HENRY: A SEQUEL TO STEPHEN CRANE'S THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE

By Don Yost

In the last few paragraphs of Stephen Crane’s The Red Badge of Courage, his protagonist, the young Henry Fleming, struggles with the aftermath of his wartime experiences. He is tormented by his guilt from having abandoned the tattered soldier during the Battle of Chancellorsville and by the death of his best friend, Jim Conklin. Scholars have questioned Crane’s implications here. Has Henry truly become “a man” because of the trauma he has experienced? Is war a coming-of-age? How has Henry been changed by his experiences? How was he able to adjust to civilian life? What was the impact on Henry’s family? What did he learn from the experiences? Crane’s novel, therefore, leaves many questions unanswered. Henry: A Sequel to “The Red Badge of Courage” answers these questions. Moreover, it is the story of Henry Fleming’s spiritual journey of personal growth from trauma, guilt, and alienation to redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781638141761

Book preview

1

The Things a Feller Needs to Do

The battered Yankee army limps away from its agonizing defeat. The sun pours down its unforgiving heat upon them, its perpetual light not allowing them to hide their shame. Their pitiful groans are the surreal voices of demented spirits accompanied by the sorrowful beat of a muffled drum. Having peered into the abyss, the weary soldiers have made a truce with the Great Death, and now they wait as they march, almost longing for its comforting eternal embrace.

Some fall by the wayside, unwilling or unable to go on despite the prodding.

One of about Henry’s age lies on the side of the road, moaning and retching. A young lieutenant kicks him hard on his side to get him to rise, but the boy only moans louder. He can go no farther. Shaking his head and cursing, the lieutenant mounts his horse and angrily jerks hard on the reins, making the animal whinny loudly and rear on its hind legs. He rides off, leaving the helpless boy lying there in the mud. As Henry passes by, the boy raises a trembling hand. There is a plaintive look in his eyes, reminding Henry of the look in the eyes of a dying newborn filly. Time does not heal all wounds; some linger forever deep inside us, waiting patiently until they are torn open once again, and Henry now feels the same sorrow he felt on a sad autumn day long ago.

He was only eight years old when he’d found Daisy that morning lying on the floor of the barn, and in a panic, he ran to the house, shouting for his father.

Pa, come quick!

What’s the matter, son?

It’s Daisy, Pa! Something’s wrong with Daisy!

They ran back to the barn, and his father knelt down next to the filly. He gently patted her neck and tried to get her to stand, but Daisy’s trembling legs were too weak, and Henry’s father had to help her sink slowly back into the straw.

Hurry, Henry. Bring me the bucket.

Henry brought the half-filled water bucket to his father and saw that Daisy’s big brown eyes now had a faraway cloudy look to them. His father lifted her head but was unable to get her to drink. He slowly shook his head and looked toward Henry.

What’s wrong with her, Pa?

He rose to his feet and gently placed his heavy calloused hands on Henry’s shoulders.

She’s not gonna make it, son, he said softly as he looked deeply into his eyes. I’m real sorry, Henry, but she’s just not gonna make it.

His father had always been able to fix everything no matter what the trouble was. He’d always taken good care of Henry and his mother. He’d always made sure there was plenty of firewood in the winter and that they always had enough food to eat. He was brave and strong; everybody said so. Wasn’t he the one who shot the rabid fox that was making the neighbors afraid to come out of their houses and kept the children from going to school last fall? Didn’t he save Billy Wilson and his sister, Jessica, last winter when they fell through the thin ice on the skating pond? Wasn’t it Henry’s father who stopped the bullies at school from teasing Johnny Conklin because of his clubbed foot? Henry was always proud of his big, strong father, but now his father seemed helpless. Why couldn’t he save Daisy?

Sometimes things happen, son. It’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault, Henry.

The hopeless tone in his father’s voice made Henry’s heart sink. He pushed his father’s hands away and dropped to his knees next to Daisy. Wrapping his arms around her neck, he felt a dull ache in his chest, and warm tears were now running uncontrollably down his cheeks.

His father left them there in the barn to give them some time to be alone, and when he returned a few moments later, he was carrying…the gun.

Oh, Pa…

She’s suffering, son.

But, Pa…

I know, son…but…

No, Pa…

It needs to be done, Henry, his father said as he held the gun toward him. She’s your filly, Henry.

But, Pa…

I’m sorry, son, but sometimes a feller needs to do things he doesn’t want to do…

Henry’s mother, Emily, had watched her husband load the gun and had followed him back to the barn. Now trembling in the doorway from the piercing chill that was running up her spine, she wiped her tears with her apron. She could feel Henry’s heart breaking because her heart was breaking right along with his. She knew Arnold was trying to help their son, trying to teach Henry about the things a feller needs to do, but somehow knowing that this was difficult for her husband didn’t ease her pain.

Oh, Arnold…

I’m sorry, Emily. But the boy needs to learn, he said in a raspy voice as he wiped away the tears that were beginning to blur his vision. The boy needs to learn, Emily. Here, Henry…

Henry slowly took the heavy gun from his father and raised it to his shoulder. He tried to aim it at Daisy’s head; he really tried, but his tears made it impossible to see clearly. The look in her pleading eyes raised a lump in his throat that made it hard for him to breathe.

I can’t do it, Pa. I just can’t!

Throwing the gun down, he ran out of the barn, blindly tripping and stumbling along the deer trail through the dry, withering cornfield, unaware of anything but the sound of the dried corn husks that crackled under his feet. He wanted to get away. He wanted to stop the pain that made it feel like his aching heart was breaking into a million pieces. By the time he crossed the shallow stream that emptied into the skating pond, his chest was heaving. He finally reached his secret hiding place deep in the woods where he always came to be alone and fell to the ground, sobbing bitterly under the old oak tree. Its huge branches formed a cathedral’s dome above him, but the soft breeze gently parted its leaves, allowing dim sunlight to filter through, and Henry felt its comforting warmth spreading across his back.

He took a deep breath and glanced up when a jittery gray squirrel stopped a few feet away, tilted its head, and stared at him with questioning eyes. Henry had no answers. Creatures of the forest know that death is part of nature’s plan, but Henry did not possess the wisdom that allows them to accept nature’s ways. He slowly sat up, wiped the tears away with his shirtsleeve, pressed his back hard against the rough bark of the oak, and watched its golden leaves float slowly down around him like dying youthful fantasies.

The sudden crack of his father’s gun startled him and made the squirrel scurry away. The breeze turned chilly. Dark storm clouds began blotting out the autumn sun, and a light rain began to fall. It seemed tears were falling from heaven, angels mourning the things a feller needs to do…

2

Glory

He no longer wants to think about Daisy, and Henry forces himself to turn his eyes away from the pitiful boy lying there in the mud on the side of the road.

Wilson! Hey, Billy! he calls to the sullen figure moping along the side of the road ahead of him.

There is no response, and Henry quickens his pace to catch up. When he is next to him, Wilson glances toward him. The dirt on his cheeks beneath his eyes is smeared. Wilson’s been crying.

What in the world’s the matter with you, Billy?

Nothin’, Henry. I’m just tuckered out, that’s all.

You sure don’t look like nothin’s wrong.

"Did you see it?

See what?

Lieutenant Martinson there, kickin’ that feller. Did you see it, Henry?

I saw it.

Well, that does it, Henry! I’m takin’ off, first chance I git. I can’t take no more.

There is conviction in Billy Wilson’s tear-filled eyes and bitterness in his voice. No longer the loud, boisterous, naive soldier of a week ago spouting off about how they’d lick ’em good, he now has the look of a sulking, reprimanded child.

I’m takin’ off all right, Henry, and that’s for certain!

You can’t do it, Billy. Chatfield Corner is too far away, and they’ll come after you for sure.

Plenty of others have done it.

Do you know what they’ll do if they catch you? Do you know what they do to deserters?

I just don’t care no more. What’ll they do to me that ain’t already been done? What more can they do to me? Ma’s letter says both Jessie and Pa are feeling poorly. Pa can’t even work the farm no more. Ma’s begging me to come home, Henry. What am I supposed to do, keep fightin’ to free some rich man’s slaves when my own family’s barely hangin’ on? I’ll bet them slaves are a sight better off than my family or yours are anyhow. It just ain’t right, Henry. it just ain’t right.

That ain’t it, Billy. That ain’t what we’re fightin’ for.

Then you tell me, Henry. What in blazes are we fightin’ for, huh? What in blazes are we fightin’ for?

Henry has no answer. It has never occurred to him to question why they’re fighting. It needs no reason. It’s simply something fellers have to do, something fellers have always had to do, a rite of passage.

Do you remember that young Johnny I killed? Wilson asks in a low rasp of a whisper, his eyes darting about to be sure that only Henry can hear him.

He couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old, maybe fifteen. He dropped his gun and raised his arms and was begging me not to shoot him, and I killed him anyway, Henry. I shot him just ’cause he was a reb. I killed him ’cause I was afraid not to. Wilson lets out a deep mournful sigh, looks toward the sky, and wipes his eyes as he slowly shakes his head, trying to ease the heavy burden of his guilt. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve being killed. I’m fearful, Henry. I’m fearful I’m gonna burn in hell for what I done.

Henry wants to comfort his tormented friend, but he doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t have the words. Why doesn’t Billy know about the things a feller needs to do? Why does he feel so guilty? He gently places his hand on Wilson’s shoulder and feels him tremble.

You had to do it, Billy.

Wilson angrily pushes Henry’s hand away.

Make way! Make way!

An ambulance wagon being pulled by two bow-headed mules is bearing down on them, and the driver seems as weary and worn as the mules.

Make way! he shouts again.

They step to the side, and as the wagon slowly rumbles by, Henry looks inside and sees that it is filled with wounded men stacked upon one another like firewood. Their anguished groans grow louder each time a wheel bounces over one of the uneven logs that have been placed in a corduroy pattern across the road to keep the wagons from bogging down in the deep mud. The jarring motion reopens their wounds causing them to hemorrhage, and the dark red blood that flows down its side makes it appear that the wagon itself has been wounded and is bleeding to death.

TJ, are you in there?

If Tommy Johnson is in the ambulance wagon, he doesn’t answer, and a sudden pungent smell gags Henry, forcing him to push down the vomit that burns his throat and leaves a sour taste on his tongue. He retches uncontrollably as the shouts of the driver and the moans of the wounded drift slowly away like the muffled sorrowful hymns of a church funeral choir. He wipes his damp forehead with his shirtsleeve and a sip of the tepid water from his canteen isn’t much help.

Billy, do you think TJ’s in that wagon? he asks in a hoarse voice when he is able to speak again. He was in a bad way when I seen him last.

Wilson doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to think about their friend and what might have happened to him. The awkward silence is suddenly broken by the sound of distant rolling thunder.

We don’t need no more rain after last night’s downpour, Wilson says in a detached tone, looking down at the muddy ground. We sure as blazes don’t need no more rain. We’ve got to get back to that pontoon bridge before it drifts away and leaves us on this here side of the river. If we don’t get back across the Rappahannock, we’re goners for sure. Them Johnnies ain’t stoppin’ at nothin’ now that they’ve got us on the run.

What d’you mean?

A hot flash of anger suddenly crosses Wilson’s cheek.

Tarnation, Henry, don’t you know nothin’? What’s wrong with you? We got whupped again! We got whupped sure as the day is long!

Henry closes his eyes as a warm sense of relief suddenly washes over him. He had fled in terror when the battle first began, envisioning the blood-swollen war beast nipping at his heels. He’d hidden, trembling in the forest until it was safe to rejoin the others, and his guilt had been weighing heavily upon his heart. He’d been desperately trying to hide the fact that he had been a coward, but it no longer matters. Now the whole army is running away, and that changes everything. His guilt is replaced by a distorted sense of pride. He congratulates himself for having had magnificent insight and profound wisdom. He had been brave in the face of death, clearheaded and reasonable. If the others had only had his intelligence, they too would have run. How many lives would have been saved if they had followed his good example? The generals had been stupids as usual. Henry had done what needed to be done. He had saved himself to fight another day. He had performed magnificently. He was a knight!

Yeah, we’re mud diggers all right, Henry, just like that general called us for not finishin’ the charge when we had the chance.

But we fought like the devil, Billy! We put up a good fight out there!

You’re a blessed fool, Henry! What we did don’t mean nothin’! When’ll you wake up and see what’s goin’ on? I feel sorry for you! Wilson quickens his pace and, grumbling to himself, moves away from Henry in disgust. First chance I git…

The ill-fitting new shoes he was issued three days ago are pinching Henry’s feet. The one on his left foot is rubbing mercilessly against the open blister on his heel, forcing him to limp with the paralytic gait of an old man. The jagged wound on the side of his head throbs under the bloody rag Wilson had used to bandage it the night before, and a wretched chill comes over him, making him sick to his stomach. He hasn’t slept in days, tormented by what he has seen and by what he has done. He longs for rest. He longs for home, but the only solace he can find is in the monotony of the endless march. He finds there is something hypnotic in its rhythm.

If he concentrates on the march, on the throbbing ache in his head, the pain of each step, the heat, the weight of the Springfield bouncing on his shoulder, the sting of the sweat spilling into his eyes, and the feel of the damp, sour-smelling uniform that sticks to his back, he might be able to shut out the thoughts that torment him. And so he marches aimlessly, zombie-like with the others. He