Chapter: The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs
revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting.  As the landscape
changed from brown to green, the army awakened, and began to tremble
with eagerness at the noise of rumors.  It cast its eyes upon the
roads, which were growing from long troughs of liquid mud to proper
thoroughfares.  A river, amber-tinted in the shadow of its banks,
purled at the army's feet; and at night, when the stream had become of
a sorrowful blackness, one could see across it the red, eyelike gleam
of hostile camp-fires set in the low brows of distant hills.

Once a certain tall soldier developed virtues and went resolutely to
wash a shirt.  He came flying back from a brook waving his garment
bannerlike.  He was swelled with a tale he had heard from a reliable
friend, who had heard it from a truthful cavalryman, who had heard it
from his trustworthy brother, one of the orderlies at division
headquarters.  He adopted the important air of a herald in red and
gold. "We're goin' t' move t'morrah--sure," he said pompously to a
group in the company street.  "We're goin' 'way up the river, cut
across, an' come around in behint 'em."

To his attentive audience he drew a loud and elaborate plan of a very
brilliant campaign. When he had finished, the blue-clothed men
scattered into small arguing groups between the rows of squat brown
huts.  A negro teamster who had been dancing upon a cracker box with
the hilarious encouragement of twoscore soldiers was deserted.  He sat
mournfully down.  Smoke drifted lazily from a multitude of quaint
chimneys.

"It's a lie! that's all it is--a thunderin' lie!" said another private
loudly.  His smooth face was flushed, and his hands were thrust sulkily
into his trousers' pockets.  He took the matter as an affront to him.
"I don't believe the derned old army's ever going to move.  We're set.
I've got ready to move eight times in the last two weeks, and we ain't
moved yet."

The tall soldier felt called upon to defend the truth of a rumor he
himself had introduced. He and the loud one came near to fighting over
it.

A corporal began to swear before the assemblage.  He had just put a
costly board floor in his house, he said.  During the early spring he
had refrained from adding extensively to the comfort of his environment
because he had felt that the army might start on the march at any
moment.  Of late, however, he had been impressed that they were in a
sort of eternal camp.

Many of the men engaged in a spirited debate. One outlined in a
peculiarly lucid manner all the plans of the commanding general.  He
was opposed by men who advocated that there were other plans of
campaign.  They clamored at each other, numbers making futile bids for
the popular attention.  Meanwhile, the soldier who had fetched the
rumor bustled about with much importance.  He was continually assailed
by questions.

"What's up, Jim?"

"Th' army's goin' t' move."

"Ah, what yeh talkin' about?  How yeh know it is?"

"Well, yeh kin b'lieve me er not, jest as yeh like.  I don't care a
hang."

There was much food for thought in the manner in which he replied.  He
came near to convincing them by disdaining to produce proofs. They grew
excited over it.

There was a youthful private who listened with eager ears to the words
of the tall soldier and to the varied comments of his comrades. After
receiving a fill of discussions concerning marches and attacks, he went
to his hut and crawled through an intricate hole that served it as a
door.  He wished to be alone with some new thoughts that had lately
come to him.

He lay down on a wide bank that stretched across the end of the room.
In the other end, cracker boxes were made to serve as furniture. They
were grouped about the fireplace.  A picture from an illustrated weekly
was upon the log walls, and three rifles were paralleled on pegs.
Equipments hung on handy projections, and some tin dishes lay upon a
small pile of firewood.  A folded tent was serving as a roof.  The
sunlight, without, beating upon it, made it glow a light yellow shade.
A small window shot an oblique square of whiter light upon the
cluttered floor. The smoke from the fire at times neglected the clay
chimney and wreathed into the room, and this flimsy chimney of clay and
sticks made endless threats to set ablaze the whole establishment.

The youth was in a little trance of astonishment. So they were at last
going to fight.  On the morrow, perhaps, there would be a battle, and
he would be in it.  For a time he was obliged to labor to make himself
believe.  He could not accept with assurance an omen that he was about
to mingle in one of those great affairs of the earth.

He had, of course, dreamed of battles all his life--of vague and bloody
conflicts that had thrilled him with their sweep and fire.  In visions
he had seen himself in many struggles.  He had imagined peoples secure
in 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 newspapers 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 out, 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 drink and swear.  Keep clear of them folks, Henry.  I
don't want yeh to ever do anything, Henry, that yeh would be 'shamed to
let me know about.  Jest think as if I was a-watchin' yeh.  If yeh keep
that in yer mind allus, I guess yeh'll come out about right.

"Yeh must allus remember yer father, too, child, an' remember he never
drunk a drop of licker in his life, and seldom swore a cross oath.

"I don't know what else to tell yeh, Henry, excepting that yeh must
never do no shirking, child, on my account.  If so be a time comes when
yeh have to be kilt or do a mean thing, why, Henry, don't think of
anything 'cept what's right, because there's many a woman has to bear
up 'ginst sech things these times, and the Lord 'll take keer of us all.

"Don't forgit about the socks and the shirts, child; and I've put a cup
of blackberry jam with yer bundle, because I know yeh like it above all
things.  Good-by, Henry.  Watch out, and be a good boy."

He had, of course, been impatient under the ordeal of this speech.  It
had not been quite what he expected, and he had borne it with an air of
irritation.  He departed feeling vague relief.

Still, when he had looked back from the gate, he had seen his mother
kneeling among the potato parings.  Her brown face, upraised, was
stained with tears, and her spare form was quivering.  He bowed his
head and went on, feeling suddenly ashamed of his purposes.

From his home he had gone to the seminary to bid adieu to many
schoolmates.  They had thronged about him with wonder and admiration.
He had felt the gulf now between them and had swelled with calm pride.
He and some of his fellows who had donned blue were quite overwhelmed
with privileges for all of one afternoon, and it had been a very
delicious thing.  They had strutted.

A certain light-haired girl had made vivacious fun at his martial
spirit, but there was another and darker girl whom he had gazed at
steadfastly, and he thought she grew demure and sad at sight of his
blue and brass.  As he had walked down the path between the rows of
oaks, he had turned his head and detected her at a window watching his
departure.  As he perceived her, she had immediately begun to stare up
through the high tree branches at the sky.  He had seen a good deal of
flurry and haste in her movement as she changed her attitude.  He often
thought of it.

On the way to Washington his spirit had soared.  The regiment was fed
and caressed at station after station until the youth had believed that
he must be a hero.  There was a lavish expenditure of bread and cold
meats, coffee, and pickles and cheese.  As he basked in the smiles of
the girls and was patted and complimented by the old men, he had felt
growing within him the strength to do mighty deeds of arms.

After complicated journeyings with many pauses, there had come months
of monotonous life in a camp.  He had had the belief that real war was
a series of death struggles with small time in between for sleep and
meals; but since his regiment had come to the field the army had done
little but sit still and try to keep warm.

He was brought then gradually back to his old ideas.  Greeklike
struggles would be no more. 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 grown to regard himself merely as a part of a vast blue
demonstration.  His province was to look out, as far as he could, for
his personal comfort.  For recreation he could twiddle his thumbs and
speculate on the thoughts which must agitate the minds of the generals.
Also, he was drilled and drilled and reviewed, and drilled and drilled
and reviewed.

The only foes he had seen were some pickets along the river bank.  They
were a sun-tanned, philosophical lot, who sometimes shot reflectively
at the blue pickets.  When reproached for this afterward, they usually
expressed sorrow, and swore by their gods that the guns had exploded
without their permission.  The youth, on guard duty one night,
conversed across the stream with one of them.  He was a slightly ragged
man, who spat skillfully between his shoes and possessed a great fund
of bland and infantile assurance.  The youth liked him personally.

"Yank," the other had informed him, "yer a right dum good feller." This
sentiment, floating to him upon the still air, had made him temporarily
regret war.

Various veterans had told him tales.  Some talked of gray, bewhiskered
hordes who were advancing with relentless curses and chewing tobacco
with unspeakable valor; tremendous bodies of fierce soldiery who were
sweeping along like the Huns.  Others spoke of tattered and eternally
hungry men who fired despondent powders.  "They'll charge through
hell's fire an' brimstone t' git a holt on a haversack, an' sech
stomachs ain't a-lastin' long," he was told.  From the stories, the
youth imagined the red, live bones sticking out through slits in the
faded uniforms.

Still, he could not put a whole faith in veterans' tales, for recruits
were their prey.  They talked much of smoke, fire, and blood, but he
could not tell how much might be lies.  They persistently yelled "Fresh
fish!" at him, and were in no wise to be trusted.

However, he perceived now that it did not greatly matter what kind of
soldiers he was going to fight, so long as they fought, which fact no
one disputed.  There was a more serious problem.  He lay in his bunk
pondering upon it.  He tried to mathematically prove to himself that he
would not run from a battle.

Previously he had never felt obliged to wrestle too seriously with this
question.  In his life he had taken certain things for granted, never
challenging his belief in ultimate success, and bothering little about
means and roads.  But here he was confronted with a thing of moment. It
had suddenly appeared to him that perhaps in a battle he might run. He
was forced to admit that as far as war was concerned he knew nothing of
himself.

A sufficient time before he would have allowed the problem to kick its
heels at the outer portals of his mind, but now he felt compelled to
give serious attention to it.

A little panic-fear grew in his mind.  As his imagination went forward
to a fight, he saw hideous possibilities.  He contemplated the lurking
menaces of the future, and failed in an effort to see himself standing
stoutly in the midst of them. He recalled his visions of broken-bladed
glory, but in the shadow of the impending tumult he suspected them to
be impossible pictures.

He sprang from the bunk and began to pace nervously to and fro.  "Good
Lord, what's th' matter with me?" he said aloud.

He felt that in this crisis his laws of life were useless.  Whatever he
had learned of himself was here of no avail.  He was an unknown
quantity. He saw that he would again be obliged to experiment as he had
in early youth.  He must accumulate information of himself, and
meanwhile he resolved to remain close upon his guard lest those
qualities of which he knew nothing should everlastingly disgrace him.
"Good Lord!" he repeated in dismay.

After a time the tall soldier slid dexterously through the hole.  The
loud private followed. They were wrangling.

"That's all right," said the tall soldier as he entered.  He waved his
hand expressively.  "You can believe me or not, jest as you like.  All
you got to do is to sit down and wait as quiet as you can.  Then pretty
soon you'll find out I was right."

His comrade grunted stubbornly.  For a moment he seemed to be searching
for a formidable reply.  Finally he said: "Well, you don't know
everything in the world, do you?"

"Didn't say I knew everything in the world," retorted the other
sharply.  He began to stow various articles snugly into his knapsack.

The youth, pausing in his nervous walk, looked down at the busy figure.
"Going to be a battle, sure, is there, Jim?" he asked.

"Of course there is," replied the tall soldier. "Of course there is.
You jest wait 'til to-morrow, and you'll see one of the biggest battles
ever was. You jest wait."

"Thunder!" said the youth.

"Oh, you'll see fighting this time, my boy, what'll be regular
out-and-out fighting," added the tall soldier, with the air of a man
who is about to exhibit a battle for the benefit of his friends.

"Huh!" said the loud one from a corner.

"Well," remarked the youth, "like as not this story'll turn out jest
like them others did."

"Not much it won't," replied the tall soldier, exasperated.  "Not much
it won't.  Didn't the cavalry all start this morning?"  He glared about
him.  No one denied his statement.  "The cavalry started this morning,"
he continued.  "They say there ain't hardly any cavalry left in camp.
They're going to Richmond, or some place, while we fight all the
Johnnies.  It's some dodge like that.  The regiment's got orders, too.
A feller what seen 'em go to headquarters told me a little while ago.
And they're raising blazes all over camp--anybody can see that."

"Shucks!" said the loud one.

The youth remained silent for a time.  At last he spoke to the tall
soldier.  "Jim!"

"What?"

"How do you think the reg'ment 'll do?"

"Oh, they'll fight all right, I guess, after they once get into it,"
said the other with cold judgment.  He made a fine use of the third
person. "There's been heaps of fun poked at 'em because they're new, of
course, and all that; but they'll fight all right, I guess."

"Think any of the boys 'll run?" persisted the youth.

"Oh, there may be a few of 'em run, but there's them kind in every
regiment, 'specially when they first goes under fire," said the other
in a tolerant way.  "Of course it might happen that the hull
kit-and-boodle might start and run, if some big fighting came
first-off, and then again they might stay and fight like fun.  But you
can't bet on nothing.  Of course they ain't never been under fire yet,
and it ain't likely they'll lick the hull rebel army all-to-oncet the
first time; but I think they'll fight better than some, if worse than
others.  That's the way I figger.  They call the reg'ment 'Fresh fish'
and everything; but the boys come of good stock, and most of 'em 'll
fight like sin after they oncet git shootin'," he added, with a mighty
emphasis on the last four words.

"Oh, you think you know--" began the loud soldier with scorn.

The other turned savagely upon him.  They had a rapid altercation, in
which they fastened upon each other various strange epithets.

The youth at last interrupted them.  "Did you ever think you might run
yourself, Jim?" he asked.  On concluding the sentence he laughed as if
he had meant to aim a joke.  The loud soldier also giggled.

The tall private waved his hand.  "Well," said he profoundly, "I've
thought it might get too hot for Jim Conklin in some of them
scrimmages, and if a whole lot of boys started and run, why, I s'pose
I'd start and run.  And if I once started to run, I'd run like the
devil, and no mistake.  But if everybody was a-standing and a-fighting,
why, I'd stand and fight.  Be jiminey, I would.  I'll bet on it."

"Huh!" said the loud one.

The youth of this tale felt gratitude for these words of his comrade.
He had feared that all of the untried men possessed a great and correct
confidence.  He now was in a measure reassured.

 As The Red Badge of Courage opens, we do not know precisely where we are or whom we are watching. As the fog clears gradually, we see a part of the Union army upon a riverbank. Rumors are flying among the troops about their own movement. One tall soldier, named Jim but referred to mainly by his height, tells his comrades that he has heard, through several sources, that they will be on the move the next day. Arguments break out between the soldiers whether this rumor is true. The attention then shifts to another private named Henry. The narrator rarely refers to him by his first name, but rather as "the youth" or "the young soldier. He sits in his tent and thinks about the possibility of finally going into battle. Before joining the army, he dreamed of grand battles that "thrilled him with their sweep and fire," and he seems to desire a "Greeklike" or "Homeric" struggle. His mother had discouraged him from joining but he enlists anyway. When Henry finally leaves, his mother does not try to convince him to be a hero, as he expected. Instead of an impassioned, beautiful scene, his mother gives him some simple advice. She tells him to be careful and not try to beat the entire rebel army himself and not to fall in with a bad group of soldiers. Then she adds: "I don't know what else to tell yeh, Henry, excepting that yeh must never do no shirking, child, on my account. If so be a time comes when yeh have to be kilt or do a mean thing, why, Henry, don't think of anything cept what's right. He leaves his mother, who cries softly as he goes, and joins his comrades on the way to Washington. Along the way, they are fed at every station and treated like heroes just for joining the fight. Then they train and drill often. Even though he has yet to taste battle, Henry assumes the war will not be a Greeklike struggle. The veterans he meet claim that the rebels are starving and tattered, but these same veterans taunt the new recruits, so Henry is unsure whether to trust them. Most of all, Henry is concerned that he will run when he finally faces a conflict. He wants to be a hero, but his fears nag at him, making him doubt his own courage and mettle as he lies in his tent. Jim, the tall soldier, and another soldier, "the loud soldier," both come in to Henry's tent, still arguing about the rumor. Jim says they must be moving out because the cavalry have already moved out. Henry nervously asks Jim how he thinks their regiment will do and gets the vague answer that they will probably do well. Henry then asks if he thinks any of them will run when faced with a fight. Jim is confident that they will fight because they are from good stock; however, there is no way to tell since they have not yet been under fire. Henry finally asks Jim if he would run from the battle. Jim speculates that he might, especially if a whole group began to run. But if everybody was a-standing and a-fighting, why, I'd stand and fight," he adds. These words comfort Henry as the first chapter ends

