As he moved away the colonel called after him. "Take some of the other
boys' canteens with you an' hurry back now."
"Yes, sir, I will."
The colonel and the captain looked at each other then, for it had
suddenly occurred that they could not for the life of them tell whether
Collins wanted to go or whether he did not.
They turned to regard Collins, and as they perceived him surrounded by
gesticulating comrades, the colonel said: "Well, by thunder! I guess
he's going."
Collins appeared as a man dreaming. In the midst of the questions, the
advice, the warnings, all the excited talk of his company mates, he
maintained a curious silence.
They were very busy in preparing him for his ordeal. When they inspected
him carefully it was somewhat like the examination that grooms give a
horse before a race; and they were amazed, staggered by the whole
affair. Their astonishment found vent in strange repetitions.
"Are yeh sure a-goin'?" they demanded again and again.
"Certainly I am," cried Collins, at last furiously.
He strode sullenly away from them. He was swinging five or six canteens
by their cords. It seemed that his cap would not remain firmly on his
head, and often he reached and pulled it down over his brow.
There was a general movement in the compact column. The long animal-like
thing moved slightly. Its four hundred eyes were turned upon the figure
of Collins.
"Well, sir, if that ain't th' derndest thing! I never thought Fred
Collins had the blood in him for that kind of business."
"What's he goin' to do, anyhow?"
"He's goin' to that well there after water."
"We ain't dyin' of thirst, are we? That's foolishness."
"Well, somebody put him up to it, an' he's doin' it."
"Say, he must be a desperate cuss."
When Collins faced the meadow and walked away from the regiment, he was
vaguely conscious that a chasm, the deep valley of all prides, was
suddenly between him and his comrades. It was provisional, but the
provision was that he return as a victor. He had blindly been led by
quaint emotions, and laid himself under an obligation to walk squarely
up to the face of death.
But he was not sure that he wished to make a retraction, even if he
could do so without shame. As a matter of truth, he was sure of very
little. He was mainly surprised.
It seemed to him supernaturally strange that he had allowed his mind to
man[oe]uvre his body into such a situation. He understood that it might
be called dramatically great.
However, he had no full appreciation of anything, excepting that he was
actually conscious of being dazed. He could feel his dulled mind groping
after the form and colour of this incident. He wondered why he did not
feel some keen agony of fear cutting his sense like a knife. He wondered
at this, because human expression had said loudly for centuries that men
should feel afraid of certain things, and that all men who did not feel
this fear were phenomena--heroes.
He was, then, a hero. He suffered that disappointment which we would all
have if we discovered that we were ourselves capable of those deeds
which we most admire in history and legend. This, then, was a hero.
After all, heroes were not much.
No, it could not be true. He was not a hero. Heroes had no shames in
their lives, and, as for him, he remembered borrowing fifteen dollars
from a friend and promising to pay it back the next day, and then
avoiding that friend for ten months. When at home his mother had aroused
him for the early labour of his life on the farm, it had often been his
fashion to be irritable, childish, diabolical; and his mother had died
since he had come to the war.
He saw that, in this matter of the well, the canteens, the shells, he
was an intruder in the land of fine deeds.
He was now about thirty paces from his comrades. The regiment had just
turned its many faces toward him.
From the forest of terrific noises there suddenly emerged a little
uneven line of men. They fired fiercely and rapidly at distant foliage
on which appeared little puffs of white smoke. The spatter of skirmish
firing was added to the thunder of the guns on the hill. The little line
of men ran forward. A colour sergeant fell flat with his flag as if he
had slipped on ice. There was hoarse cheering from this distant field.
Collins suddenly felt that two demon fingers were pressed into his ears.
He could see nothing but flying arrows, flaming red. He lurched from the
shock of this explosion, but he made a mad rush for the house, which he
viewed as a man submerged to the neck in a boiling surf might view the
shore. In the air, little pieces of shell howled and the earthquake
explosions drove him insane with the menace of their roar. As he ran the
canteens knocked together with a rhythmical tinkling.
As he neared the house, each detail of the scene became vivid to him. He
was aware of some bricks of the vanished chimney lying on the sod. There
was a door which hung by one hinge.
Rifle bullets called forth by the insistent skirmishers came from the
far-off bank of foliage. They mingled with the shells and the pieces of
shells until the air was torn in all directions by hootings, yells,
howls. The sky was full of fiends who directed all their wild rage at
his head.
When he came to the well, he flung himself face downward and peered into
its darkness. There were furtive silver glintings some feet from the
surface. He grabbed one of the canteens and, unfastening its cap, swung
it down by the cord. The water flowed slowly in with an indolent gurgle.
And now as he lay with his face turned away he was suddenly smitten with
the terror. It came upon his heart like the grasp of claws. All the
power faded from his muscles. For an instant he was no more than a dead
man.
The canteen filled with a maddening slowness, in the manner of all
bottles. Presently he recovered his strength and addressed a screaming
oath to it. He leaned over until it seemed as if he intended to try to
push water into it with his hands. His eyes as he gazed down into the
well shone like two pieces of metal and in their expression was a great
appeal and a great curse. The stupid water derided him.
There was the blaring thunder of a shell. Crimson light shone through
the swift-boiling smoke and made a pink reflection on part of the wall
of the well. Collins jerked out his arm and canteen with the same motion
that a man would use in withdrawing his head from a furnace.
He scrambled erect and glared and hesitated. On the ground near him lay
the old well bucket, with a length of rusty chain. He lowered it swiftly
into the well. The bucket struck the water and then, turning lazily
over, sank. When, with hand reaching tremblingly over hand, he hauled it
out, it knocked often against the walls of the well and spilled some of
its contents.
In running with a filled bucket, a man can adopt but one kind of gait.
So through this terrible field over which screamed practical angels of
death Collins ran in the manner of a farmer chased out of a dairy by a
bull.
His face went staring white with anticipation--anticipation of a blow
that would whirl him around and down. He would fall as he had seen other
men fall, the life knocked out of them so suddenly that their knees were
no more quick to touch the ground than their heads. He saw the long blue
line of the regiment, but his comrades were standing looking at him from
the edge of an impossible star. He was aware of some deep wheel ruts and
hoofprints in the sod beneath his feet.
The artillery officer who had fallen in this meadow had been making
groans in the teeth of the tempest of sound. These futile cries,
wrenched from him by his agony, were heard only by shells, bullets. When
wild-eyed Collins came running, this officer raised himself. His face
contorted and blanched from pain, he was about to utter some great
beseeching cry. But suddenly his face straightened and he called: "Say,
young man, give me a drink of water, will you?"
Collins had no room amid his emotions for surprise. He was mad from the
threats of destruction.
"I can't!" he screamed, and in his reply was a full description of his
quaking apprehension. His cap was gone and his hair was riotous. His
clothes made it appear that he had been dragged over the ground by the
heels. He ran on.
The officer's head sank down and one elbow crooked. His foot in its
brass-bound stirrup still stretched over the body of his horse and the
other leg was under the steed.
But Collins turned. He came dashing back. His face had now turned gray
and in his eyes was all terror. "Here it is! here it is!"
The officer was as a man gone in drink. His arm bent like a twig. His
head drooped as if his neck were of willow. He was sinking to the
ground, to lie face downward.
Collins grabbed him by the shoulder. "Here it is. Here's your drink.
Turn over. Turn over, man, for God's sake!"
With Collins hauling at his shoulder, the officer twisted his body and
fell with his face turned toward that region where lived the unspeakable
noises of the swirling missiles. There was the faintest shadow of a
smile on his lips as he looked at Collins. He gave a sigh, a little
primitive breath like that from a child.
Collins tried to hold the bucket steadily, but his shaking hands caused
the water to splash all over the face of the dying man. Then he jerked
it away and ran on.
The regiment gave him a welcoming roar. The grimed faces were wrinkled
in laughter.