The Red Badge of Courage and Other Stories
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.
Turned to a semblance of gray paste. He clutched the youth’s arm and looked all about him, as if dreading to be overheard. Then he began to speak in a shaking whisper: “I tell yeh what I’m ’fraid of, Henry—I’ll tell yeh what I’m ’fraid of. I’m ’fraid I’ll fall down—an’ then yeh know—them damned artillery wagons—they like as not ’ll run over me. That’s what I’m ’fraid of—” The youth cried out to him hysterically: “I’ll take care of yeh, Jim! I’ll take care of yeh! I swear t’ Gawd I will!”.
Halt!” He was dismayed for a moment, but he presently thought that he recognized the nervous voice. As he stood tottering before the rifle barrel, he called out: “Why, hello, Wilson, you—you here?” The rifle was lowered to a position of caution and the loud soldier came slowly forward. He peered into the youth’s face. “That you, Henry?” “Yes, it’s—it’s me.” “Well, well, ol’ boy,” said the other, “by ginger, I’m glad t’ see yeh! I give yeh up fer a goner. I thought yeh was dead sure enough.”.
Apprehensional style in which all events are mediated or refracted through Fleming’s consciousness and all the reader finally knows is the play of his imagination. The Red Badge of Courage essentially recounts through Fleming’s impressions the fears of an ironic hero or an anti-hero. Reality exists only insofar as Fleming apprehends it. Not only is there no objectivity to his story, the very notion of reality is a shifting, unstable, and distorted construction of his imagination and defies.
Situation at this time which the Easterner felt once when, lifting his eyes from the man on the ground, he beheld that mysterious and lonely figure, waiting. “Are you any good yet, Johnnie?” asked Scully in a broken voice. The son gasped and opened his eyes languidly. After a moment he answered, “No—I ain’t—any good—any—more.” Then, from shame and bodily ill, he began to weep, the tears furrowing down through the blood-stains on his face. “He was too—too—too heavy for me.” Scully straightened.