But can I stand the day of battle? Have I not argued myself into a less readiness to kill? Will these thoughts or fancies--coming to me I know not whence, and bringing to me a mental disturbance incomprehensible and unique--comfort me in the hour of danger? Will not my conscience force me to be a coward? Yet cowardice is worse than death.
I could not sleep; I was farther from sleep than ever. I rose, and walked through long lines of sleeping men--men who on the morrow might be still more soundly sleeping.
Captain Haskell was standing alone, leaning against the parapet. I approached. He spoke kindly, "Jones, you should be asleep."
"Captain," I said; "I have tried for hours to sleep, but cannot."
"Let us sit down," said he; "and we will talk it over by ourselves."
His tone was unofficial. The Captain, reserved in his conduct toward the men, seldom spoke to one of them except concerning duties, yet he was very sympathetic in personal matters, and in private talk was more courteous and kind toward a private than toward an equal. I understood well enough that it was through sympathy that he had invited me to unburden.
"Captain," I said, "I fear."
"May I ask what it is that you fear?"
"I fear that I am a coward."
"Pardon me for doubting. Why should you suppose so?"