The End of the
Battle by Stephen Crane
A sergeant, a corporal, and fourteen men of the Twelfth Regiment of
the Line had been sent out to occupy a house on the main highway. They
would be at least a half of a mile in advance of any other picket of
their own people. Sergeant Morton was deeply angry at being sent on
this duty. He said that he was over-worked. There were at least two
sergeants, he claimed furiously, whose turn it should have been to go
on this arduous mission. He was treated unfairly; he was abused by his
superiors; why did any damned fool ever join the army? As for him he
would get out of it as soon as possible; he was sick of it; the life of
a dog. All this he said to the corporal, who listened attentively,
giving grunts of respectful assent. On the way to this post two
privates took occasion to drop to the rear and pilfer in the orchard of
a deserted plantation. When the sergeant discovered this absence, he
grew black with a rage which 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 two delinquents, whose figures they could see in
the deep shade of the orchard, hurriedly picking fruit from the ground
and cramming it within their shirts, next to their skins. The
beseeching cries of their comrades stirred the criminals more than did
the barking of the sergeant. They ran to rejoin the squad, while
holding their loaded bosoms and with their mouths open with aggrieved
Jones faced the sergeant with a horrible cancer marked in bumps on
his left side. The disease of Patterson showed quite around the front
of his waist in many protuberances. “A nice pair!” said the sergeant,
with sudden frigidity. “You're the kind of soldiers a man wants to
choose for a dangerous outpost duty, ain't you?”
The two privates stood at attention, still looking much aggrieved.
“We only—” began Jones huskily.
“Oh, you 'only!'“ cried the sergeant. “Yes, you 'only.' I know all
about that. But if you think you are going to trifle with me—”
A moment later the squad moved on towards its station. Behind the
sergeant's back Jones and Patterson were slyly passing apples and pears
to their friends while the sergeant expounded eloquently to the
corporal. “You see what kind of men are in the army now. Why, when I
joined the regiment it was a very different thing, I can tell you. Then
a sergeant had some authority, and if a man disobeyed orders, he had a
very small chance of escaping something extremely serious. But now!
Good God! If I report these men, the captain will look over a lot of
beastly orderly sheets and say—'Haw, eh, well, Sergeant Morton, these
men seem to have very good records; very good records, indeed. I can't
be too hard 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
which with him had become a science. “I think you are right, sergeant,”
Behind them the privates mumbled discreetly. “Damn this sergeant of
ours. He thinks we are made of wood. I don't see any reason for all
this strictness when we are on active service. It isn't like being at
home in barracks! There is no great harm in a couple of men dropping
out to raid an orchard of the enemy when all the world knows that we
haven't had a decent meal in twenty days.”
The reddened face of Sergeant Morton suddenly showed to the rear. “A
little more marching and less talking,” he said.
When he came to the house he had been ordered to occupy the sergeant
sniffed with disdain. “These people must have lived like cattle,” he
said angrily. To be sure, the place was not alluring. The ground floor
had been used for the housing of cattle, and it was dark and terrible.
A flight of steps led to the lofty first floor, which was denuded but
respectable. The sergeant's visage lightened when he saw the strong
walls of stone and cement. “Unless they turn guns on us, they will
never get us out of here,” he said cheerfully to the squad. The men,
anxious to keep him in an amiable mood, all hurriedly grinned and
seemed very appreciative and pleased. “I'll make this into a fortress,”
he announced. He sent Jones and Patterson, the two orchard thieves, out
on sentry-duty. He worked the others, then, until he could think of no
more things to tell them to do. Afterwards he went forth, with a major-general's serious scowl, and examined the ground in front of his
position. 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, and
putting their packs under their heads and lighting their pipes, they
lived an easy peace. Bees hummed in the garden, and a scent of flowers
came through the open window. A great fan-shaped bit of sunshine smote
the face of one man, and he indolently cursed as he moved his primitive
bed to a shadier place.
Another private explained to a comrade: “This is all nonsense
anyhow. No sense in occupying this post. They—”
“But, of course,” said the corporal, “when she told me herself that
she cared more for me than she did for him, I wasn't going to stand any
of his talk—” The corporal's listener was so sleepy that he could only
grunt his sympathy.
There was a sudden little spatter of shooting. A cry from Jones rang
out. With no intermediate scrambling, the sergeant leaped straight to
his feet. “Now,” he cried, “let us see what you are made of! If,” he
added bitterly, “you are made of anything!”
A man yelled: “Good God, can't you see you're all tangled up in my
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 brushed
hair from their eyes even as they made ready their rifles. Jones and
Patterson 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
importance of 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
over the house without anybody being able to discover a target. In this
interval a man was shot in the throat. He gurgled, and then lay down on
the floor. The blood slowly waved down the brown skin of his neck while
he looked meekly at his comrades.
There was a howl. “There they are! There they come!” The rifles
crackled. A light smoke drifted idly through the rooms. There was a
strong odor as if from burnt paper and the powder of firecrackers. The
men were silent. Through the windows and about the house the bullets of
an entirely invisible enemy moaned, hummed, spat, burst, and sang.
The men began to curse. “Why can't we see them?” they muttered
through their teeth. The sergeant was still frigid. He answered
soothingly as if he were directly reprehensible for this behavior of
the enemy. “Wait a moment. You will soon be able to see them. There!
Give it to them!” A little skirt of black figures had appeared in a
field. It was really like shooting at an upright needle from the full
length of a ballroom. But the men's spirits improved as soon as the
enemy—this mysterious enemy—became a tangible thing, and far off.
They had believed the foe to be shooting at them from the adjacent
“Now,” said the sergeant ambitiously, “we can beat them off easily
if you men are good enough.”
A man called out in a tone of quick, great interest. “See that
fellow on horseback, Bill? Isn't he on horseback? I thought he was on
There was a fusilade against another side of the house. The sergeant
dashed into the room which commanded the situation. He found a dead
soldier on the floor. He rushed out howling: “When was Knowles killed?
When was Knowles killed? When was Knowles killed? Damn it, when was
Knowles killed?” It was absolutely essential to find out the exact
moment this man died. A blackened private turned upon his sergeant and
demanded: “How in hell do I know?” Sergeant Morton had a sense of anger
so brief that in the next second he cried: “Patterson!” He had even
forgotten his vital interest in the time of Knowles' death.
“Yes?” said Patterson, his face set with some deep-rooted quality of
determination. Still, he was a mere farm boy.
“Go in to Knowles' window and shoot at those people,” said the
sergeant hoarsely. Afterwards he coughed. Some of the fumes of the
fight had made way to his lungs.
Patterson looked at the door into this other room. He looked at it
as if he suspected it was to be his death-chamber. Then he entered and
stood across the body of Knowles and fired vigorously into a group of
“They can't take this house,” declared the sergeant in a
contemptuous and argumentative tone. He was apparently replying to
somebody. The man who had been shot in the throat looked up at him.
Eight men were firing from the windows. The sergeant detected in a
corner three wounded men talking together feebly. “Don't you think
there is anything to do?” he bawled. “Go and get Knowles' cartridges
and give them to somebody who can use them! Take Simpson's too.” The
man who had been shot in the throat looked at him. Of the three wounded
men who had been talking, one said: “My leg is all doubled up under me,
sergeant.” He spoke apologetically.
Meantime the sergeant was re-loading his rifle. His foot slipped in
the blood of the man who had been shot in the throat, and the military
boot made a greasy red streak on the floor.
“Why, we can hold this place!” shouted the sergeant jubilantly. “Who
says we can't?”
Corporal Flagler suddenly spun away from his window and fell in a
“Sergeant,” murmured a man as he dropped to a seat on the floor out
of danger, “I can't stand this. I swear I can't. I think we should run
Morton, with the kindly eyes of a good shepherd, looked at the man.
“You are afraid, Johnston, you are afraid,” he said softly. The man
struggled to his feet, cast upon the sergeant a gaze full of
admiration, reproach, and despair, and returned to his post. A moment
later he pitched forward, and thereafter his body hung out of the
window, his arms straight and the fists clenched. Incidentally this
corpse was pierced afterwards by chance three times by bullets of the
The sergeant laid his rifle against the stonework of the
window-frame and 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 vista of a garden, fields, clumps of trees, woods, populated at
the time with little fleeting figures.
He grew furious. “Why didn't he send me orders?” he cried aloud. The
emphasis on the word “he” was impressive. A mile back on the road a
galloper 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
shut up? 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
in the throat. There was a sickening moment. Then the sergeant rolled
off to a position upon the bloody floor. He turned himself with a last
effort 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
dropped on his face.
After an interval a young subaltern of the enemy's infantry,
followed by his eager men, burst into this reeking interior. But just
over the threshold he halted before the scene of blood and death. He
turned with a shrug to his sergeant. “God, I should have estimated them
at least one hundred strong.”