The End of the Battle

by Stephen Crane

　　

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A sergeant, a corporal, and fourteen men of the Twelfth Regiment of theLine had been sent out to occupy a house on the main highway. They wouldbe at least a half of a mile in advance of any other picket of their ownpeople. Sergeant Morton was deeply angry at being sent on this duty. Hesaid that he was over-worked. There were at least two sergeants, heclaimed furiously, whose turn it should have been to go on this arduousmission. He was treated unfairly; he was abused by his superiors; whydid any damned fool ever join the army? As for him he would get out ofit as soon as possible; he was sick of it; the life of a dog. All thishe said to the corporal, who listened attentively, giving grunts ofrespectful assent. On the way to this post two privates took occasion todrop to the rear and pilfer in the orchard of a deserted plantation.When the sergeant discovered this absence, he grew black with a ragewhich was an accumulation of all his irritations. "Run, you!" he howled."Bring them here! I'll show them--" A private ran swiftly to the rear.The remainder of the squad began to shout nervously at the twodelinquents, whose figures they could see in the deep shade of theorchard, hurriedly picking fruit from the ground and cramming it withintheir shirts, next to their skins. The beseeching cries of theircomrades stirred the criminals more than did the barking of thesergeant. They ran to rejoin the squad, while holding their loadedbosoms and with their mouths open with aggrieved explanations.Jones faced the sergeant with a horrible cancer marked in bumps on hisleft side. The disease of Patterson showed quite around the front of hiswaist in many protuberances. "A nice pair!" said the sergeant, withsudden frigidity. "You're the kind of soldiers a man wants to choose fora dangerous outpost duty, ain't you?"The two privates stood at attention, still looking much aggrieved. "Weonly--" began Jones huskily."Oh, you 'only!'" cried the sergeant. "Yes, you 'only.' I know all aboutthat. But if you think you are going to trifle with me--"A moment later the squad moved on towards its station. Behind thesergeant's back Jones and Patterson were slyly passing apples and pearsto their friends while the sergeant expounded eloquently to thecorporal. "You see what kind of men are in the army now. Why, when Ijoined the regiment it was a very different thing, I can tell you. Thena sergeant had some authority, and if a man disobeyed orders, he had avery small chance of escaping something extremely serious. But now! GoodGod! If I report these men, the captain will look over a lot of beastlyorderly sheets and say--'Haw, eh, well, Sergeant Morton, these men seemto have very good records; very good records, indeed. I can't be toohard on them; no, not too hard.'" Continued the sergeant: "I tell you,Flagler, the army is no place for a decent man."Flagler, the corporal, answered with a sincerity of appreciation whichwith him had become a science. "I think you are right, sergeant," heanswered.Behind them the privates mumbled discreetly. "Damn this sergeant ofours. He thinks we are made of wood. I don't see any reason for all thisstrictness when we are on active service. It isn't like being at home inbarracks! There is no great harm in a couple of men dropping out to raidan orchard of the enemy when all the world knows that we haven't had adecent meal in twenty days."The reddened face of Sergeant Morton suddenly showed to the rear. "Alittle more marching and less talking," he said.When he came to the house he had been ordered to occupy the sergeantsniffed with disdain. "These people must have lived like cattle," hesaid angrily. To be sure, the place was not alluring. The ground floorhad been used for the housing of cattle, and it was dark and terrible. Aflight of steps led to the lofty first floor, which was denuded butrespectable. The sergeant's visage lightened when he saw the strongwalls of stone and cement. "Unless they turn guns on us, they will neverget us out of here," he said cheerfully to the squad. The men, anxiousto keep him in an amiable mood, all hurriedly grinned and seemed veryappreciative and pleased. "I'll make this into a fortress," heannounced. He sent Jones and Patterson, the two orchard thieves, out onsentry-duty. He worked the others, then, until he could think of no morethings to tell them to do. Afterwards he went forth, with a major-general's serious scowl, and examined the ground in front of hisposition. In returning he came upon a sentry, Jones, munching an apple.He sternly commanded him to throw it away.The men spread their blankets on the floors of the bare rooms, andputting their packs under their heads and lighting their pipes, theylived an easy peace. Bees hummed in the garden, and a scent of flowerscame through the open window. A great fan-shaped bit of sunshine smotethe face of one man, and he indolently cursed as he moved his primitivebed to a shadier place.Another private explained to a comrade: "This is all nonsense anyhow. Nosense in occupying this post. They--""But, of course," said the corporal, "when she told me herself that shecared more for me than she did for him, I wasn't going to stand any ofhis talk--" The corporal's listener was so sleepy that he could onlygrunt his sympathy.There was a sudden little spatter of shooting. A cry from Jones rangout. With no intermediate scrambling, the sergeant leaped straight tohis feet. "Now," he cried, "let us see what you are made of! If," headded bitterly, "you are made of anything!"A man yelled: "Good God, can't you see you're all tangled up in mycartridge belt?"Another man yelled: "Keep off my legs! Can't you walk on the floor?"To the windows there was a blind rush of slumberous men, who brushedhair from their eyes even as they made ready their rifles. Jones andPatterson came stumbling up the steps, crying dreadful information.Already the enemy's bullets were spitting and singing over the house.The sergeant suddenly was stiff and cold with a sense of the importanceof the thing. "Wait until you see one," he drawled loudly and calmly,"then shoot."For some moments the enemy's bullets swung swifter than lightning overthe house without anybody being able to discover a target. In thisinterval a man was shot in the throat. He gurgled, and then lay down onthe floor. The blood slowly waved down the brown skin of his neck whilehe looked meekly at his comrades.There was a howl. "There they are! There they come!" The riflescrackled. A light smoke drifted idly through the rooms. There was astrong odor as if from burnt paper and the powder of firecrackers. Themen were silent. Through the windows and about the house the bullets ofan entirely invisible enemy moaned, hummed, spat, burst, and sang.The men began to curse. "Why can't we see them?" they muttered throughtheir teeth. The sergeant was still frigid. He answered soothingly as ifhe were directly reprehensible for this behavior of the enemy. "Wait amoment. You will soon be able to see them. There! Give it to them!" Alittle skirt of black figures had appeared in a field. It was reallylike shooting at an upright needle from the full length of a ballroom.But the men's spirits improved as soon as the enemy--this mysteriousenemy--became a tangible thing, and far off. They had believed the foeto be shooting at them from the adjacent garden."Now," said the sergeant ambitiously, "we can beat them off easily ifyou men are good enough."A man called out in a tone of quick, great interest. "See that fellow onhorseback, Bill? Isn't he on horseback? I thought he was on horseback."There was a fusilade against another side of the house. The sergeantdashed into the room which commanded the situation. He found a deadsoldier on the floor. He rushed out howling: "When was Knowles killed?When was Knowles killed? When was Knowles killed? Damn it, when wasKnowles killed?" It was absolutely essential to find out the exactmoment this man died. A blackened private turned upon his sergeant anddemanded: "How in hell do I know?" Sergeant Morton had a sense of angerso brief that in the next second he cried: "Patterson!" He had evenforgotten his vital interest in the time of Knowles' death."Yes?" said Patterson, his face set with some deep-rooted quality ofdetermination. Still, he was a mere farm boy."Go in to Knowles' window and shoot at those people," said the sergeanthoarsely. Afterwards he coughed. Some of the fumes of the fight had madeway to his lungs.Patterson looked at the door into this other room. He looked at it as ifhe suspected it was to be his death-chamber. Then he entered and stoodacross the body of Knowles and fired vigorously into a group of plumtrees."They can't take this house," declared the sergeant in a contemptuousand argumentative tone. He was apparently replying to somebody. The manwho had been shot in the throat looked up at him. Eight men were firingfrom the windows. The sergeant detected in a corner three wounded mentalking together feebly. "Don't you think there is anything to do?" hebawled. "Go and get Knowles' cartridges and give them to somebody whocan use them! Take Simpson's too." The man who had been shot in thethroat looked at him. Of the three wounded men who had been talking, onesaid: "My leg is all doubled up under me, sergeant." He spokeapologetically.Meantime the sergeant was re-loading his rifle. His foot slipped in theblood of the man who had been shot in the throat, and the military bootmade a greasy red streak on the floor."Why, we can hold this place!" shouted the sergeant jubilantly. "Whosays we can't?"Corporal Flagler suddenly spun away from his window and fell in a heap."Sergeant," murmured a man as he dropped to a seat on the floor out ofdanger, "I can't stand this. I swear I can't. I think we should runaway."Morton, with the kindly eyes of a good shepherd, looked at the man. "Youare afraid, Johnston, you are afraid," he said softly. The man struggledto his feet, cast upon the sergeant a gaze full of admiration, reproach,and despair, and returned to his post. A moment later he pitchedforward, and thereafter his body hung out of the window, his armsstraight and the fists clenched. Incidentally this corpse was piercedafterwards by chance three times by bullets of the enemy.The sergeant laid his rifle against the stonework of the window-frameand shot with care until his magazine was empty. Behind him a man,simply grazed on the elbow, was wildly sobbing like a girl. "Damn it,shut up!" said Morton, without turning his head. Before him was a vistaof a garden, fields, clumps of trees, woods, populated at the time withlittle fleeting figures.He grew furious. "Why didn't he send me orders?" he cried aloud. Theemphasis on the word "he" was impressive. A mile back on the road agalloper of the Hussars lay dead beside his dead horse.The man who had been grazed on the elbow still set up his bleat.Morton's fury veered to this soldier. "Can't you shut up? Can't you shutup? Can't you shut up? Fight! That's the thing to do. Fight!"A bullet struck Morton, and he fell upon the man who had been shot inthe throat. There was a sickening moment. Then the sergeant rolled offto a position upon the bloody floor. He turned himself with a lasteffort until he could look at the wounded who were able to look at him."Kim up, the Kickers," he said thickly. His arms weakened and he droppedon his face.After an interval a young subaltern of the enemy's infantry, followed byhis eager men, burst into this reeking interior. But just over thethreshold he halted before the scene of blood and death. He turned witha shrug to his sergeant. "God, I should have estimated them at least onehundred strong."

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