Chapter 11

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.

He realized that the battle’s furnace-like roar was growing louder. Great clouds had drifted into the still air high above him. The noise was coming closer too. Men filtered out of the woods, dotting the fields.

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.

As he rounded a small hill, he saw that the road was now a shouting mass of wagons, horse teams, and men. Calls of encouragement, orders, and curses rose from the surging tangle. Fear was driving them all forward. Whips cracked and stung as horses lunged and pulled. The white-topped wagons strained and stumbled 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.

The sight comforted the young man somewhat. They were all retreating. Perhaps, then, he was not so bad after all. He sat down and watched the terrified wagons. They fled like soft, awkward animals. All the people shouting and whipping the teams helped him exaggerate the dangers and horrors of the battle. In this way, he could try to prove to himself that the act men might accuse him of was truly justified. He took some pleasure in watching this wild march that seemed to prove him right.

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 butted mules with their musket stocks. They prodded teamsters 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.

Soon, the calm front of an advancing column of infantry appeared on the road. The column came forward quickly. As it moved around obstacles, it wound like a snake. The men at the front shoved mules with the stocks of their muskets. They prodded teamsters who paid no attention to the howling. The men forced their way through parts of the dense mass. The blunt front of the column pushed on. The raging teamsters shouted many strange curses.

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.

The orders to clear the way sounded very important. The men were going forward into the heart of the noise. They were going to face the enemy's eager charge. They felt proud to be moving forward while the rest of the army seemed to be trickling down the road. They shoved teams of horses aside, feeling it did not matter as long as their column reached the front in time. This sense of importance made their faces serious and stern. The officers held their backs very straight.

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.

As the young man looked at them, the dark weight of his sorrow returned. He felt as if he were watching a procession of chosen people. The distance between him and them seemed as great as if they carried weapons of flame and banners of sunlight. He could never be like them. He longed for it so much that he could have wept.

He searched about in his mind for an adequate malediction for the indefinite cause, the thing upon which men turn the words of final blame. It—whatever it was—was responsible for him, he said. There lay the fault.

He searched his mind for a curse strong enough for the unknown cause, the thing people ultimately blame. Whatever it was, he said, it was responsible for him. That was where the fault lay.

The haste of the column to reach the battle seemed to 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 make excuses to the stars.

To the miserable young man, the column’s rush to reach the battle seemed much finer than fighting bravely. He thought that even heroes could find excuses in that long, churning lane. They could retreat with their self-respect intact and make 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, throw 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.

He wondered what those men had eaten to make them so eager to rush toward the grim chance of death. As he watched, his envy grew until he wished he could trade lives with one of them. He told himself he wished he could use tremendous force to throw off his old self and become someone better. Quick images of himself came to him, as if he were both outside and inside himself. He saw a desperate figure in blue leading fierce charges, one knee thrust forward and a broken blade held high. He saw a determined figure in blue standing before an assault of blood and steel, calmly being killed on high ground before everyone’s eyes. He thought of how magnificent and moving his dead body would be.

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 music 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.

These thoughts lifted his spirits. He felt a thrill of desire for war. He heard victory ringing in his ears. He felt the frenzy of a swift, successful charge. The pounding feet, sharp voices, and clanking weapons of the troops near him were like music. They lifted him on the red wings of war. For a few moments, he felt 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.

He thought he was about to head to the front. He even pictured himself rushing there at just the right moment, covered in dust, exhausted and gasping for breath. He would seize and strangle the dark, grinning witch of disaster.

Then the difficulties of the thing began to drag at him. He hesitated, balancing awkwardly on one foot.

Then the difficulties of it began to weigh on 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.

He had no rifle. He resentfully reminded himself that he could not fight with his bare hands. Well, he could pick up a rifle. There were an extraordinary number of them.

Also, he continued, it would be a miracle if he found his regiment. Well, he could fight with any regiment.

He went on to say that finding his regiment would be a miracle. 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 moved forward slowly. He stepped as if he expected to step on something explosive. He struggled with his doubts.

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.

He would truly be a worm if any of his comrades saw him returning like this, with signs of his flight on him. But he reasoned that the fighters were too focused to care what happened behind them, unless enemy bayonets appeared there. In the blur of battle, his face would be hidden in a way, like the face of a hooded 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.

But then he said that his tireless fate would send a man to demand an explanation when the fighting briefly paused. He imagined his companions watching him closely as he painfully struggled to tell them lies.

Eventually, his courage expended itself upon these objections. The debates drained him of his fire.

Eventually, his courage ran out as he faced these objections. The debates drained him of his spirit.

He was not cast down by this defeat of his plan, for, upon studying the affair carefully, he could not but admit that the objections were very formidable.

He was not discouraged that his plan had failed. After thinking it over carefully, he had to admit that the objections were very serious.

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.

Besides, various aches and pains had begun to make themselves felt. Because of them, he could no longer soar on the wings of war. They made it almost impossible for him to see himself as a hero. 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.

He realized he was desperately thirsty. His face was so dry and dirty that he thought he could feel his skin crackle. Every bone in his body ached and seemed ready to break whenever he moved. His feet felt like two open sores. His body was also crying out for food. The need was stronger than ordinary hunger. He felt a dull, heavy weight in his stomach. When he tried to walk, his head swayed and he staggered. He could not see clearly. Small patches of green mist floated before his eyes.

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.

While he was caught up in many emotions, he had not noticed his aches and pains. Now they overwhelmed him and demanded his attention. When he finally had to pay attention to them, he hated himself even more. In despair, he declared that he was not like the others. He now admitted that he could never become a hero. He was a cowardly fool. His visions of glory were pitiful. He groaned from the depths of his heart and staggered 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.

A mothlike quality in him kept him near the battle. He wanted badly to see what was happening and get news. He wanted 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 told himself that, despite suffering more than ever before, he had never lost his hunger for victory. Yet he half apologized to his conscience as he admitted that an army defeat this time might benefit him greatly. The enemy’s blows would break regiments into fragments. Many brave men, he thought, would have to abandon their flags and scatter like chickens. He would seem to be one of them. They would be grim brothers in distress, and he could easily believe he had run no farther or faster than they had. And if he could believe in his own moral perfection, he thought he would have little trouble convincing everyone else.

He said, as if in 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 could 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.

As if to excuse his hope, he said that the army had suffered great defeats before. Within a few months, it had shaken off all their blood and legacy. It had emerged as bright and brave as a new army. It had pushed the memory of disaster out of sight and appeared with the courage and confidence of undefeated armies. The shrill voices of the people at home would complain miserably for a while. But generals were usually the ones forced to listen to those songs. He felt no guilt, of course, about offering a general as a sacrifice. He could not tell which general would be chosen for their barbs, so he could feel no direct sympathy for him. The people were far away, and he did not think public opinion was accurate at such a distance. They would quite probably attack the wrong man. After recovering from his amazement, that man might spend the rest of his days writing replies to the songs about his supposed failure. That would be very unfortunate, no doubt, but in this case a general meant nothing 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. This would demonstrate that he was indeed a seer.

A defeat would vindicate him in a roundabout way. He thought it would, in a way, prove that he had fled early because he was more perceptive. A serious prophet who predicts a flood should be the first man to climb a tree. That would show he could indeed see the future.

A moral vindication was regarded by the youth as a very important thing. Without salve, he could not, he thought, wear 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.

The young man believed it was very important to prove himself morally worthy. Without that relief, he thought he could not bear the painful mark of his dishonor throughout his life. His heart kept telling him he was despicable. He could not go on living without making his self-contempt clear to all men through his actions.

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 doom himself to isolation. If the men were advancing, their indifferent feet were trampling upon his chances for a successful life.

If the army had gone on to glory, he would be lost. If the noise meant that his army’s flags were now moving forward, he was a condemned man. He would have to condemn himself to isolation. If the men were advancing, their careless feet were trampling 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 place 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.

As these thoughts raced through his mind, he turned against them and tried to push them away. He called himself a villain. He said he was the most unspeakably selfish man alive. He pictured the soldiers who would defiantly stand before the spear of the screaming monster of battle. As he saw their blood-soaked corpses on an imagined battlefield, he said 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.

Again, he wished he were dead. He thought he envied a corpse. As he thought of the dead, he came to despise some of them, as if they were guilty of dying. He told himself they might have been killed by lucky chance, before they could flee or be truly tested. Yet tradition would honor them. He cried out bitterly that their crowns were stolen and their glorious reputations were false. Still, he said it was a great pity that he was not dead like them.

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.

He had considered an army defeat as a way to escape the consequences of his fall. Now, though, he thought it was useless to imagine such a possibility. He had been taught that victory for that mighty blue machine was certain. It would produce victories as a machine turns out buttons. Soon he dismissed all his thoughts to the contrary. He returned to the soldiers’ creed.

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 turn the expected shafts of derision.

When he realized again that the army could not be defeated, he tried to think of a good story to tell his regiment. He hoped the story would ward off the ridicule he expected.

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.

But he was so afraid of these barbs that he could not make up a story he felt he could trust. He tried many plans, but rejected them one by one as weak. He quickly spotted the weak points in all of them.

Furthermore, he was much afraid that some arrow of scorn might lay him mentally low before he could raise his protecting tale.

He was also deeply afraid that a cutting remark might crush him before he could tell the story that would protect him.

He imagined the whole regiment saying: “Where’s Henry Fleming? He run, didn’t ’e? 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.

He imagined the whole regiment saying: “Where’s Henry Fleming? He ran, didn’t he? Oh, my!” He remembered several people who would be sure to give him no peace about it. They would surely question him with sneers and laugh as he stammered and hesitated. In the next battle, they would try to watch him to see when he would run.

Wherever he went in camp, he would encounter insolent and lingeringly cruel stares. As he imagined himself passing near a crowd of comrades, he could hear one say, “There he goes!”

Wherever he went in camp, he would meet mocking stares that lingered cruelly on him. He imagined passing a crowd of fellow soldiers and hearing 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 some one make a humorous remark in a low tone. At it the others all crowed and cackled. He was a slang phrase.

Then all the faces turned toward him with wide, mocking grins, as if one muscle had moved all their heads. He seemed to hear someone make a joke in a low voice. At the remark, all the others crowed and cackled. He had become a slang phrase.