The Red Badge of Courage | Page 4

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 Greeklike 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 affected to look with
some contempt upon the quality of his war ardor and patriotism. She
could calmly seat herself and with no apparent difficulty give 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 accounts 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 the 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 the light of excitement and expectancy 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, an' take good care of yerself in this here fighting
business--you watch, an' take good care of yerself. Don't go a-thinkin'
you can lick the hull rebel army at the start, because yeh can't. Yer jest
one little feller amongst a hull lot of others, and yeh've got to keep
quiet an' do what they tell yeh. I know how you are, Henry.
"I've knet yeh eight pair of socks, Henry, and I've put in all yer best
shirts, because I want my boy to be jest as warm and comf'able as
anybody in the army. Whenever they get holes in 'em, I want yeh to
send 'em right-away back to me, so's I kin dern 'em.
"An' allus be careful an' choose yer comp'ny. There's lots of bad men in
the army, Henry. The army makes 'em 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 has allus had a mother, an' a-learning
'em to