Free Bradbury, Ray - SSC 11 by The Machineries of Joy (v2.1)

to be a target, thank them and sit down, that's us, that's them. We should
turn tail and train four months, they should do the same. But here we are,
taken with spring fever and thinking it blood lust, taking our sulphur with
cannons instead of with molasses as it should be, going to be a hero, going to
live forever. And I can see all of them over there nodding agreement, save the
other way around. If s wrong, boy, it's wrong as a head put on hind side front
and a man marching backward through life. It will be a double massacre if one
of their itchy generals decides to picnic his lads on our grass. More innocents
will get shot out of pure Cherokee enthusiasm than ever got shot before. Owl
Creek was full of boys splashing around in the noonday sun just a few hours
ago. I fear it will be full of boys again, just floating, at sundown tomorrow,
not caring where the tide takes them."
                   The General stopped and made a little pile of
winter leaves and twigs in the darkness, as if he might at any moment strike
fire to them to see his way through the coming days when the sun might not show
its face because of what was happening here and just beyond.
                   The boy watched the hand stirring the leaves
and opened his Ups to say something, but did not say it. The General heard the
boy's breath and spoke himself.
                   "Why am I telling you this? That's what
you wanted to ask, eh? Well, when you got a bunch of wild horses on a loose
rein somewhere, somehow you got to bring order, rein them in. These lads, fresh
out of the milkshed, don't know what I know, and I can't tell them: men
actually die, in war. So each is his own army. I got to make one army of them.
And for that, boy, I need you."
                   "Me!" The boy's lips barely
twitched.
                   "Now, boy," said the General
quietly, “you are the heart of the army. Think of that You're the heart of the
army. Listen, now."
                   And, lying there, Joby listened.
                   And the General spoke on.
                   If he, Joby, beat slow tomorrow, the heart
would beat slow in the men. They would lag by the wayside. They would drowse in
the fields on their muskets. They would sleep forever, after that, in those
same fields, their hearts slowed by a drummer boy and stopped by enemy lead.
                   But if he beat a sure, steady, ever faster
rhythm, then, then their knees would come up in a long line down over that
hill, one knee after the other, like a wave on the ocean shore I Had he seen
the ocean ever? Seen the waves rolling in like a well-ordered cavalry charge to
the sand? Well, that was it, that's what he wanted, that's what was needed!
Joby was his right hand and his left He gave the orders, but Joby set the pace!
                   So bring the right knee up and the right foot
out and the left knee up and the left foot out. One following the other in good
time, in brisk time. Move the blood up the body and make the head proud and the
spine stiff and the jaw resolute. Focus the eye and set the teeth, flare the
nostrils and tighten the hands, put steel armor all over the men, for blood
moving fast in them does indeed make men feel as they'd put on steel. He must
keep at it, at it! Long and steady, steady and long! Then, even though shot or
torn, those wounds got in hot blood—in blood he'd helped stir—would feel less
pain. If their blood was cold, it would be more than slaughter, it would be
murderous nightmare and pain best not told and no one to guess.
                   The General spoke and stopped, letting his
breath slack off. Then, after a moment, he said, "So there you are, that's
it. Will you do that, boy? Do you know now you're general of the army when the
General's left behind?"
                   The boy nodded mutely.
                   "You'll run them through for