled. He was heaving and panting. He still grasped his rifle, perhaps having forgotten to release his hold upon it. He tugged frantically, and the youth, being compelled to lean forward, was dragged several paces. Let go me, Let go me? Why why? Stuttered the youth well then bawled the man in a lurid rage. He adroitly and fiercely swung his rifle. It

crushed upon the youth his head. The man ran on the youth, fingers had turned to paste upon the other's arm. The energy was smitten from his muscles. He saw the flaming wings of lightning flash before his vision. There was a deafening rumble of thunder within his head. Suddenly, his legs seemed to die. He sank, writhing to the ground. He tried to arise in his efforts against the numbing pain. He was like a man wrestling with

a creature of the air. There was a sinister struggle. Sometimes he would achieve a position half erect, battle with the air for a moment, and then fall again. Grabbing at the grass. His face was of a clammy pallor deep groans were wrenched from him. At last, with a twisting movement, he got upon his hands and knees, and from thence like a babe, trying to walk to his feet. Pressing his hands to his temples, he went lurching over the grass. He fought an intense battle with his body.

His dulled senses wished him to swoon, and he opposed them stubbornly, his mind portraying unknown dangers and mutilations. If he should fall upon the field, he went tall, soldier fashion. He imagined secluded spots where he could fall and be unmolested. To search for one, he strove against the tide of pain. Once he put his hand to the top of his head and timidly touched the wound. The scratching pain of the contact made him draw a

long breath through his clenched teeth. His fingers were dabbled with blood. He regarded them with a fixed stare. Around him, he could hear the grumble of jolted cannon as the scurrying horses were lashed toward the front. Once a young officer on a besplashed charger nearly ran him down. He turned and watched the mass of guns men and horses sweeping in a wide curve toward a gap in a fence. The officer was making excited motions with a gauntletted hand.

The guns followed the teams with an air of unwillingness, of being dragged by the heels. Some officers of the scattered infantry were cursing and railing like fishwives. Their scolding voices could be heard above the din. Into the unspeakable jumble in the roadway rode a squadron of cavalry. The faded yellow of their facings shone bravely. There was a mighty altercation. The artillery were assembling as if for a conference. The blue haze of evening was upon the field. The

lines of forest were long purple shadows. One cloud lay along the western sky, partly smothering the red. As the youth left the scene behind him, he heard the guns suddenly roar out. He imagined them shaking in black rage. They belched and howled like brass devils guarding a gate. The soft air was filled with the tremendous remonstrance. With it came the shattering peal of opposing infantry. Turning to look behind him, he could see sheets of orange light

illumine the shadowy distance. There were subtle and sudden lightnings in the far air. At times he thought he could see heaving masses of men. He hurried on in the dusk. The day had faded until he could barely distinguish place for his feet. The purple darkness was filled with men who lectured and jabbered. Sometimes he could see them gesticulating against the blue and somber sky. There seemed to be a great ruck of men and munitions spread about in the forest

and in the fields. The little narrow roadway now lay lifeless. There were overturned wagons like sundry boulders. The bed of the former torrent was choked with the bodies of horses and splintered parts of war machines. It had come to pass that his wound pained him but little. He was afraid to move rapidly, however, for a dread of disturbing it. He held his head very

still and took many precautions against stumbling. He was filled with anxiety, and his face was pinched and drawn in anticipation of the pain of any sudden mistake of his feet. In the gloom, his thoughts as he walked fixed intently upon his hurt. There was a cool, liquid feeling about it, and he imagined blood moving slowly down under his hair. His head seemed swollen to a size that made him think his neck to be inadequate. The new silence

of his wound made much worriment. The little, blistering voices of pain that had called out from his scalp were he thought definite in their expression of danger. By them, he believed he could measure his plight. But when they remained ominously silent, he became frightened and imagined terrible fingers that clutched into his brain. Amid it, he began to reflect upon various incidents and conditions of

the past. He bethought him of certain meals as mother had cooked at home, in which those dishes of which he was particularly fond had occupied prominent positions. He saw the spread table. The pine walls of the kitchen were glowing in the warm light from the stove. Two. He remembered how he and his companions used to go from the schoolhouse to the bank of a shaded pool. He saw his clothes in disorderly array upon the grass of the bank.

He felt the swash of the fragrant water upon his body. The leaves of the overhanging maple rustled with melody in the wind of youthful summer. He was overcome presently by a dragging weariness. His head hung forward, and his shoulders were stooped, as if he were bearing a great bundle. His feet shuffled along the ground. He held continuous arguments as to whether he should lie down and sleep at some near spot, or force himself on until he reached a

certain haven. He often tried to dismiss the question, but his body persisted in rebellion, and his senses nagged at him like pamper babies. At last, he heard a cheery voice near his shoulder. He seemed to be in a pretty bad way. Boy the youth did not look up, but he assented with a thick tongue. Uh. The owner of the cheery voice took him firmly by the arm. Well, he said, with a round laugh, I'm going your way. The whole gang is going your way, and

I guess I can give you a lift. They began to walk like a drunken man and his friend. As they went along, the man questioned the youth and assist did him with the replies like one manipulating the mind of a child. Sometimes he interjected anecdotes, what regiment do you belong to? Eh? What's that? The three or fourth? New York? Why? What core is that? In? Oh? It is why I thought they wasn't engaged today? They're way over in the center. Oh they was, Eh,

Well, nearly everybody got their share of fighting today. By Dad, I'd give myself up for dead. Any number of times there was shooting here and shooting there, and hollering here and hollering there in the damned darkness until I could tell, to save my soul which side I was on. Sometimes I thought I was sure enough from Ohio, and other times I could have swore I was from the bitter end of Florida. It was the most mixed up during thing I ever see, And these here hall woods is a regular

mess. It'll be a miracle if we find our regiments tonight. Pretty soon, though, we'll meet a plenty of guards and provost guards and one thing or another. Oh, there we go with an officer. I guess, look at his hand a dragon. He's got all the war he wants. I bet he won't be talking so big about his reputation and all when they go to saw and off his leg. Poor feller, My brother's got whiskers just like that. How did you get away over here? Anyhow? Your

regiment is a long way from here, ain't it? Well? I guess we can find it. You know, there was a boy killed in my company today that I thought the world done all of Jack was a nice feller by Ginger. It hurt like thunder to see old Jack just get knocked flat. We was a standing pretty peaceful for a spell, though there was men running every which way all around us. And while we was a standing like

that, long come a big fat feller. He began to peck at Jack's elbow, and he says, say, where's the road to the river? And Jack he never paid no attention, and the feller kept on a peckin at his elbow and sayin', say, where's the road to the river? Jack was a lookin ahead all the time, tryin to see the Johnnies comin through the wood. And he never paid no attention to this big fat feller for a long time. But at last he turned round, and he says, ah, go to hell an find the road to the river. And

just then a shot slapped him bang on the side of the head. He was a sergeant too, them was his last words. Thunder, I wish we was sure a findin our regiments to night. It's gonna be long huntin', but I guess we can do it. In the search which followed, the man of the cheery voice seemed to the youth to possess the wand of a magic kind. He threaded the mazes of this tangled forest with a strange

fortune. In encounters with guards and patrols, he displayed the keenness of a detective and the valor of a gabin Obstacles fell before him and became of assistance. The youth, with his chin still on his breast, stood woodenly by while his companion beat ways and means out of sullen things. The forest seemed a vast hive of men buzzing about in frantic circles. But the cheery man conducted the youth without mistakes, until at last he began to chuckle with glee

and self satisfaction. Ah, there you are, see that fire. The youth nodded stupidly. Well, there's where your regiment is, and now good bye, old boy, good luck to you. A warm and strong hand clasped the youth's languid fingers for an instant, and then he heard a cheerful and audacious whistling as the man strode away. As he who had so befriended him, was thus passing out of his life, it suddenly occurred to the youth that he had not once seen his face. End of chapter twelve,

Chapter thirteen of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The ret Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, Chapter thirteen. The youth went slowly toward the fire, indicated by his departed friend. As he reeled, he bethought him of the welcome his comrades

would give him. He had a conviction that he would soon feel in his sore heart the barbed missiles of ridicule. He had no strength to invent a tale. He would be a soft target. He made vague plans to go off into the deeper darkness and hide, but they were all destroyed by the voices of exhaustion and pain from his body. His ailments clamoring forced him to seek the place of food and rest at whatever cost. He swung unsteadily toward

the fire. He could see the forms of men throwing black shadows in the red light, and as he went nearer, it became known to him in some way that the ground was strewn with sleeping men. All of a sudden he confronted a black and monstrous figure. A rifle barrel caught some glinting beams. Halt, Halt. He was dismayed for a moment, but he presently

thought that he recognized the nervous voice. As he stood tottering before the rifle barrel, he called out, why, hello, Wilson, you hear The rifle was lowered to a position of caution, and the loud soldier came slowly forward. He peered into the youth's face, at you, Henry. Yes, it's me. Well, well, oh boy, said the other Bye, chance er, I'm glad to see you. I give you up for a goner. I thought you was dead sure enough. There was husky emotion

in his voice. The youth found that now he could barely stand upon his feet. There was a sudden sinking of his forces. He thought he must hasten to produce his tale to protect him from the missiles already on the lips of his redoubtable comrades. So staggering before the loud soldier, he began, Yes, Yes, I've had an awful time. I've been all over, way over on the right, terrible fighting over there. I had an awful time. I got separated from the regiment over on the right. I got

shot in the head. I never see such fighting, awful time. I don't see how I could have got operated from the regiment. I got shot too. His friend had stepped forward quickly. What got shot? Why didn't you just say so? First, poor old boy, we must hold on a minute. What am I doing? I'll call Simpson. Another figure at that moment loomed in the gloom. They could see that it was the corporal. Oho, you're talking to Wilson, he demanded. His voice was angered,

toned. Who you're talking to? You're the Dernedist Sentinel. Why hello, Henry? You here? Why I thought you was dead four hours ago? Great Jerusalem. They keep turning up every ten minutes or so. We thought we'd lost forty two men by straight count. But if they keep on a comin this way, we'll get the company all back by morning. Yet, where was you over on the right? I got separated? Began the youth, with considerable glibness. But his friend had interrupted hastily. Yes,

and he got shot in the head. He used a a fix, and we must see to him right away. He rested his rifle in the hollow of his left arm, and his right around the youth's shoulder. Gee, it must hurt like thunder, he said. The youth leaned heavily upon his friend. Yes, it hurts, hurts a good deal, he replied. There was a faltering in his voice. Oh, said the corporal. He linked his arm in the youths and drew him forward. Come on, Henry, I'll take care of you. As they went on together, the loud

private called out after them. Put him to sleep in my blanket, Simpson, and hold I'm at Here's my canteen is full of coffee. Look at his head by the fire. See how it looks. Maybe it's a pretty battun. When I get relieved in a couple of minutes, I'll be over and to see to him. The youth senses were so deadened that his friend's voice sounded from afar, and he could scarcely feel the pressure of the corporal's arm. He submitted passively to the latter's directing strength. His head was in

the old manner, hanging forward upon his breast, his knees wobbled. The corporal led him into the glare of the fire. Now, Henry, he said, let's have look at your old head. The youth sat obediently, and the corporal, laying aside his rifle, began to fumble in the bushy hair of his comrade. He was obliged to turn the other's head so the full flush of the firelight would beam upon it. He puckered his mouth with a critical air. He drew back his lips and whistled through his teeth when

his fingers came in contact with the splashed blood and the rare wound. Ah, here we are, he said, He awkwardly made further investigations. Just as I thought, he added, Presently, you've been grazed by a ball. It's raised a queer lump, just as if some fellerhead lambed Joe on the head with a club it stopped bleeding long time ago. The most about it is that in the morning you'll feel that a number ten hat wouldn't fit you, and your head'll be all head up and feel as dry as burnt

bork. And you may get a lot of other sicknesses too. By morning. You can't never tell. Still, I don't much think, so it's just a damn good belt on the head and nothing more. Now you just sit here and don't move while I go route out the relief. Then I'll send Wilson to take care of you. The corporal went away, the youth remained on the ground like a parcel. He stared with a vacant look into the fire. After a time, he aroused for some part, and the

things about him began to take form. He saw that the ground and the deep shadows was cluttered with men sprawling in every conceivable posture. Glancing narrowly into the more distant darkness, he caught occasional glimpses of visages that loomed, pallading, ghostly lit with a phosphorescent glow. These faces expressed in their lines the deep stupor of the tired soldiers. They made them appear like men drunk with wine. This bit of forest might have appeared to an ethereal wanderer as a

scene of the result of some frightful debauch. On the other side of the fire, the youth observed an officer asleep, seated bolt upright, with his back against a tree. There was something perilous in his position, badgered by dreams. Perhaps, he swayed with little bounces and starts, like an old toddy stricken grandfather in a chimney corner. Dust and stains were upon his face. His lower jaw hung down, as if lacking strength to assume its normal

position. He was the picture of an exhausted soldier. After a feast of war. He had evidently gone to sleep with his sword in his arms. These two had slumbered in an embrace, but the weapon had been allowed in time to fall unheeded, to the ground. The brass mounted hilt lay in contact with some parts of the fire. Within the gleam of rose and orange light from the burning sticks were other soldiers, snoring and heaving, or lying deathlike in slumber. A few pairs of legs were stuck forth, rigid and

straight. The shoes displayed the mud or dust of marches, and bits of rounded trousers protruding from the blankets showed rents and tears from hurried pitchings through the dense brambles. The fire cackled musically. From it swelled light smoke overhead. The foliage moved softly. The leaves, with their faces turned toward the blaze, were colored shifting hues of silver, often edged with red. Far off to the right, through a window in the forest could be seen a handful

of stars lying like glittering pebbles on the black level of the night. Occasionally, in this low arched hall, a soldier would arouse and turn his body to a new position, the experience of his sleep having taught him of uneven and objectionable places upon the ground under him, Or perhaps he would lift himself to a sitting posture, blink at the fire for an unintelligent moment, throw a swift glance at his prostrate companion, and then cuddle down again with a

grunt of sleepy content. The youth sat in a forlorn heap until his friend, the loud young Soldier, came, swinging two canteens by their light strings. Well now, Henry ol Boy, said the latter. We'll have you fixed up in just about a minute. He had the bustling ways of an amateur nurse. He fussed around the fire and stirred the sticks to brilliant exertions. He made his patient drink largely from the cante to contained the coffee. It was, to the youth a delicious draft. He tilted his head afar

back and held the canteen long to his lips. The cool mixture went caressingly down his blistered throat. Having finished, he sighed with comfortable delight. The loud young Soldier watched his comrade with an air of satisfaction. He later produced an extensive handkerchief from his pocket. He folded it into a manner of bandage and souced water from the other canteen upon the middle of it. This crude arrangement, he bound over the youth's head, tying the ends in a queer

knot at the back of the neck. There, he said, moving off and surveying his deed. You look like the devil, but I bet you feel better. The youth contemplated his friend with grateful eyes upon his aching and swelling head. The cold cloth was like a tender woman's hand. Well, don't holler nor say nothing, remarked his friend, approvingly. I know I'm a blacksmith at takin keer o sick folks an, you never squeaked. You're a good un Henry. Most men would have been in the hospital long ago.

A shot a head ain't foolin business. The youth made no reply, but began to fumble with the buttons of his jacket. Well, come now, continued his friend. Come on, I must put you to bed and see that you get a good night's rest. The other got carefully erect and the loud young soldier led him among the sleeping forms lying in groups and rows. Presently, he stooped and picked up his blankets. He spread the rubber one upon the ground, and placed the woolen one about the youth's shoulders.

There now, he said, lie down an git some sleep. The youth, with his manner of doglike obedience, got carefully down, like a crone, stooping. He stretched out with a murmur of relief and comfort. The ground felt like the softest couch. But of a sudden he ejaculated. Hold on a minute, where are you going to sleep? His friend waved his hand impatiently, right down there by you. But hold on a minute, continued the youth. What you going to sleep in? I've got yer.

The loud young soldier snarled, shut up and go on to sleep. Don't be makin a damned fool yourself, he said severely. After the reproof, the youth said no more. An exquisite drowsiness had spread through him. The warm comfort of the blanket enveloped him and made a gentle languor. His head fell forward on his crooked arm, and his weighted lids went softly down over his eyes. Hearing a splatter of musketry from the distance, he wandered indifferently

if those men sometimes slept. He gave a long sigh snuggled down into his blanket, and in a moment was like his comrades. End of chapter thirteen, Chapter fourteen of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen

Crane, Chapter fourteen. When the youth awoke, it seemed to him that he had been asleep for a thousand years, and he felt sure that he opened his eyes upon an unexpected world. Gray mists were slowly shifting before the first efforts of the sun rays. An impending splendor could be seen in the eastern sky. An icy dew had chilled his face, and immediately upon arousing, he curled farther down into his blanket. He stared for a while at

the leaves overhead, moving in a heraldic wind of the day. The distance was splintering and blaring with the noise of fighting. There was in the sound an expression of a deadly persistency, as if it had not begun and was not to cease. About him were the rose and groups of men that he had dimly seen the previous night. They were getting a last draft of sleep before the awakening. The gaunt, careworn features and dusty figures were made plain

by this quaint light at the dawning. But it dressed the skin of the men in corpse like hues, and made the tangled limbs appear pulseless and dead. The youth stared up with a little cry when his eyes first swept over this motionless mass of men, thick spread upon the ground, pallid and in strange postures. His disordered mind interpreted the hall of the forest as a charnel

place. He believed for an instant that he was in the house of the dead, and he did not dare to move, lest these corpses start up, squalling and squawking. In a second, however, he achieved his proper mind, he swore a complicated oath at himself. He saw that this somber picture was not a fact of the present, but a mere prophecy. He heard then the noise of a fire crackling briskly in the cold air, and turning his head, he saw his friend pottering busily about a small blaze.

A few other figures moved in the fog, and he heard the hard cracking of axe blows. Suddenly there was a hollow rumble of drums. A distant bugle sang faintly. Similar sounds, varying in strength, came from near and far over the forest. The bugles called to each other like brace in gamecocks. The near thunder of the regimental drums rolled. The body of men in the woods rustled. There was a general uplifting of heads. A murmuring of

voices broke upon the air. In it there was much base of grumbling oaths. Strange gods were addressed in condemnation of the early hours necessary to correct war. On Officer's peremptory tenor rang out and quickened the stiffened movement of the men. The tangled limbs unraveled. The corpse hued faces were hidden behind fists that twisted slowly in the eye sockets. The youth sat up and gave vent to

an enormous yawn thunder, he remarked petulantly. He rubbed his eyes, then, putting a hand up, his hand felt carefully the bandage over his wound. His friend, perceiving him to be awake, came from the fire. Well, Henry, old man, how do you feel this morning? He demanded. The youth yawned again, then he puckered his mouth to a little pucker. His head in truth felt precisely like a melon, and there was an unpleasant sensation at his stomach. Oh lord, I feel pretty bad,

he said, thunder exclaimed the other. I hoped you have feel all right this morning. Let's see the bandage. I guess it slipped. He began to tinker at the wound in rather a clumsy way, until the youth exploded. Gosh, darn it, he said, in sharp irritation. You're the hangedest man I ever saw. You wear muffs on your hands. Why in good thunderation, can't you be more easy? I thought you'd stand off and throw guns at it. Now go slow and don't act as if you were

nailing down carpet. He glared with insolent command at his friend, but the latter answered soothingly. Well, well, come now and get some grub, he said, then maybe you'll feel better. At the fireside, the loud young soldier watched over his comrade's wants with tenderness and care. He was very busy marshaling the little black vagabonds of tin cups and pouring into them the streaming iron colored mixture from a small and sooty tin pail. He had some fresh

meat, which he roasted hurriedly on a stick. He sat down then and contemplated the youth's appetite with glee. The youth took note of a remarkable change in his comrades since those days of camp life upon the river bank. He seemed no more to be continually regarding the proportions of his personal prowess. He was not furious at small words that pricked his conceits. He was no more

a loud young soldier. There was about him now a fine reliance. He showed a quiet belief in his purposes and his abilities, and this inward confidence evidently enabled him to be different to little words of other men aimed at him. The youth reflected he had been used to regarding his comrade as a blatant child with an audacity grown from his inexperience, thoughtless, headstrong, jealous, and filled with a tinsel courage, A swaggering babe accustomed to strut in his

own dooryard. The youth wondered where had been borne these new eyes when his comrade had made the great discovery that there were many men who would refuse to be subjected by him. Apparently the other had now climbed a peak of wisdom from which he could perceive himself as a very wee thing, And the youth saw that ever after it would be easier to live in his friend's neighborhood. His comrade balanced his ebony coffee cup on his knee, will Henry, He

said, what do you think the chances are? Do you think will wallop him? The youth considered for a moment, day before yesterday. He finally replied, with boldness, you would a bet you'd licked the whole kitten bootle all by yourself. His friend looked a trifle amazed. Would I, he asked? He pondered, Well, perhaps I would, he decided. At last he stared humbly at the fire. The youth was quite disconcerted at this

surprising reception of his remarks. Oh no, you wouldn't either, he said, hastily, trying to retrace, But the other made a deprecating gesture, Oh you needn't mind, Henry, he said. I believe I was a pretty big fool in those days. He spoke as after a lapse of years. There was a little pause. All the officers say, we got the ReBs in a pretty tight box, said the friend, clearing his throat in a commonplace way. They all seemed to think we've got him just where we

want him. I don't know about that, the youth replied. What I've seen over on the right makes me think it was the other way about. From where I was, it looked as if we were getting a good pounding yesterday. Do you think so, inquired the friend. I thought we handled him pretty rough yesterday. Not a bit, said the youth. Why lord, man, you didn't see nothing of the fight. Why then a sudden thought came to him, Oh, Jim Conklin's dead. His friends started,

What is he? Jim Conklin, The youth spoke slowly, Yes, he's dead, shot in the side. He don't say so, Jim Conklin, Poor cuss. All about them were other small fires, surrounded by men with their little black utensils. From one of these near came sudden, sharp voices in a row. It appeared that The two light footed soldiers had been teasing a huge bearded man, causing him to spill coffee upon his blue knees.

The man had gone into a rage and had sworn comprehensively. Stung by his language, his tormentors had immediately bristled at him with a great show of resenting unjust oaths. Possibly there was going to be a fight. The friend arose and went over to them, making pacific motions with his arms. Oh here, now, boys, what's the use, he said, We'll be at the ReBs in less than an hour. What's the good fighting among ourselves. One of the light footed soldiers turned upon him, red faced and violent.

You needn't come round here with your preaching. I suppose you don't approve a fightin since Charlie Morgan licked you. But I don't see what business this here is a yours or anybody else. Well, it ain't, said the friend mildly. Still, I hate to see there was a tangled argument, well, he said the two, indicating their opponent with accusative forefingers. The huge soldier was quite purple with rage. He pointed at the two soldiers with his

great hand extended clawlike. Well, thee. But during this argumentative time, the desire to deal blows seemed to pass, although they said much to each other. Finally, the friend returned to his old seat. In a short while, the three antagonists could be seen together in an amiable bunch. Jimmie Rogers says, I'll have to fight him after the battle to day, announced the friend, as he again seated himself. He says, he don't allow

no interfering in his business. I hate to see the boys fighting among themselves. The youth laughed, you changed a good bit. You ain't at all you was. I remember when you and that Irish feller. He stopped and laughed again. No, I didn't used to be that way, said his friend, thoughtfully, that's true enough. Well I didn't mean, began the youth. The friend made another deprecatory gesture. Oh, you'd needn't mind, Henry. There was another little pause. The regiment lost over half the men

yesterday, remarked the friend. Eventually, I thought, of course they was all dead, but laws they kept coming back last night, until it seems after all, we didn't lose but a few. They'd been scattered all over, wandering around in the woods, fighting with other regiments and everything just like you done so, said the youth end of chapter fourteen, Chapter fifteen of The Rebaedge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is the LibriVox recording. All

LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Sampsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, 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 package enwrapped in a faded yellow envelope, which the loud young soldier with lugubrious words had

entrusted to him. It made him start. He uttered an exclamation and turned toward his comrade. Wilson. What 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. He could now be he who could laugh and shoot the shafts of derision. The friend had in a week 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 unfortunate's 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 guard 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 laggered and 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 while, 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 on the affair. He could conjure up nothing of sufficient point. He was compelled to allow his friend to escape unmolested with his packet, and for this he took him to 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 compident 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. End of chapter fifteen sixteen of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, Chapter sixteen

A sputtering of musketry was always to be heard. Later the cannon had entered the dispute, and the fog filled air, their voices made a thudding sound. The reverberations were continual. This part of the world led a strange, battleful existence. The Youth's regiment was marched to relieve a command that had lain long in some damp trenches. The men took positions behind a curving line of rifle pits that had been turned up like a large furrow. Along the line

of woods. Before them was a level stretch peopled with short, deformed stumps. From the woods beyond came the dull popping of the skirmishers and pickets firing in the fog. From the right came the noise of a terrific fracas. The men cuddled behind the small embankment and sat in easy attitudes, awaiting their turn. Many had their backs to the firing. The youth's friend lay down, buried his face in his arms, and almost instantly it seemed he was

in a deep sleep. The youth leaned his breast against the brown dirt and peered over at the woods and up and down the line. Curtains of trees interfered with his ways of vision. He could see the low line of trenches, but for a short distance. A few idle flags were perched on the dirt hills. Behind them were rows of dark bodies, with a few heads sticking curiously over the top. Always the noise of skirmishers came from the woods on the front and left, and the din on the right had grown to

frightful proportions. The guns were roaring without an instant's pause for breath. It seemed that the cannon had come from all parts and were engaged in a stupendous wrangle. It became impossible to make a sentence heard. The youth wished to launch a joke, a quotation from newspapers. He desired to say all quiet on the rappahannock, but the guns refused to permit even a comet upon their

uproar. He never successfully concluded the sentence, But at last the guns stopped, and among the men in the rifle pits, rumors again flew like birds, but they were now for the most part, black creatures, who flapped their wings drearily near to the ground and refused to rise on any wings of hope. The men's faces grew doleful from the interpreting of omens. Tales of hesitation and uncertainty on the part of those high in place and responsibility came to

their ears. Stories of disaster were borne into their minds with many proofs. This din of musketry on the right, growing like a released genie of sound, expressed and emphasized the army's plight. The men were disheartened and began to mutter. They made gestures expressive of the sentence, ah, what more can we do? And it could always be seen that they were bewildered by the

alleged news and could not fully comprehend a defeat. Before the gray mists had been totally obliterated by the sun rays, the regiment was marching in a spread column that was retiring carefully through the woods. The disordered, hurrying lines of the enemy could sometimes be seen down through the groves and little fields. They were yelling, shrill and exultant. At this sight, the youth forgot many personal matters and became greatly enraged. He exploded, in loud sentences, by

chimney, we're general by a lot of lunkheads. More than one feller has said that today observed a man his friend recently aroused, was still very drowsy. He looked behind him until his mind took in the meaning of the movement. Then he sighed, Oh well, I s'pose we got licked. He remarked sadly. The youth had a thought that it would not be handsome for him to freely condemn other men. He made an attempt to restrain himself, but the words upon his tongue were too bitter. He presently began a long

and intricate denunciation of the commander of the forces. Maybe it wasn't all his fault. Not altogether, he did the best he knowed. It's our luck to get licked, often said his friend in a weary tone. He was trudging along with stooped shoulders and shifting eyes like a man who has been caned and kicked. Well, don't we fight like the devil? Don't we do all that men can? Demanded the youth loudly. He was secretly dumbfounded at this sentiment when it came from his lips. For a moment his face lost

its valor, and he looked guiltily about him. But no one questioned his right to deal in such words, and presently he recovered his air of courage. He went on to repeat a statement he had heard going from group to group at the camp that morning. The brigadier said he never saw a new regiment fight the way we fought yesterday, didn't he? And we didn't do better than many another regiment, did we? Well, then you can't say

it's the army's fault, can you? In his reply, the friend's voice was stern, of course not, he said, no man dare say we don't fight like the devil. No man will ever dare say it. The boys fight like hell roosters. But still still we don't have no luck. Well, then if we fight like the devil and don't ever whip, it must be the general's fault, said the youth grimly and decisively, and I don't see any sense, and fight and fighting, and fighting, yet always

losing through thub derned old lunkhead of a general. A sarcastic man who was tramping at the youth's side, then spoke lazily, Maybe you think you fit the whole battle yesterday, fleming, he remarked. The speech pierced the youth inwardly. He was reduced to an abject pulp by these chance words. His legs quaked. Privately, he cast a frightened glance at the sarcastic man. Why no, he hastened to say, in a conciliating voice, I don't

think I thought the whole battle yesterday. But the other seemed innocent of any deeper meaning. Apparently he had no information. It was merely his habit. Oh, he replied, in the same tone of calm derision. The youth nevertheless felt a threat. His mind shrank from going near to the danger, and thereafter he was silent. The significance of the sarcastic man's words took from him all loud moods that would make him appear prominent. He became suddenly a

modest person. There was low toned talk among the troops. The officers were impatient and snappy, their countenances clouded with the tales of misfortune. The troops sifting through the forest were sullen and the use company. Once a man's laugh rang out, a dozen soldiers turned their faces quickly toward him and frowned with vague displeasure. The noise of firing dogged their footsteps. Sometimes it seemed to be driven a little way, but had always returned again with increased insolence.

The men muttered and cursed, throwing black looks in its direction. In a clear space. The troops were at last halted, Regiments and brigades broken and detached through their encounters with thickets together again, and lines were faced towards the pursuing bark of the enemy's infantry. This noise followed, like the yelpings of eager metallic hounds, increased to a loud and joyous burst, and then, as the sun went serenely up the sky, throwing illuminating rays into the gloomy

thickets, it broke forth into prolonged peelings. The woods began to crackle, as if a fire whoop with a d said a man. Here we are, everybody fighting blood and destruction. I was willing to bet they'd attack as soon as the sun got fairly up, savagely, asserted the lieutenant who commanded the youth's company. He jerked without mercy at his little mustache. He strode to and fro with dark dignity in the rear of his men, who were

lying down behind whatever protection they had collected. A battery had trumbled into position in the rear and was thoughtfully shelling the distance. The regiment, unmolested, as yet, awaited the moment when the gray shadows of the woods before them should be slashed by the lines of flame. There was much growling and swearing. Good God, the youth grumbled. We're always being chased around like rats. It makes me sick. Nobody seems to know where we go or why

we go. We just get fired around from pillar to post and get licked here and get licked there, and nobody knows what it's done for. It makes a man feel like a damn kitten in a bag. Now, I'd like to know what the eternal thunders we was marched into these woods for, anyhow, Unless it was to give the ReBs a regular pot shot at us. We came in here and got our legs all tangled up and these cussed briers, and then we begin to fight, and the ReBs had an easy

time of it. Don't tell me it's just luck. I know better. It's this derned old. The friend seemed jaded, but he interrupted his comrade with a voice of calm confidence. It'll turn at all right in the end, he said, Oh the devil it will. You always talk like a dog hanged parson. Don't tell me I know. At this time, there was an interposition by the savage minded lieutenant, who was obliged to vent some of his inward dissatisfaction upon his men. You boys, shut right up.

There's no need a you're wasting your breath in long winded arguments about this an that, an the other. You've been jawing like a lot of old hens. All you've got to do is to fight, and you'll get plenty of that to do in about ten minutes. Less talkin' and more fightin is what's best for you boys. I never saw such gabling jackasses. He paused, ready to pounce upon any man who might have the temerity to reply. No

words being said, he resumed his dignified pacing. There's too much chin music and too little fighting in this war, anyhow, he said to them, turning his head for a final remark. The day had grown more white until the sun shed its full radiance upon the thronged forest. A sort of a gust of battle came sweeping toward that part of the line where lay the Youth's regiment. The front shifted a trifle to meet it squarely. There was a

weight in this part of the field. There passed slowly the intense moments that precede the tempest. A single rifle flashed in a thicket before the regiment, in an instant was joined by many others. There was a mighty song of clashes and crashes that went sweeping through the woods. The guns in the rear aroused and enraged by shells that had been thrown bur like at them, suddenly

involved themselves in a hideous altercation with another band of guns. The battle roar settled to a rolling thunder, which was a single long explosion in the regiment. There was a peculiar kind of hesitation denoted in the attitudes of the men. They were worn exhausted, having slept but little and labored much. They rolled their eyes toward the advancing battle as they stood awaiting the shock. Some shrank and flinched. They stood as men tied to stakes. End of chapter

sixteen, Chapter seventeen of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, Chapter seventeen. The advance of the enemy had seemed to the youth like a ruthless hunting. He began to fume with rage and exasperation.

He beat his foot upon the ground and scowled with hate at the swirling smoke that was approaching, like a phantom flood. There was a maddening quality in the seeming resolution of the foe to give him no rest, to give him no time to sit down and think. Yesterday he had fought and had fled rapidly. There had been many adventures. For to day he felt that he

had earned opportunities for contemplative repose. He could have enjoyed portraying too uninitiated listeners of various scenes at which he had been a witness, or ably discussing the processes of war with other proved men. Too. It was important that he should have time for physical recuperation. He was sore and stiff from his experiences. He had received his fill of all exertions, and he wished to rest. But though those other men seemed never to grow weary, they were fighting

with their old speed. He had a wild hate for the relentless foe. Yesterday, when he had imagined the universe to be against him, he had hated it little gods and big gods. Today he hated the army of the foe with the same great hatred. He was not going to be badgered of his life like a kitten chased by boys. He said, it was not well to drive men into final corners. At those moments they could all develop

teeth and claws. He leaned and spoke into his friend's ear. He menaced the woods with a gesture, if they keep on chasing us, by God, they'd better watch out. Can't stand too much The French twisted his head and made a calm reply. If they keep on a chasing us, they'll drive us all into the river. The youth cried out savagely at this statement. He crouched behind a little tree, with his eyes burning hatefully and his

teeth set in a curlike snarl. The awkward bandage was still about his head, and upon it over his wound, there was a spot of dry blood. His hair was wondrously tousled, and some straggling, moving locks hung over the cloth of the bandage down toward his forehead. His jacket and shirt were open at the throat and exposed his young, bronzed neck. There could be seen spasmodic gulpings at his throat. His fingers twined nervously about his rifle.

He wished that it was an engine of annihilating power. He felt that he and his companions were being taunted and derided from sincere convictions that they were poor and puny. His knowledge of his inability to take vengeance for it made his rage into a dark and stormy specter that possessed him and made him dream of abominable cruelties. The tormentors were flies, sucking insolently at his blood, and he thought that he would have given his life for a revenge of seeing their

faces in pitiful plights. The winds of battle had swept all about the regiment until the one rifle, instantly followed by others, flashed in its front. A moment later the regiment roared forth its sudden and valiant retort. A dense wall of smoke settled down. It was furiously slit and slashed by the knife like fire from the rifles to the youth, the fighters resembled animals tossed for

a death struggle into a dark pit. There was a sensation that he and his fellows at bay were pushing back, always pushing back, fierce onslaughts of creatures who were slippery. Their beams of crimson seemed to get no purchase upon the bodies of their foes. The latter seemed to evade them with ease,

and come through between, around and about with unopposed skill. When in a dream it occurred to the youth that his rifle was an impotent stick, he lost sense of everything but his hate, his desire to smash into pulp, the glittering smile of victory which he could feel upon the faces of his enemies. The blue smoke swallowed, lying, curled, and writhed. Like a snake stepped upon it, swung its ends to and fro in an agony of fear and rage. The youth was not conscious that he was erect upon his

feet. He did not know the direction of the ground. Indeed, once he even lost the habit of balance and fell heavily, he was up again immediately. One thought went through the chaos of his brain. At the time, he wondered if he had fallen because he had been shot. But the suspicion flew away at once. He did not think more of it. He had taken up a first position behind the little tree with a direct determination to

hold it against the world. He had not deemed it possible that his army could that day succeed, and from this he felt the ability to fight harder. But the throng had surged in all ways until he lost directions and locations, save that he knew where lay the enemy. The flames bit him,

and the hot smoke broiled his skin. His rifle barrel grew so hot that ordinarily he could not have borne it upon his palms, but he kept on, stuffing cartridges into it and pounding them with his clanking, bending ramrod. If he aimed at some charging form through the smoke, he pulled the trigger with a fierce grunt, as if he were dealing a blow of the fist

with all his strength. When the enemy seemed falling back before him and his fellows, he went instantly forward, like a dog who, seeing his foes lagging, turns and insists upon being pursued. And when he was compelled to retire again, he did it slowly, sullenly, taking steps of wrathful despair. Once he, in his intent hate, was almost alone and was firing when all those near him had ceased. He was so engrossed in his occupation

that he was not aware of a lull. He was recalled by a hoarse laugh and a sentence that came to his ears in a voice of contempt and amazement. Yeah and far, though, fool, don't ye know enough to quit when there ain't anything to shoot at? Good God? He turned then, and, pausing with his rifle thrown half into position, looked at the blue line of his comrades. During this moment of leisure, they seemed all to be engaged in staring with astonishment at him. They had become spectators.

Turning to the front again, he saw under the lifted smoke a deserted ground. He looked bewildered for a moment. Then there appeared, upon the glazed vacancy of his eyes a diamond point of intelligence. Oh, he said, comprehending, he returned to his comrades and threw himself upon the ground. He sprawled like a man who had been thrashed. His flesh seemed strangely on fire, and the sounds of the battle continued in his ears. He groped blindly

for his canteen. The lieutenant was crowing. He seemed drunk with fighting. He called out to the youth, by heavens, if I had ten thousand wogcats like you, I could tear the stomach out of this war and lessen a week. He puffed out his chest with large dignity as he said it. Some of the men muttered and looked at the youth in awe struck ways. It was plain that as he had gone on loading and firing and cursing without proper intermission, they had found time to regard him, and they now

looked upon him as a war devil. The friend came staggering to him. There was some fright and dismay in his voice. Are ye all right, fleming? D ye feel all right? There ain't nothing the matter with ye, Henry? Is there? No, said the youth, with difficulty. His throat seemed full of knobs and burrs. These incidents made the youth ponder. It was revealed to him that he had been a barbarian, a beast.

He had fought like a pagan who defends his religion. Regarding it, he saw that it was fine, wild, and in some ways easy. He had been a tremendous figure. No doubt. By this struggle he had overcome obstacles which he had emmitted to be mountains. They had fallen like paper peaks, and he was now what he called a hero. And he had not been aware of the process. He had slept, and awakening found himself a knight. He lay and best in the occasional stares of his comrades.

Their faces were varied in degrees of blackness from the burned powder. Some were utterly smudged. They were reeking with perspiration, and their breaths came hard and wheezing, and from these soiled expanses they peered at him. Hot work, Hot work, cried the lieutenant deliriously. He walked up and down, restless and eager. Sometimes his voice could be heard in a wild, incomprehensible laugh. When he had a particularly profound thought upon the science of war, he

always unconsciously addressed himself to the youth. There was some grim rejoicing by the men. By thunder. I bet this arm you'll never see another new regiment like us. You bet a dog, a woman and a wallet tree. The more you beat him, the better they be. That's like us lost to piler men. They did. If an old woman swept up the woods, she get a dust panful, yes, And if she'll come around again in about an hour, she'll get a pole. More. The forest still

bore its burden of clamor. From off under the trees came the rolling clatter of the musketry. Each distant thicket seemed a strange porcupine with quills of flame. A cloud of dark smoke, as from smoldering ruins, went up toward the sun, now bright and gay in the blue enameled sky. End of Chapter seventeen eighteen of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more

information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, Chapter eighteen. The ragged line had respited for some minutes, but during its pause, the struggle in the forest became magnified, until the trees seemed to quiver from the firing, and the ground to shake from the rushing of men. The voices of the cannon were mingled in a long and interminable

row. It seemed difficult to live in such an atmosphere. The chests of the men strained for a bit of freshness, and their throats craved water. There was one shot through the body, who raised a cry of bitter lamentation when came this lull. Perhaps he had been calling out during the fighting also, but at that time no one had heard him. But now the men turned at the woeful complaints of him upon the ground. Who is it?

Who is it? It's Jimmy Rogers, Jimmy Rogers. When their eyes first encountered him, there was a sudden halt, as if they feared to go near. Thrashing about in the grass, twisting his shuddering body into many strange postures, he was screaming loudly. This instant's hesitation seemed to fill him with a tremendous, fantastic contempt, and he damned them and shrieked sentences. The youth's friend had a geographical illusion concerning a stream, and he obtained permission to

go for some water. Immediately canteens were showered upon him. Fill mine, Will you bring me some too? And me too? He departed. Ladened, the youth went with his friend, feeling a desire to throw his heated body into the stream, and soaking there drink quartz. They made a hurried search for the supposed stream, but did not find it. No water here, said the youth. They turned without delay and began to retrace their steps

from their position. As they again faced toward the place of the fighting, they could comprehend a greater amount of the battle than when their visions had been blurred by the hurling smoke of the line. They could see dark stretches winding along the land, and on one cleared space there was a row of guns making gray clouds which were filled with large flashes of orange colored flame. Over some foliage, they could see the roof of a house, one window glowing

a deep murder red shone squarely through the leaves. From the edifice, A tall, leaning tower of smoke went far into the sky. Looking over their own troops, they saw mixed masses slowly getting into regular form. The sunlight made twinkling points of the bright steel. To the rear, there was a glimpse of a distant roadway as it curved over a slope. It was crowded with retreating infantry. From all the interwoven forest arose the smoke and bluster of

the battle. The air was always occupied by a blaring Near where they stood, shells were flip flapping and hooting. Occasional bullets buzzed in the air and spanged into tree trunks. Wounded men and other stragglers were slinking through the woods. Looking down an aisle of the grove, the youth and his companion saw a jangly general and his staff almost ride upon a wounded man who was crawling on his hands and knees. The general reined strongly at his chargers, opened

in foamy mouth, and guided it with dexterous horsemanship past the man. The latter scrambled in wild and torturing haste. His strength evidently failed him. As he reached a place of safety, one of his arms suddenly weakened, and he fell, sliding over upon his back. He lay stretched out, breathing gently. A moment later, the small, creaking cavalcade was directly in front of the two soldiers. Another officer, riding with the skillful abandon of a

cowboy, galloped his horse to a position and directly before the general. The two unnoticed foot soldiers made a little show of going on, but they lingered near in the desire to overhear the conversation. Perhaps they thought some great inner historical things would be said. The general, whom the boys knew as the commander of their division, looked at the other officer and spoke coolly as if

he were criticizing his clothes. The enemies foremen over there for another charge, he said, it'll be directed against Whiterside, and I fear they'll break through unless we work like thunder to stop him. The others swore at his restive horse, and then cleared his throat. He made a gesture toward his cap. It'll be hell to pay stop on them, he said shortly. I presume so, remarked the general. Then he began to talk rapidly and in

a lower tone. He frequently illustrated his words with a pointing finger. The two infantrymen could hear, until finally he asked, what troops can you spare? The officer, who rode like a cowboy, reflected for an instant. Well, he said, I had to order in the twelfth to help the seventy sixth, and I haven't really got any. But there's the three or fourth. They fight like a lot of mule drivers. I can spare them best of any. The youth and his friend exchanged glances of astonishment. The

general spoke sharply, get him ready. Then I'll watch developments from here and send you word when to start them. It'll happen in five minutes. As the other officer tossed his fingers towards his cap and wheeling his horse started away, the general called out to him in a sober voice, I don't believe many of your mule drivers will get back. The other shouted something. In reply, he smiled with scared faces. The youth and his companion hurried back

to the line. These happenings had occupied an incredibly or time, yet the youth felt that in them he had been made aged. New eyes were given to him, and the most startling thing was to learn suddenly that he was very insignificant. The officer spoke of the regiment as if he referred to a broom. Some part of the woods needed sweeping, perhaps, And he merely indicated a broom in a tone properly indifferent to its fate. It was war,

no doubt, but it appeared strange. As the two boys approached the line, the lieutenant perceived them and swelled with wrath, fleming wilson, how long does it take you to get water anyhow where you've been to? But his oration ceased as he saw their eyes, which were large with great tales. We're going to charge, We're going to charge, cried the youth's friend, hastening with his news gearge said the lieutenant garge, Well, by god,

now this is real fighting. Over his soiled countenance, there went a boastful smile charge well, my god, A little group of soldiers surrounded the two youths. Are we sure enough? Will I'll be durned? Charge? What fur? What at Wilson? You're lying? I hope to die, said the youth, pitching his tones to the key of angry remonstrance. Sure a shooting, I tell you. And his friends spoke in reinforcement. Not by a blamed sight. He ain't lyin We heard him talking. They caught

sight of two mounted figures a short distance from them. One was the colonel of the regiment, and the other was the officer who had received orders from the commander of the division. They were gesticulating at each other. The soldier pointing at them interpreted the scene. One man had a final objection, how could you hear them talking? But the men, for a large part nodded

admitted that previously the two friends had spoken truth. They settled back into reposeful latitudes with airs of having accepted the matter, and they mused upon it with a hundred varieties of expression. It was an engrossing thing to think about. Many tightened their belts carefully and hitched at their trousers. A moment later, the officers began to bustle among the men, pushing them into a more compact

mass and into a better alignment. They chased those that straggled, and fumed at a few men who seemed to show by their attitudes that they had decided to remain at that spot. They were like critical shepherds struggling with sheep. Presently, the regiment seemed to draw itself up and heave a deep breath. None of the men's faces were mirrors of large thoughts. The soldiers were bended and stooped like sprinters before a signal. Many pairs of glinting eyes peered from

the grimy faces toward the curtains of the deeper woods. They seemed to be engaged in deep calculations of time and distance. They were surrounded by the noises of the monstrous altercation between the two armies. The world was fully interested in other matters. Apparently the regiment had its small affair to itself. The youth turning, shot a quick inquiring glance at his friend. The latter returned to him the same manner of look. They were the only ones who possessed an

inner knowledge. Mule drivers held to pay don't believe many will get back. It was an ironical secret. Still, they saw no hesitation in each other's faces, and they nodded a mute and unprotesting ascent. When a shaggy man near them said, it a meek voice, we'll get swallowed. End of Chapter eighteen nineteen of The Red Badge of Courage. This is a librivo recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to

volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, Chapter nineteen. The youth stared at the land in front of him, Its foliages now seemed to veil powers and horrors. He was unaware of the machinery of orders that started the charge, although from the corners of his eyes he saw an officer who looked like a boy a horseback come galloping, waving his hat.

Suddenly he felt a straining and heaving among the men. The line fell slowly forward like a toppling wall, and with a convulsive gasp that was intended for a cheer, the regiment began its journey. The youth was pushed and jostled for a moment before he understood the movement at all, But directly, he lunged ahead and began to run. He fixed his eye upon a distant and prominent clump of trees where he had concluded the enemy were to be met,

and he ran toward it as toward a goal. He had believed throughout that it was a mere question of getting over an unpleasant matter as quickly as possible, and he ran desperately, as if pursued for a murder. His

face was drawn hard and tight with the stress of his endeavor. His eyes were fixed in a lurid glare, and with his soiled and disordered dress, his red and inflamed features, surmounted by the dingy rag with its spot of blood, his wildly swinging rifle and banging accouterments, he looked to be an insane soldier. As the regiment swung from its position out into a cleared space, the woods and thickets before it awakened yellow flames leaped toward it from many

directions. The forest made a tremendous objection. The line lurked straight for a moment, and the right wing swung forward. It in turn was surpassed by the left. Afterward, the center careered to the front, until the regiment was a wedge shape mast. But an instant later the opposition of the bushes, trees and uneven places on the ground split the command and scattered it into detached clusters. The youth, light footed, was unconsciously in advance. His

eyes still kept no to the clump of trees. From all places near it, the clanish yell of the enemy could be heard, The little flames of rifles leaped from it. The song of the bullets was in the air, and shells snarled among the tree tops. One tumbled directly into the middle of a hurrying group and exploded in crimson fury. There was an instant spectacle of a man almost over it, throwing up his hands to shield his eyes.

Other men punched by bullets, felling grotesque agonies. The regiment left a coherent trail of bodies. They had passed into a clearer atmosphere. There was an effect like a revelation in the new appearance of the landscape. Some men working madly at a battery were plain to them, and the opposing infantry's lines were defined by the gray walls and the fringes of smoke. It seemed to the youth that he saw everything. Each blade of the green grass was bold and

clear. He thought that he was aware of every change in the thin, transparent vapor that floated idly in sheets. The brown or gray trunks of the trees showed each roughness of their surfaces, and the men of the regiment, with their starting eyes and sweating faces, running madly or falling as if thrown headlong to queer, heaped up corpses, all were comprehended. His mind took a mechanical but firm impression, so that afterward everything was pictured and explained to

him, save why he himself was there. But there was a frenzy made from this furious rush. The men pitching forward insanely had burst into cheerings, moblike and barbaric, but tuned in strange keys that can arouse the dullard and the stoic. It made a mad enthusiasm that it seemed would be incapable of checking itself. Before granite and brass, there was the delirium that encounters despair

and death, and is heedless and blind to the odds. It is a temporary, but sublime absence of selfishness, And because it was of this order, was the reason, perhaps why the youth wondered afterward what reasons he could have had for being there. Presently, the straining pace ate up the energies of the men, as if by agreement. The leaders began to slacken their speed. The volleys directed against them had had a seeming windlike effect. The

regiment snorted and blew some stolid trees. It began to falter and hesitate. The men, staring intently, began to wait for some of the distant walls of smoke to move and to disclose to them the scene. Since much of their strength and their breath had vanished, they returned to caution. They were become men again. The youth had a vague belief that he had run miles, and he thought in a way that he was now in some new and

unknown land. The moment the regiment ceased its advance, the protesting splutter of musketry became a steadied roar. Long and accurate fringes of smoke spread out from the top of a small hill. Came level belchings of yellow flame that caused an inhuman whistling in the air. The men halted had opportunity to see some of their comrades dropping with moans and shrieks. A few lay underfoot still or wailing. And now for an instant the men stood their rifles, slackened their

hands, and watched the regiment dwindle. They appeared dazed and stupid. This spectacle seemed to paralyze them, overcome them with a fatal fascination. They stared woodenly at the sights, and, lowering their eyes, looked from face to face. It was a strange pause and a strange silence. Then above the sounds of the outside commotion arose the roar of the lieutenant. He strode suddenly

forward, his invitile features black with rage. Come on, you fools, he bellowed, Come on, you can't stay here, You must come on. He said more, but much of it could not be understood. He started rapidly forward, with his head turned toward the men, Come on, he was shouting. The men stared with black and yokel like eyes at him. He was obliged to halt and retrace his steps. He stood them with his back to the enemy, and delivered gigantic curses into the faces of the

men. His body vibrated from the weight and force of his imprecations, and he could string oaths with the facility of a maiden who strings beads. The friend of the youth aroused, lurching suddenly forward and dropping to his knees, he fired an angry shot at the persistent woods. This action awakened the men. They huddled no more like sheep. They seemed suddenly to bethink themselves of their weapons, and at once commenced firing. Belabored by their officers, they

began to move forward. The regiment, involved, like a cart involved in mud and muddle, started unevenly with many jolts and jerks. The men stopped now every few paces to fire and load, and in this manner moved slowly on from trees to trees. The flaming opposition in their front grew with their advance, until it seemed that all forward way were barred by the thin, leaping tongues, and off to the right, an ominous demonstration could sometimes be

dimly discerned. The smoke lately generated was in confusing clouds that made it difficult for the regiment to proceed with intelligence. As he passed through each curling mass, The youth wondered what would confront him on the farther side. The command went painfully forward until an open space interposed between them and the lurid lines. Here, crouching and cowering behind some trees, the men clung with desperation, as if threatened by a wave. They looked wild eyed, and as if

amazed at this furious disturbance they had stirred in the storm. There was an ironical expression of their importance. The faces of the men, too, showed a lack of a certain feeling of responsibility for being there. It was as if they had been driven. It was the dominant animal, failing to remember in the supreme moments the forceful causes of various superficial qualities. The whole affair seemed incomprehensible to many of them as they halted. Thus, the lieutenant again

began to bellow profanely, regardless of the vindictive threats of the bullets. He went about coaxing, berating, and bedamning. His lips that were habitually in a soft and childlike curve, were now writhed into unholy contortions. He swore by all possible deities. Once he grabbed the youth by the arm. Come on, you lunkhead, he roared, Come on, we'll all get killed if we stay here. We only got to go across that lot. And then the remainder of his idea disappeared in a blue haze of curses. The

youth stretched forth, his arm cross there. His mouth was puckered in doubt. And awe, certainly, just cross the lot. We can't stay here, screamed the lieutenant. He poked his face close to the youth and waved his bandaged hand. Come on. Presently, he grappled with him, as if for a wrestling bout. It was as if he planned to drag the youth by the ear on to the assault. The private felt a sudden, unspeakable indignation against his officer. He wrenched fiercely and shook him off. Come

on yourself, then he yelled. There was a bitter challenge in his voice. They galloped together down the regimental front. The friends scrambled after them. In front of the colors, the three men began to ball Come on, come on. They danced and gyrated like tortured savages. The flag obedient to these appeals bended its glittering form and swept toward them. The men wavered an indecision for a moment, and then with a long wailful cry, the dilapidated

regiment surged forward and began its new journey. Over the field went the scurrying mass. It was a handful of men splattered into the faces of the enemy. Toward it instantly sprang the yellow tongues. A vast quantity of blue smoke hung before them. A mighty banging made ears valueless. The youth ran like a madman to reach the woods before a bullet could discover him. He ducked his head low like a football player. In his haste, his eyes almost

closed, and the scene was a wild blur. Pulsating saliva stood at the quarters of his mouth. Within him, as he hurled himself forward, was born a love, a despairing fondness for this flag which was near him. It was a creation of beauty and invulnerability. It was a goddess radiant that bended its form with an imperious gesture to him. It was a woman, red and white, hating and loving, that called him with the voice of his hopes. Because no harm could come to it. He endowed it with

power. He kept near as if it could be a savor of lives, and an imploring cry went from his mind. In the mad scramble, he was aware that the Color Sergeant flinched suddenly, as if struck by a bludgeon. He faltered and then became motionless save for his quivering knees. He made a spring in a clutch at the pole. At the same instant his friend grabbed it from the other side. They jerked at it, stout and furious, but the Color Sergeant was dead, and the corpse would not relinquish its

trust for a moment. There was a grim encounter. The dead band, swinging with bended back, seemed to be obstinately tugging in ludicrous and awful ways for the possession of the flag. It was passed in an instant of time. They wrenched the flag furiously from the dead man, and as they turned again, the corpse swayed forward with bowed head, one arm swung high, and the curved hand fell with a heavy protest on the friend's unheeding shoulder.

End of chapter nineteen, Chapter twenty of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, Chapter twenty. When the two youths turned from the flag, they saw that much of the regiment had crumbled away, and

the dejected remnant was coming slowly back. The men, having hurled themselves in projectile fashion, had presently expended their forces. They slowly retreated, with their faces still toward the spluttering woods, and their hot rifles still replying to the din. Several officers were giving orders, their voices keyed to screams, Where in hell are you going? The lieutenant was asking, and the sarcastic howl, and a red bearded officer, whose voice of triple brass could plainly be

heard, was commanding, Shoot into'em, shoot into'em. Goddamn their souls. There was a melee of screeches in which the men were ordered to do conflicting and impossible things. The youth and his friend had a small scuffle over the flag. Give it to me, no let me keep it. Each felt satisfied with the other's possession of it, but each felt bound to declare by an offer to carry the emblem his willingness to further risk himself.

The youth roughly pushed his friend away. The regiment fell back to the stolid trees. There it halted for a moment to blaze at some dark forms that had begun to steal upon on its track. Presently, it resumed its march, again, curving among the tree trunks. By the time the depleted regiment had again reached the first open space, they were receiving a fast and merciless

fire. There seemed to be mobs all about them. The greater part of the men discouraged, their spirits, worn by the turmoil, acted as if stunned. They accepted the pelting of the bullets with bowed and weary heads. It was of no purpose to strive against walls, It was of no use to batter themselves against granite. And from this consciousness that they had attempted to conquer an unconquerable thing, there seemed to arise a feeling that they had been

betrayed. They glowered with bent brows, but dangerously upon some of the officers, more particularly upon the redbearded one with a voice of triple brass. However, the rear of the regiment was fringed with men who continued to shoot irritably at the advancing foes. They seemed resolved to make every trouble. The youthful lieutenant was perhaps the last man and the disordered mass. His forgotten back was toward the enemy. He had been shot in the arm. It hung straight

and rigid. Occasionally he would cease to remember it and be about to emphasize an oath with a sweeping gesture. The multiplied pain caused him to swear with incredible power. The youth went along with slipping uncertain feet. He kept watchful eyes rearward. A scowl of mortification and rage was upon his face. He had thought of a fine revenge upon the officer who had referred to him and his fellows as mule drivers, but he saw that it could not come to

pass. His dreams had collapsed when the mule drivers, dwindling rapidly, had wavered and hesitated on the little clearing, and then had recoiled. And now the retreat of the mule drivers was a march of shame to him a dagger pointed gaze from without. His blackened face was held toward the enemy. But his greater hatred was riveted upon the man who, not knowing him, had

called him a mule driver. When he knew that he and his comrades had failed to do anything in successful ways that might bring the little pangs of a kind of remorse upon the officer, the youth allowed the rage of the baffled to possess him. This cold officer upon a monument, who dropped epithets unconcernedly down, would be finer as a dead man, he thought. So grievous did he think it, that he could never possess the secret right to taunt

truly? In answer, he had pictured red letters of curious revenge. We are mule drivers, are we? And now he was compelled to throw them away. He presently wrapped his heart in the cloak of his pride and kept the flag erect. He harangued his fellows, pushing against their chests with his free hand. To those he knew well, he made frantic appeals, beseeching them by name, between him and the lieutenant, scolding, and near to losing his mind with rage. There was felt a subtle fellowship in equality.

They supported each other in all manner of horse howling protests, but the regiment was a machine run down. The two men babbled at a forceless thing. The soldiers who had heart to go slowly were continually shaken in their resolves by a knowledge that comrades were slipping with speed back to the lines. It was difficult to think of reputation when others were thinking of skins. Wounded men were

left crying on this black journey. The youth, peering once through a sudden rift in a cloud, saw a brown mass of troops interwoven and magnified until the appeared to be thousands of perce viewed flag flashed before his vision. Immediately, as if the uplifting of the smoke had been pre arranged. The discovered troops burst into a rasping yell, and a hundred flames jetted toward the retreating band. A rolling gray cloud again interposed. As the regiment doggedly replied.

The youth had to depend again upon his misused ears, which were trembling and buzzing with the melee of musketry and yells. The way seemed eternal and the clouded haze. Men became panic, stricken with a thought that the regiment had lost its path and was proceeding in a perilous direction. Once the men who headed the well procession turned and came pushing back against their comrades, screaming that they were being fired upon from points which they had considered to be toward their

own lines. At this cry, a hysterical fear and dismay beset the troops. A soldier who heretofore had been ambitious to make the regiment into a wise little band that would proceed calmly amid the huge appearing difficulties, suddenly sank down and buried his face in his arms, with an air of bowing to a doom from another. A shrill lamentation rang out, filled with profane allusions to a general. Men ran hither and thither, seeking with their eyes roads of

escape, with serene regularity, as if controlled by a schedule. Bullets buffed into men. The youth walked stolidly into the midst of the mob, and, with his flag in his hands, took a stand, as if he expected an attempt to push him to the ground. He unconsciously assumed the attitude of the color bearer in the fight of the preceding day. He passed over his brow a hand that trembled. His breath did not come freely. He was choking. During the small wait for the crisis, his friend came to

him. Well, Henry, I guess this is good bye, John. Oh shut up, you damned fool, replied the youth, And he would not look at the other. The officers labored like politicians to beat the mass into a proper circle to face the menaces. The ground was uneven and torn. The men curled into depressions and fitted themselves snugly behind whatever would frustrate a

bullet. The youth dudded with vague surprise that the lieutenant was standing mutely, with his legs far apart, and his sword held in the manner of a cane. The youth wondered what had happened to his vocal organs that he no more cursed. There was something curious in this little intent pause of the lieutenant. It was like a babe, which, having wept its fill, raises its eyes and fixes upon a distant toy. He was engrossed in this contemplation,

and the soft under lip quivered from self whispered words. Some lazy and ignorant smoke curled slowly. The men hiding from the bullets waited anxiously for it to lift and disclose the plight of the regiment. The silent ranks were suddenly thrilled by the eager voice of the youthful lieutenant, bawling out here they come right on to us, by God. His further words were lost in aroora

of wicked thunder from the men's rifles. The youth's eyes had instantly turned in the direction indicated by the awakened and agitated lieutenant, and he had seen the haze of treachery disclosing a body of soldiers of the enemy. They were so near that they could see their features. There was a recognition as he looked

at the types of faces. Also, he perceived with dim amazement that their uniforms were rather gray, in effect, being light gray accented with a brilliant hued facing to the closes scene new These troops had apparently been going forward with caution, their rifles held in readiness, when the youthful lieutenant had discovered them, and their movement had been interrupted by the volley from the Blue Regiment. From the moment's glimpse, it was derived that they had been unaware of the

proximity of their dark suited foes, or had mistake in the direction. Almost instantly, they were shut utterly from the youth's site by the smoke from the energetic rifles of his companions. He strained his vision to learn the accomplishment of the volley, but the smoke hung before him. The two bodies of troops exchanged blows in the manner of a pair of boxers. The fast, angry

firings went back and forth. The men in Blue were intent with the despair of their circumstances, and they seized upon the revenge to be had at close range. Their thunder swelled loud and valiant, Their curving front bristled with flashes, and the place resounded with the clangor of their ramrods. The youth ducked and dodged for a time, and achieved a few unsatisfactory views of the enemy. There seemed to be many of them, and they were replying swiftly.

They seemed, moving toward the Blue Regiment step by step. He seated himself gloomily on the ground with his flag between his knees. As he noted the vicious, wolf like temper of his comrades, he had a sweet thought that if the enemy was about to swallow the regimental broom as a large prisoner, it could at least have the consolation of going down with bristles forward. But

the blows of the antagonists began to grow more weak. Fewer bullets ripped the air, and finally, when the men slackened to learn of the fight, they could see only dark, floating smoke. The regiment lay still and gazed. Presently, some chance whim came to the pestering blur, and it began to coil heavily. Away. The men saw a ground vacant of fighters. It would have been an empty stain age if it were not for a few

corpses that lay thrown and twisted into fantastic shapes upon the sward. At sight of this tableau, many of the men in blue sprang from behind their covers and made an ungainly dance of joy. Their eyes burned, and a hoarse cheer of elation broke from their dry lips. It had begun to seem to

them that events were trying to prove that they were impotent. These little battles had evidently endeavored to demonstrate that the men could not fight well, when on the verge of submission to these opinions, the small duel had showed them that the proportions were not impossible. And by it they had revenged themselves upon their misgivings and upon the foe. The impetus of enthusiasm was theirs. Again.

They gazed about them with looks of uplifted pride, feeling new trust in the grim, always confident, weapons in their hands, and they were men. End of chapter twenty Chapter twenty one of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge

of Courage by Stephen Crane, Chapter twenty one. Presently they knew that no firing threatened them. All ways seemed once more open to them. The dusty blue lines of their friends were disclosed a short distance away. In the distance there were many colossal noises, but in all this part of the field there was a sudden stillness. They perceived that they were free. The dele had banned through a long breath of relief and gathered itself into a bunch to complete

its trip. In this last length of journey, the men began to show strange emotions. They hurried with nervous fear. Some who had been dark and unfaltering in the grimace moments now could not conceal an anxiety that made them frantic. It was perhaps that they had dreaded to be killed in insignificant ways after the time for proper military deaths had passed, or perhaps they thought it would be too ironical to get killed at the portals of safety. With backward looks

of perturbation, they hastened as they approached their own lines. There was some sarcasm exhibited on the part of a gaunt and bronzed regiment that lay resting in the shade of the trees. Questions were wafted to them, where the hell you been? What's coming back for? Why didn't you stay? There? Was it warm out there? Sonny, goin home now, boys, one shouting and taunting mimicry, Oh mother, come quick and look at the soldiers.

There was no reply from the bruised, embattered regiment, save that one man bade broadcast challenges to fist fights, and the red bearded officer walked rather near and glared in great swashbuckler's style at a tall captain in the other regiment. But the lieutenants suppressed the man who wished to fist fight, and the tall captain, flushing at the little fanfare of the red bearded one, was obliged to look intently at some trees. The youth's tender flesh was deeply stung

by these remarks. From under his creased brows, he glowered with hate at the mockers. He meditated upon a few revenges. Still, many in the regiment hung their heads in criminal fashion, so that it came to pass that the men trudged with sudden heaviness, as if they bore upon their bended shoulders the coffin of their honor, and the youthful lieutenant, recollecting himself, began to mutter softly in black curses. They turned when they arrived at their old

position, to regard the ground over which they had charged. The youth in this contemplation was smitten with a large astonishment. He discovered that the distances, as compared with the brilliant measurings of his mind, were trivial and ridiculous. The stolid trees where much had taken place, seemed incredibly near the time too. Now that he reflected, he sought to have been short. He wondered at the number of emotions and events that had been crowded into such little spaces.

Elphin thoughts must have exaggerated and enlarged everything he said. It seemed then that there was bitter justice in the speeches of the gaunt and bronzed veterans. He veiled a glance of disdain at his fellows, who strewed the ground, choking with dust, read from perspiration, misty eyed, disheveled, they were gulping at their canteens, fierced to wring every mite of water from them, and they polished at their swollen and watery features with coat sleeves and bunches of

grass. However, to the youth there was a considerable joy amusing upon his performances during the charge. He had had very little time previously in which to appreciate himself, so that there was now much satisfaction in quietly thinking of his actions. He recalled bits of color that in the flurry had stamped themselves unawares upon his engaged senses. As the regiment lay heaving from its hot exertions, the officer, who had named them as mule drivers, came galloping along the

line. He had lost his cap, his tousled hair streamed wildly, and his face was dark with vexation and wrath. His temper was displayed with more clearness by the way in which he managed his horse. He jerked and wrenched savagely at his bridle, stopping the hard breathing animal with a furious pull. Near the colonel of the regiment. He had immediately exploded in reproaches which came unbidden to the ears of the men. They were suddenly alert, being always

curious about black words between officers. Oh, thunder mc Chesnay, what an awful bull you made of this thing? Began the officer. He attempted low tones, but his indignation caused certain of the men to learn the sense of his words. What an awful mess you made, good lord man, you stopped about a hundred feet this side of a very pretty success. If your men had gone a hundred feet farther, you would have made a great charge. But as it is, what a lot of mud diggers you've got?

Anyway. The men, listening with bated breath, now turned their curious eyes upon the colonel. They had a ragamuffin interest in this affair. The colonel was seen to straighten his form and put one hand forth an oratorical fashion. He wore an injured air. It was as if a deacon had been accused of stealing. The men were wiggling in an ecstasy of excitement. But of a sudden the colonel's manner changed from that of a deacon to that of a

Frenchman. He shrugged his shoulders. Oh well, General, we went as far as we could, he said, calmly, As far as you could, did you? By God? Snorted the other. Well that wasn't very far, was it, he added, with a glance of cold contempt into the other's eyes. Not very far? I think you were intended to make a diversion in favor of Whiter's side. How well you succeeded, your own ears can now tell you. He wheeled his horse and rode stiffly away.

The colonel, bidden to hear the jarring noises of an engagement in the woods to the left, broke out in vague damnations. The lieutenant, who had listened with an air of impotent rage to the interview, spoke suddenly in firm and undaunted tones. I don't care what a man is, whether he is a general or what if he says the boys didn't put up a good fight out there, He's a damn fool, lieutenant, began the colonel severely. This is my own affair, and I'll trouble you. The lieutenant made an

obedient gesture. All right, colonel, all right, he said. He sat down with an air of being content with himself. The news that the regiment had been reproached went along the line for a time. The men were bewildered by it, good thunder. They ejaculated, staring at the vanishing form of the general they conceived to be a huge mistake. Presently, however, they began to believe that, in truth, their efforts had been called light.

The youth could see this conviction weigh upon the entire regiment, until the men were like cuffed and cursed animals, but withal rebellious. The friend, with a grievance in his eye, went to the youth. I wonder what he does want? He said, he must think we went out there and played marbles. I never see such a man. The youth developed a tranquil

philosophy for these moments of irritation. Oh well, he rejoined. He probably didn't see nothing of it at all, and got mad as blazes and concluded we were a lot of sheep just because we didn't do what he wanted done. It's pity old Grandpa Henderson got killed yesterday. He'd have known that we did our best and fought good. It's just our awful luck. That's what I should say, so applied the friend. He seemed to be deeply wounded

at an injustice. I should say we did have awful luck. There's no fun in fighting for people when everything you do, no matter what, ain't done right. I have a notion to stay behind next time and let them take their old charge and go to the devil with it. The youth spoke soothingly to his comrade, Well we both did good. I'd like to see the fool. What did say? We both didn't do as good as we could. Of course we did, declared the friends stoutly. And I break

the feller's neck if he was as big as a church. But we're all right anyhow, For I heard one feller say that we two fit the best in the regiment, and they had a great argument about it. Another feller, of course, he had to up and say it was a lie. He's seen all what was going on, and he never seen us from the beginning to the end. And a lot more stuck in and says it wasn't a lie. He did fight like thunder, and they give us quite a send off. But this is what I can't stand, these ever lasting old

soldiers tittering and laughing. And then that general he's crazy, the youth exclaimed with sudden exasperation. He's a lunkhead. He makes me mad. I wish he'd come along next time. We'll show him what he ceased. Because several men had come, hurrying up their faces expressed a bringing of great news. Oh flem, you just oughta heard, cried one eagerly heard what said the youth you just oughtter heard, repeated the other. And he arranged himself to

tell his tidings. The others made an excited circle. Well, sir, the colonel met, you're a lieutenant right by us. It was the damnedest thing I ever heard. And he says, hem hem, he says, mister Hasbrook. He says, by the way, who was that lad that carried the flag? He says, there, Fleming, what do you think of that? Who was the lad that carried the flag? He says. And the lieutenant he speaks up right away, that's Fleming. And he's a Jim Hickey, he says, right away what I say, he did a

Jim Hickey. He says, those are his words. He did too, I say, he did. If you can tell this story better than I can, go ahead and tell it well, then keep your mouth shut. The lieutenant, he says, he's a Jim Hickey. And the colonel he says, ahem, ahem, he is indeed a very good man to have ahem. He kept the flag away to the front. I saw him. He's a good un, said the colonel. You bet, says lieutenant. He and a feller named Wilson was at the head of the charge and howling

like Indians all the time. He says. Head of the charge all the time, he says, A fuller named Wilson. He says, they're Wilson. A boy, put that in a letter and send it home to your mother. Hey, a feller named Wilson, he says. And the colonel, he says, were they indeed? Ahem, ahem, my sakes, he says, at the head of the regiment. He says they were, says the lieutenant. My sakes, says the colonel. He says, well, well, well, he says, those two babies they were, says

the lieutenant. Well will will, says the colonel. They deserved to be major generals. He says, they deserved to be major generals. The youth and his friend had said, huh, you're Lion Thompson. Oh, go to blazes. He never said it. Oh what a lie huh. But despite these youthful scoffings and embarrassments, they knew that their faces were deeply flushing from thrills of pleasure. They exchanged a secret glance of joy and congratulation.

They speedily forgot many things. The past held no pictures of error and disappointment. They were very happy, and their hearts swelled with grateful affection for the colonel and the youthful Lieutenant end of chapter twenty one. Chapter twenty two of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville,

South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, Chapter twenty two. When the woods again began to pour forth the dark hued masses of the enemy, the youth felt serene self confidence. He smiled briefly when he saw men dodge and duck at the long screenings of shells that were thrown in giant handfuls over them. He stood erect and tranquil, watching the attack begin against a part of the line that made a blue curve along the side of

an adjacent hill. His vision being unmolested by smoke from the rifles of his companions, he had opportunities to see parts of the hard fight. It was a relief to perceive at last from whence came some of these noises which had been roared into his ears. Off a short way, he saw two regiments fighting a little separate battle with two other regiments. It was in a cleared space. Wearing a set apart look. They were blazing as if upon a

wager, giving and taking tremendous blows. The firings were incredibly fierce and rapid. These intent regiments apparently were oblivious of all larger purposes of war, and were slugging each other as if at a matched game. In another direction, he saw a magnificent brigade going with the evident intention of driving the enemy from a wood. They passed in out of sight, and presently there was a

most awe inspiring racket in the wood. The noise was unspeakable. Having stirred this prodigious uproar, and apparently finding it too prodigious, the brigade, after a little time came marching airily out again, with its fine formation in no wise disturbed. There were no traces of speed in its movements. The brigade

was jaunty and seemed to point a proud thumb at the yelling wood. On a slope to the left there was a long row of guns, gruff and maddened, denouncing the enemy, who down through the woods were forming for another attack. In the pitiless monotony of conflicts. The round red discharges from the guns made a crimson flare and a high, thick smoke. Occasional glimpses could be caught of groups of the toiling artillerymen. In the rear of this row

of unstood a house calm and white amid bursting shells. A congregation of horses tied to a long railing were tugging frenziedly at their bridles. Men were running hither and thither. The detached battle between the four regiments lasted for some time. There chanced to be no interference, and they settled their dispute by themselves. They struck savagely and powerfully at each other for a period of minutes, and then the lighter hued regiments faltered and drew back, leaving the dark blue

lines shouting. The youth could see the two flags shaking with laughter amid the smoke remnants. Presently there was a stillness pregnant with meaning. The blue lines shifted and changed a trifle and stared expectantly at the silent woods and fields before them. The hush was solemn and churchlike, save for a distant battery that evidently unable to remain quiet, sent a faint rolling thunder over the ground. It irritated like the noises of unimpressed boys, and men imagined that it would

prevent their perched ears from hearing the first words of the new battle. Of a sudden, the guns on the slope roared out a message of warning. A spluttering sound had begun in the woods. It swelled with amazing speed to a profound clamor that involved the earth in noises. The splitting crashes swept along the lines until an interminable roar was developed. To those in the midst of it, it became a din fitted to the universe. It was the whirring

and thumping of gigantic machinery complications among the smaller stars. The youth's ears were filled up. They were incapable of hearing more. On an incline over which a road wound, he saw wild and desperate rushes of men, perpetually backward and forward in riotous surges. These parts of the opposing armies were two long

waves that pitched upon each other madly at dictated points to and fro. They swelled, sometimes one side by. Its yells and cheers would proclaimed decisive blows, but a moment later the other side would be all yells and cheers. Once the youth saw a spray of light forms going hound like leaps toward the waving blue lines, there was much howling, and presently it went away with

a vast mouthful of prisoners. Again he saw a blue wave dash with such thunderous force against a gray obstruction that it seemed to clear the earth of it and leave nothing but trampled sod. And always in their swift and deadly rushes to and fro, the men screamed and yelled like maniacs. Particular pieces of fence or secure positions behind collections of trees were wrangled over as gold thrones or pearl bedsteads. There were desperate lunges at these chosen spots seemingly every instant,

and most of them were bandied like light toys Between the contending forces. The youth could not tell from the battle flags flying like crimson foam in many directions which color of cloth was winning. His emaciated regiment bustled forth with undiminished fierceness when its time came. When assaulted again by bullets, the men burst out in a barbaric cry of rage and pain. They bent their heads in aims of intent hatred behind the projected hammers of their guns. Their ramrods clanged loud

with fury as their eager arms pounded the cartridges into the rifle barrels. The front of the regiment was a smoke wall, penetrated by the flashing points of yellow and red wallowing in the fight. They were in an astonishingly short time. Resmudged, they surpassed stain and dirt, all their previous appearances, moving to and fro with strained exertion, jabbering the while they were with their swaying bodies, black faces and glowing eyes, like strange and ugly friends, jigging

heavily in the smoke. The lieutenant, returning from a tour after a bandage, produced from a hidden receptacle of his mind, new and portentous oaths, suited to the emergency strings of expletivicy swung lash like over the backs of his men, and it was evident that his previous efforts had in no wise impaired his resources. The youth, still, the bearer of the colors, did

not feel his idleness. He was deeply absorbed as a spectator. The crash and swing of the great drama made him lean forward, intent eyed, his face working in small contortions. Sometimes he prattled words coming unconsciously from him, in grotesque ex nations. He did not know that he breathed, that the flag hung silently over him, So absorbed was he. A formidable line of

the enemy came within dangerous range. They could be seen plainly, tall, gaunt men with excited faces, running with long strides toward a wandering fence. At sight of this danger, the men suddenly ceased their cursing monotone. There was an instant of strained silence before they threw up their rifles and fired a plumping volley at the foes. There had been no order given. The men, upon recognizing the menace, had immediately let drive their flock of bullets without

waiting for word of command. But the enemy were quick to gain the protection of the wandering line of fence. They slid down behind it with remarkable celerity, and from this position they began briskly to slice up the blue men. These latter braced their energies for a great struggle off white clenched teeth, shone from the dusky faces. Many heads surged to and fro, floating upon a pale sea of smoke. Those behind the fence frequently shouted and yelped in taunts

and guidelike cries, but the regiment maintained a stressed silence. Perhaps at this due assault, the men recalled the fact that they had been named mud diggers, and it made their situation thrice bitter. They were breathlessly intent upon keeping the ground and thrusting away the rejoicing body of the enemy. They fought swiftly and with a despairing savageness denoted in their expressions. The youth had resolved not

to budge whatever should happen. Some arrows of scorn that had buried themselves in his heart had generated strange and unspeakable hatred. It was clear to him that his final and absolute revenge was to be achieved by his dead body, lying

torn and gluttering upon the field. This was to be a poignant retaliation upon the officer who had said mule drivers and later mud diggers, For in all the wild graspings of his mind for a unit responsible for his sufferings and commotions, he always seized upon the man who had dubbed him wrongly, and it was his idea vaguely formulated, that his corpse would be for those eyes a great and salt reproach. The regiment bled extravagantly, grunting bundles of blue began

to drop. The orderly sergeant of the Youth's company was shot through the cheeks, its supports being injured, his jaw hung afar down, disclosing in the wide cavern of his mouth a pulsing mass of blood and teeth, and with it all he made attempts to cry out. In his endeavor, there was a dreadful earnestness, as if he conceived that one great shriek would make him well. The youth saw him presently go rearward. His strength seemed in no

eise impaired. He ran swiftly, casting wild glances for succor. Others fell down about the feet of their companions. Some of the wounded crawled out and away, but many lay still, their bodies twisted into impossible shapes. The youth looked once for his friend. He saw a vehement young man, powder smeared and frowsled, whom he knew to be him. The lieutenant also was unscathed. In his position at the rear, he had continued to curse, but it was now with the air of a man who was using his last

box of oaths. For the fire of the regiment had begun to wane and drip. The robust voice that had come strangely from the thin ranks was growing rapidly weak. And of chapter twenty two Chapter twenty three of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina.

The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, Chapter twenty three. The colonel came running along back of the line. There were other officers following him. We must charge him, they shouted, We must charge him, They cried with resentful voices, as if anticipating a rebellion against this plan by the men. The youth, upon hearing the shouts, began to study the distance

between him and the enemy. He made vague calculations. He saw that to be firm soldiers, they must go forward it would be death to stay in the present place, and with all the circumstances, to go backward would exalt too many others. Their hope was to push the galling foes away from the fence. He expected that his companions, weary and stiffened, would have to

be driven to this assault. But as he turned toward them, he perceived with a certain surprise that they were giving quick and unqualified expressions of a set. There was an ominous clanging overture to the charge. When the shafts of the bayonets rattled upon the rifle barrels. At the yelled words of command, the soldier sprang forward in eager leaps. There was new and unexpected force in

the movement of the regiment. A knowledge of its faded and jaded condition made the charge appear like a paroxysm, a display of the strength that comes before a final feebleness. The men scampered in insane fever of haste, racing as if to achieve a sudden success before an exhilarating fluid should leave them. It was a blind and despair rush by the collection of men in dusty and tattered blue over a green sward and under a sapphire sky toward a fence dimly outlined

in smoke from behind, which spluttered the fierce rifles of enemies. The youth kept the bright colors to the front. He was waving his free arm in furious circles, the wild, shrieking, mad calls and appeals, urging on those that did not need to be urged. For it seemed that the mob of blue men hurling themselves on the dangerous group of rifles were again grown suddenly

wild with an enthusiasm of unselfishness. From the many firings starting toward them, It looked as if they would merely succeed in making a great sprinkling of corpses on the grass between their former position and the fence. But they were in a state of frenzy, perhaps because of forgotten vanities, and it made an exhibition of sublime recklessness. There was no obvious questioning, nor figurings nor diagrams. There was apparently no considered loopholes. It appeared that the swift wings of

their desires would have shattered against the iron gates of the impossible. He himself felt the daring spirit of a savage religion. Mad. He was capable of profound sacrifices, a tremendous death. He had no time for dissections, but he knew that he thought of the bullets only as things that could prevent him from reaching the place of his endeavor. There were subtle flashings of joy within him that thus should be his mind. He strained all his strength. His

eyesight was shaken and dazzled by the tension of thought and muscle. He did not see anything excepting the mist of smoke gashed by the little knives of fire. But he knew that in it lay the aged fence of a vanished farmer, protecting the snuggled bodies of the gray men. As he ran, a thought of the shock of contact gleamed in his mind. He expected a great concussion when the two bodies of troops crashed together. This became a part of

his wild battle madness. He could feel the onward swing of the regiment about him, and he conceived of a thunderous, crushing blow that would prostrate the resistance and spread consternation and amazement for miles. The flying regiment was going to have a Catapultian effect. This dream made him run faster among his comrades, who were giving vent to horse and frantic cheers. But presently he could see that many of the men in gray did not intend to abide the blow.

The smoke rolling disclosed men who ran their faces still turned. These grew to a crowd who retired stubbornly. Individuals wheeled frequently to send a bullet at the blue wave. But at one part of the line there was a grim and obdurate group that made no movement. They were settled firmly down behind posts and rails. A flag ruffled and fierce waved over them, and their rifles dinned fiercely. The blue whirl of men got very near, until it seemed that

in truth there would be a close and frightful scuffle. There was an express disdain in the opposition of the little group that changed the meaning of the cheers of the men in blue. They became yells of wrath directed personal. The cries of the two parties were now in sound, an interchange of scathing insults. They in blue showed their teeth, their eyes shone all white. They launched themselves as at the throats of those who stood resisting. The space between

dwindled to an insignificant distance. The youth had centered the gaze of his soul upon that other flag. Its possession would be high pride. It would express bloody minglings near blows. He had a gigantic hatred for those who made great difficulties in complications. They caused it to be as a craved treasure of mythology, Hung amid tasks and contrivances of danger, He plunged like a mad horse

at it. He was resolved it should not escape, if wild blows and darings of blows could seize it. His own emblem quivering and a flare, was winging toward the other. It seemed there would shortly be an encounter of strange beaks and claws as of eagles. The swirling body of blue men came to a sudden halt at close and disastrous range, and roared a swift folly. The group in gray was split and broken by this fire, but its riddled body still fought. The men in blue yelled again and rushed in upon

it. The youth, in his leapings saw as through a mist, a picture of four or five men stretched upon the ground, or writhing upon their knees, with bowed heads, as if they had been stricken by bolts from the sky. Tottering among them was the rival color bearer, whom the youth saw had been bitten vitally by the bullets of the last formidable volley. He perceived this man fighting a last struggle, the struggle of one whose legs are grasped by demons. It was a ghastly battle. Over his face was the

bleach of death. But set upon it was the dark and hard lines of desperate purpose. With this terrible grin of resolution, he hugged his precious flag to him, and was stumbling and staggering in his design to go the way that led to safety for it. But his wounds always made it seem that his feet were retarded held, and he fought a grim fight, as with invisible ghouls fastened greedily upon his limbs. Those in advance of the scampering blue

men, howling cheers, leaped at the fence. Despair of the loss was in his eyes as he glanced back at them. The youth's friend went over the obstruction in a tumbling heap, and sprang at the flag as a panther at prey. He pulled at it and wrenching it free swung up its red brilliancy with a mad cry of exultation, even as the color bearer, gasping, lurched over in a final throw, and stiffening convulsively turned his dead face to the ground. There was much blood upon the grass blades. At the

place of success. There began more wild clamorings of cheers. The men gesticulated and bellowed in an ecstasy. When they spoke, it was as if they considered their listener to be a mile away. What hats and caps were left to them, they often slung high in the air. At one part of the line, four men had been swooped upon, and they now sat his prisoners. Some blue men were about them in an eager and curious circle. The soldiers had trapped strange birds, and there was an examination. A flurry

of fast questions was in the air. One of the prisoners was nursing a superficial wound in the foot. He cuddled it baby wise, but he looked up from it often to curse with an astonishing utter. Abandoned straight at the noses of his captors, he consigned them to red regions. He called upon the pestilential wrath of strange gods, and with it all he was singularly free

from recognition of the finer points of the conduct of prisoners of war. It was as if a clumsy clod had trod upon his toe, and he conceived it to be his privilege, his duty to use deep, resentful oaths. Another, who was a boy in years, took his plight with great calmness and apparent good nature. He conversed with the men in blue, studying their faces with his bright and keen eyes. They spoke of battles and conditions.

There was an acute interest in all their faces. During this exchange of viewpoints. It seemed a great satisfaction to hear voices from where all had been darkness and speculation. The third captive sat with a morose countenance. He preserved a stoical and cold attitude to all advances. He made one reply without variation, ah, go to hell. The last of the four was always silent,

and for the most part kept his face turned in unmolested directions. From the views the youth received, he seemed to be in a state of absolute dejection. Shame was upon him, and with it profound regret that he was perhaps no more to be counted in the ranks of his fellows. The youth could detect no expression that would allow him to believe that the other was giving a thought to his narrowed future, to pictured dungeons perhaps, and starvations and brutalities

liable to the imagination. All to be seen was shame for captivity and regret for the right to antagonize. After the men had celebrated sufficiently, they settled down behind the old rail fence, on the opposite side to the one from which their foes had been driven. A few shot perfunctorily at distant marks. There was some long grass. The youth nestled in it and rested, making a convenient rail support the flag. His friend, jubilant and glorified, holding

his treasure with vanity, came to him. There they sat side by side and congratulated each other. End of Chapter twenty three, Chapter twenty four of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recording or in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane, chapter twenty

four. The roarings that had stretched in a long line of sound across the face of the forest began to grow intermittent and weaker. The stentorian speeches of the artillery continued in some distant encounter, but the crashes of the musketry had almost ceased. The youth and his friend of a sudden looked up, feeling a deadened form of distress at the waning of these noises, which had become a part of life. They could see changes going on among the troops.

There were marchings this way and that way. A battery wheeled leisurely. On the crest of a small hill was the thick gleam of many departing muskets. The youth arose, well, oh, what now, I wonder, he said. By his tone he seemed to be preparing to resent some new monstrosity in the way of dins and smashes. He shaded his eyes with his grimy hand and gazed over the field. His friend also arose and stared, I bet we're going to get along out of this and back over the river.

Said he. Well, I swan said the youth. They waited watching. Within a little while the regiment received orders to retrace its way. The men got up, grunting from the grass. Regretting the soft repose. They jerked their stiffened legs and stretched their arms over their heads. One man swore as he rubbed his eyes. They all groaned, Oh Lord. They had as many objections to this change as they would have had to a proposal for a

new battle. They trampled slowly back over the field across which they had run in a mad scamper. The it marched until it had joined its fellows. The reformed brigade in column aimed through a wood at the road directly. They were in a mass of dust covered troops, and were trudging along in a way parallel to the enemy's lines, as these had been defined by the previous turmoil. They passed within view of a stolid white house and saw in front

of it groups of their comrades lying in wait behind a neat breastwork. A row of guns were booming at a distant enemy. Shells thrown in reply were raising clouds of dust and splinters. Horsemen dashed along the line of entrenchments. At this point of its march, the division curved away from the field and went winding off in the direction of the river. When the significance of this movement had impressed itself upon the youth, he turned his head and looked over

his shoulder toward the trampled and debris strewed ground. He breathed the breath of new satisfaction. He finally his friend, Well it's all over, he said to him. His friend gazed backward. By God it is, he assented. They mused for a time. The youth was obliged to reflect in a puzzled and uncertain way. His mind was undergoing a subtle change. It took moments for it to cast off its battleful ways and resume its accustomed course of

thought. Gradually his brain emerged from the clogged clouds, and at last he was enabled to more closely comprehend himself and circumstance. He understood then that the existence of shot and countershot was in the past. He had dwelt in a land of strange, squalling upheavals, and had come forth. He had been where there was red of blood and black of passion, and he was escaped. His first thoughts were given to rejoicings at this fact. Later, he

began to study his deeds, his failures, and his achievements. Thus, fresh from scenes where many of his usual machines of reflection had been idle from where he had proceeded sheeplike, he struggled to marshal all his acts. At last, they marched before him clearly. From this present viewpoint, he was enabled to look upon them in spectator fashion, and to criticize them with some correctness. For his new condition had already defeated certain sympathies regarding his procession of

memory. He felt gleeful and unregretting, for any of his public deeds were paraded in great and shining prominence. Those performances which had been witnessed by his fellows marched now in wide purple and gold, having various deflections. They went gaily with music. It was pleasure to watch these things. He spent delightful minutes viewing the gilded images of memory. He saw that he was good. He recalled with a thrill of joy the respectful comments of his fellows upon his

conduct. Nevertheless, the ghost of his flight from the first engagement appeared to him and danced there were small shoutings in his brain about these matters. For a moment he blushed, and the light of his soul flickered with shame.

A specter of reproach came to him. There loomed the dogging memory of the tattered soldier, He who gored by bullets and faint for blood, had fretted concerning and imagined wound in another, He who had loaned his last of strength and intellect for the tall soldier, He who blind with weariness and pain, had been deserted in the field. For an instant, a wretched chill of sweat was upon him at the thought that he might be detected in the thing.

As he stood persistently before his vision, he gave vent to a cry of sharp irritation and agony. His friend turned, what's the matter, Henry, he demanded. The youth's reply was an outburst of crimson oaths. As he marched along the little branch hung roadway among his prattling companions, this vision of cruelty brooded over him. It clung near him always and darkened his view of these deeds in purple and gold. Whichever way his thoughts turned, they

were followed by the somber phantom of the desertion in the fields. He looked steadily at his companions, feeling sure that they must discern in his face evidences of this pursuit. But they were plotting in ragged array, discussing with quick tongues the accomplishments of the last battle. Oh, if a man should come up an ask me, I'd say, we got a dumb good lickin' lickin' in your eye. We ain't licked, sonny. We're goin down here away, swing around an come in behind them. Oh, with your coming in

behind him, I've seen all that I want to. Don't tell me about coming him behind Bill smithers. He says he'd rather been in ten hundred battles than been in that hell of a hospital. He says they got shooting in the nighttime, and shells dropped plumb among him in the hospital. He says, such hollering, he never see Hasbrook. He's the best officer in this here regiment. He's a whale. Did not tell you we'd come around him behind him, didn't I tell you? So? We Oh, shut your

mouth for a time. This pursuing recollection of the tattered men took all elation from the youth's veins. He saw his vivid error, and he was afraid that it would stand before him all his life. He took no share in the chatter of his comrades, nor did he look at them or know them, save when he felt sudden suspicion that they were seeing his thoughts and scrutinizing

each tail of the scene with the tattered soldier. Yet gradually he mustered forced to put the sin at a distance, and at last his eyes seemed to open to some new ways. He found that he could look back upon the brass and bombast of his earlier gospels and see them truly. He was gleeful when he discovered that he now despised them. With this conviction came a store of assurance. He felt a quiet manhood, non assertive, but of sturdy

and strong blood. He knew that he would no more quail before his guides wherever they should point. He had been to touch the great death, and found that after all, it was but the great death. He was a man. So it came to pass that as he trudged from the place of blood and wrath, his soul changed. It came from hot plowshares to prospects of clover tranquility, And it was as if hot plowshares were not scars,

faded as flowers. It rained. The procession of weary soldiers became a bedraggled train, despondent and muttering, marching with churning effort in a trough of liquid brown mud under a low, wretched sky. Yet the youth smiled, for he saw that the world was a world for him, though many discovered it to be made of oaths and walking sticks. He had rid himself of the

red sickness of battle. The sultry nightmare was in the past. He had been an animal, blistered and sweating in the heat and pain of war. He turned now where the lovers thirst, to images of tranquil skies, fresh meadows, cool brooks, and existence of soft and eternal peace. Over the river, a golden ray of sun came through the hosts of leaden rain clouds. This is the end of Chapter twenty four and the end of The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane. Thank you for listening.