The American: A Middle Western Legend Read Online Free Page A

have a real affection for him; if they wanted something done, the kid would do it. If they put turtle eggs or live frogs into his pack, the kid grinned as if he really enjoyed it. One day, bivouacked outside of a little town, four or five went to see a prostitute, taking Pete with them, he who had never even kissed a girl or spoken to one outside of necessary do or don’t words, ouside of his own sisters, and then they laughed at his fright and shame. But the shame passed, and his dreams turned more and more into the three dimensions of life. The force inside of him throbbed so hard and so wildly sometimes that once, when asked what he was going to do after the war, he answered:
    â€œEverything. Everything.”
    Speech, which had been such a halting, difficult thing for him, came more readily, and he gained a sense of confidence and power from the black fuzz that began to cover his cheeks, thinking that some day this would be a full fine beard, covering his split lip, covering his large chin. Change fermented in him, and he groped for ideas that would have never started in him only a few months ago. A soldier from Cleveland, who had been a parson before the war, gave him a novel to read, The Redemption of Blackfist Megee , and as he struggled through it, only half understanding it yet losing himself in its incredible vulgarity, still another horizon opened. And he sat one night by the fire, listening to a furious argument between an Abolitionist and a blackbaiter, taking from the talk, for the first time, a whole impression of the war in which he was involved as one minute and unimportant unit. Yet from this came the beginning of consciousness concerning many things, four million black slaves, a Union that had grown from the blood and suffering of men, abstract principles of right and wrong, natural rights, and many other half-formed ideas which set his head to spinning and aching, and made him partly crazy at the thought of how full and large and incredible the world was.

IX
    Yet fear and confusion predominated, and he could make no real pattern either from the war or his concern with it. A great battle was going on across the James River, and although they approached it for crossing four times, each time they turned back. He heard that an argument was going on between their own officers and headquarters, as to whether they were ready for battle; certainly, the lines of wounded coming back across the river told of the need for them, raw as they were, and the fact that their own officers held them in such contempt didn’t add to morale. As a reaction, they took to boasting, and once, when a report came through that they would be sent went into Kentucky to work on a railroad as service troops, the mood of the men turned black and savage, and they spoke of a strike. It was the first time Pete had ever heard the word mentioned, and it was more puzzling to him than the desire of his comrades to see action, for he too felt something of the growing drive that impelled them to fulfill themselves or die.
    The nearest they came to battle was when a detachment of Rebel cavalry forded the river one dark night and struck a savage, slashing blow at the reserve’s flank. If the blow had been followed in force, the whole of the Ohio and Illinois reserve might have been routed, and temporarily at least the course of the war changed; but the Rebels sent over only a few companies and the raid burned up and died away like a quick brush fire. But the time it lasted was the wildest, strangest few hours in Pete’s life—turned out of bed half naked into the night by shots and trumpet call, men fumbling for guns, bayonets, and outside in the moonless camp woeful confusion, random shots, shouting, and then finally panic. It surprised Pete that he was not wholly a part of the panic, that when several hundred men ran helplessly in whatever direction they thought least dangerous, he stayed outside his tent until a bugle called