"There are two of them," said the half-dressed captain, pointing out Frank and his friend to the officer of the guard.
In his excitement he would have had them hurried off at once to the guard-tent. But fortunately the colonel of the regiment, who had been writing late in his tent, heard the alarm, and was already on the spot. He regarded the prisoners by the light of the burning straw. Frank, recovering from the trepidation of finding himself for the first time surrounded by a guard, and subject to a serious accusation returned his look with a face beaming with courage and innocence. The colonel smiled.
"Have you been meddling with Captain ——'s bed and cutting his tent down?" he asked.
"No, sir," said Frank, with a mien which bore witness to the truth.
"Do you know who set that fire?"
"No, sir."
"What are you out of your tent for?"
"I came to see the fun, sir. If it was wrong I am very sorry."
"What fun?"
"The boys were going to have some fun; I didn't know what, and I came to see."
"What boys?"
"All the boys in our company."
"Which of them did the things your captain complains of?"
"I don't know, sir. They were all together; and who tipped the bed, or cut the ropes, or set the fire, I can't tell."
"It seems they were all concerned, then."
"No, sir, not all. Some did the mischief, and the rest looked on."
"Did this person with you do any of the mischief?"
"No, sir; he was with me all the time, and we kept out of it."
"How happens it, then, that only you two are caught?"
"All the rest ran."
"And why didn't you run?"
"We had not been doing anything to run for," said Frank, with convincing sincerity.
Atwater was then questioned, and gave similar answers.
"Captain ——," said the colonel, "I think it is evident these are not the persons who are most deserving of punishment. This boy, certainly, could not have been very deeply concerned in the assault, and I am inclined to place entire confidence in his story."
The captain himself appeared not a little ashamed of having accused one so young and ingenuous as the drummer boy. The prisoners were accordingly released, and the investigation of the affair was postponed until the morrow. Returning with Atwater to their tent, Frank could not repress the joy he felt at their fortunate escape. But Atwater took the whole affair with astonishing coolness, exhibiting no more emotion at their release than he had betrayed at their entrapment.
"What a fellow you are!" said Frank, staying his enthusiastic step, while his companion, with slow and stately pace, came up with him. "You don't seem to care for any thing."
"Those that care the most don't always show it," said Atwater, laconically, as they crept back into the tent.
All was hushed and dark within; but soon they heard whispers.
"Abe! Frank! that you?"
And they soon found that the tent was full of the fugitives, awaiting their return.
"What made you let 'em catch you? How did you get off?" were the first eager inquiries.
Dark as it was, Frank thought he could see Atwater shrug his shoulders and look to him for the required explanation. For Abram was a fellow of few words, and Frank was glib of speech.
So Frank, seated on his bed, related their adventure, to the great delight of the boys, who bestowed the warmest praises upon them for their spirit and fidelity. They had stood their ground when deserted by their companions; and, although they had told the truth about the whole company, they had not inculpated individuals. Thus Frank, as he afterwards learned with pleasure, had by his courage and truthfulness won both the confidence of his officers and the good will of his comrades.
The next day the company was called to an account for the offence. In reply to the captain's charges, the sergeant, acting as spokesman for the rest, stated the grievances of the men. The result was, that the captain received directions to exercise his company in the colonel's presence; and, complying reluctantly, demonstrated his own inefficiency in a manner which elicited the merriment of spectators, and even provoked the colonel to smile.
Soon after, in order to get rid of so incompetent an officer, and at the same time punish the insubordination of the men, it was resolved to disband the company. Thus was afforded to Frank the opportunity, which seemed to him almost providential, of joining Captain Edney's company, and to John Winch the desired chance to quit the service, of which he had so soon grown weary.
At this time the boys' fathers came down together to visit them. John had written home a pitiful letter, and Mr. Winch went to see about getting him off.
But Jack was no sooner out of the service than he wished to be in again. Frank, Atwater, and several others, had joined Captain Edney's company, and he determined to follow their example.
"O John!" groaned Mr. Winch, in despair at this inconstancy, "when will you learn to be a little more steady-minded? Here I have come expressly to plead your cause, and get you off; but before I have a chance, you change your mind again, and now nothing can persuade you to go home."
"Well," said John, "I didn't like the company I was in. I'm satisfied now, and I'm going to serve my country."
"Well, well," said Mr. Winch, "I shall let you do as you please. But reflect; you enlist with my consent now, and you must dismiss all hope of getting off next time you are sick of your bargain."
"O, I shan't be sick of it again," said John, as full of ambition as he had lately been of discontent and disloyalty.
In the mean time Frank made the most of his father's visit. He showed him his new tent, his knapsack and accoutrements, and his handsome drum. He introduced him to the old drummer, and to Atwater, and to Captain Edney. The latter invited them both into his tent, and was so kind to them that Frank almost shed tears of gratitude, to think that his father could go home and tell what a favorite he was with his captain. Then, when dinner-time came, Frank drew a ration for his father, in order that he might know just what sort of fare the soldiers had, and how they ate it. And so the day passed. And Frank accompanied his father to the cars, and saw him off, sending a thousand good wishes home, and promising that he would certainly get a furlough the coming week, and visit them.
VI.
BREAKING CAMP.
Frank was disappointed in not being able to keep that promise. An order came for the regiment to be ready to march in two days; in the mean time no furloughs could be granted.
"I am sorry for you, Frank," said Captain Edney; "and I would make an exception in your case, if possible."
"No, I don't ask that, sir," said Frank, stoutly. "I did want to see my folks again, but——" He turned away his face.
"Well," said the captain, "I think it can be arranged so that you shall see them again, if only for a short time. You can warn them in season of our breaking camp, and they will meet you as we pass through Boston."
This was some consolation; although it was hard for Frank to give up the long-anticipated pleasure of visiting his family, and the satisfaction of relating his experience of a soldier's life to his sisters and mates. He had thought a good deal, with innocent vanity, of the wonder and admiration he would excite, in his uniform, fresh from camp, and bound for the battlefields of his country; but he had thought a great deal more of the happiness of breathing again the atmosphere of love and sympathy which we find nowhere but at home.
The excitement which filled the camp helped him forget his disappointment. The regiment was in fine spirits. It was impatient to be on the march. Its destination was not known; some said it was to be moved directly to Washington; others, that it was to rendezvous at Annapolis, and form a part of some formidable expedition about to be launched against the rebellion; but all agreed that what every soldier ardently desired was now before them—active service, and an enemy to be conquered.
The two days in which time the regiment was to prepare to move, became three days—four days—a week; unavoidable obstacles still delayed its departure, to the infinite vexation of Frank, who saw what a long furlough he might have enjoyed, and who repeatedly sent to his friends directions when and where to meet him, which he found himself obliged, each time, to write in haste and countermand the next morning. Such are some of the annoyances of a soldier's life.
But at length the long-delayed orders came. They were received with tumultuous joy by the impatient troops. It was necessary to send the ponderous baggage train forward a day in advance; and the tents were struck at once. All was bustle, animation, and hilarity in the camp; and a night of jubilee followed.
The drummer boy never forgot that night, amid all his subsequent adventures. While his companions were singing, shouting, and kindling fires, he could not help thinking, as he watched their animated figures lighted up by the flames, that this was, probably, the last night many of them would ever pass in their native states; that many would fall in battle, and find their graves in a southern soil; and that, perhaps, he himself was one of those who would never return.
"What are you thinking about, my bold soldier boy?" said a familiar voice, while a gentle hand slapped him on the back.
He turned and saw the bushy mustache of his friend and master, the old drummer, peering over his shoulder.
"O Mr. Sinjin!" said Frank. (The veteran wrote his nameSt. John, but every body called himSinjin.) "I was afraid I should not see you again."
"Eh, and why not?"
"Because we are off in the morning, you know, and I couldn't find you to-day; and——"
"And what, my lad?" said the old man, regarding him with a very tender smile.
"I couldn't bear the thought of going without seeing you once more."
"And what should a young fellow like you want to see an ugly, battered, miserable old hulk like me, for?"
"You have been very kind to me," said Frank, getting hold of the old man's hard, rough hand; "and I shall be sorry to part with you, sir, very sorry."
"Well, well." The veteran tried in vain to appear careless and cynical, as he commonly did to other people. "You are young yet. You believe in friendship, do you?"
"And don't you?" Frank earnestly inquired.
"I did once. A great while ago. But never mind about that. I believe inyou, my boy. You have not seen the world and grown corrupted; you are still capable of a disinterested attachment; and may it be long before the thoughtlessness of some, and the treachery of others, and the selfishness of all, convince you that there is no such thing as a true friend." And the old drummer gave his mustache a fierce jerk, as if he had some grudge against it.
"O Mr. Sinjin," said Frank, "I shall never think so and I am sure you do not. Haven't you any friends? Don't you really care for any body? Here are all these boys; you know a good many of us, and every body that knows you half as well as I do, likes you, and we are going off now in a few hours, and some of us will never come back; and don't you care?"
"Few, I fancy, think of me as you do," said the old man, in a slightly choking voice. "They call meOld Sinjin, without very much respect," grinning grimly under his mustache.
"But they don't mean any thing by that; they like you all the time, sir," Frank assured him.
"Well, like me or not," said the veteran, his smile softening as he looked down at the boy's face upturned so earnestly to his in the fire-light, "I have determined, if only for your sake, to share the fortunes of the regiment."
"You have? O, good! And go with us?" cried Frank, ready to dance for joy.
"I've got tired, like the rest of you, of this dull camp life," said the old drummer; "and seeing you pack your knapsack has stirred a little youthful blood in my veins which I didn't suppose was there. I'm off for the war with the rest of you, my boy;" and he poked a coal from the fire to light his cigar, hiding his face from Frank at the same time.
Frank, who could not help thinking that it was partly for his sake that the old man had come to this decision, was both rejoiced and sobered by this evidence of friendship in one who pretended not to believe there was such a thing as true friendship in the world.
"I am so glad you are going; but I am afraid you are too old; and if any thing should happen to you——" Frank somehow felt that, in that case, he would be to blame.
The old man said nothing, but kept poking at the coal with a trembling hand.
"Here, Old Sinjin," said Jack Winch, "have a match. Don't besingin'your mustaches over the fire for nothing;" with an irreverent pun on the old man's name.
"Mr. Sinjin is going with us, Jack," said Frank.
"Is he? Bully for you, old chap!" said Jack, as the veteran, with a somewhat contemptuous smile, accepted the proffered match, and smoked away in silence. "We are going to have a gallus old time; nothing could hire me to stay at home." For Jack, when inspired by the idea of change, was always enthusiastic; he was then always going to have a gallus old time, if any body knows what that is. "Here goes my shoes," pitching those which he had worn from home into the fire.
"Why, Jack," said Frank, "what do you burn them for? Those were good shoes yet."
"I know it. But I couldn't carry them. The other boys are burning up all their old boots and shoes. Uncle Sam furnishes us shoes now."
"But you should have sent them home, Jack; I sent mine along with my clothes. If you don't ever want them again yourself, somebody else may."
"What do I care for somebody else? I care more for seeing the old things curl and fry in the fire as if they was mad. O, ain't that a splendid blaze! It's light as day all over the camp. By jimmy, the fellows there are going to have a dance."
John ran off. Old Sinjin had also taken his departure, evidently not liking young Winch's company. Frank was left once more to his own thoughts, watching the picturesque groups about the fires. It was now midnight. The last of the old straw from the emptied ticks had been cast into the flames, and the broken tent-floors were burning brilliantly. Some of the wiser ones were bent on getting a little sleep. Frank saw Atwater spreading his rubber blanket on the ground, and resolved to follow his example. Others did the same; and with their woollen blankets over them; their knapsacks under their heads, and their feet to the fire, they bivouacked merrily under the lurid sky.
It was Frank's first experience of a night in the open air. The weather was mild, although it was now November; the fires kept them warm; and but for the noises made by the wilder sort of fellows they would have slept well in that novel fashion. The drummer boy sank several times into a light slumber, but as often started up, to hear the singing and laughter, and to see Atwater sleeping all the while calmly at his side, the wakeful ones making sport and keeping up the fires, and the flames glittering dimly on the stacks of arms. The last time he awoke it was day; and the short-lived camp-fires were paling their sad rays before the eternal glory of the sunrise.
The veteran Sinjin beat the drummer's call. Frank seized his drum and hurried to join his friend,—beating with him the last reveillé which was to rouse up the regiment in the Old Bay State.
After roll-call, breakfast; then the troops were drawn up under arms, preparatory to their departure. A long train of a dozen cars was at the depot, in readiness to receive the regiment, which now marched out of the old camping-ground to the gay music of a band from a neighboring city.
After waiting an hour on the train, they heard the welcome whistle of the engine, and the still more welcome clang of the starting cars, and off they went amid loud cheers and silent tears.
Frank had no relatives or near friends in the crowd left behind, as many of his comrades had, but his heart beat fast with the thought that there were loved ones whom he should meet soon.
But the regiment reached Boston, and marched through the streets, and paraded on the Common; and all the while his longing eyes looked in vain for his friends, who never appeared. It seemed to him that nearly every other fellow in his company saw friends either on the march or at the halt, while he alone was left unnoticed and uncomforted. And so his anticipated hour of enjoyment was changed to one of bitterness.
Why was it? His last letter must have had time to reach his family. Besides, they might have seen by the newspapers that the regiment was coming. Why then did they fail to meet him? His heart swelled with grief as he thought of it,—he was there, so near home, for perhaps the last time, and nobody that he loved was with him during those precious, wasting moments.
But, suddenly, as he was casting his eyes for the twentieth time along the lines of spectators, searching for some familiar face, he heard a voice—not father's or mother's, or sister's, but one scarcely less dear than the dearest.
"My bwother Fwank! me want my bwother Fwank!"
And turning, he saw little Willie running towards him, almost between the legs of the policemen stationed to keep back the crowd.
VII.
THROUGH BOSTON.
If ever "bwother Fwank" felt a thrill of joy, it was then. Willie ran straight to his arms, in spite of the long-legged officer striding to catch him, and pulling down his neck, hugged him, and kissed him, and hugged and kissed him again, with such ardor that the delighted bystanders cheered, and the pursuing policeman stepped back with a laugh of melting human kindness.
"He's too much for me, that little midget is," he said, returning to his place. "Does he belong to you, ma'am?" addressing a lady whose humid eyes betrayed something more than a stranger's interest in the scene.
"They are my children," said the lady. "Will you be so good, sir, as to tell the drummer boy to step this way?"
But already Frank was coming. How thankful he then felt that he was not a private, confined to the ranks! In a minute his mother's arm was about him, and her kiss was on his cheek, and Helen was squeezing one hand, and his father the other, while Willie was playing with his drumsticks.
"I am all the more glad," he said, his face shining with gratitude and pleasure, "because I was just giving you up—thinking you wouldn't come at all."
"Only think," said Helen, "because you wrote on your letter,In haste, the postmaster gave it to Maggie Simpson yesterday to deliver, for she was going right by our house; but Dan Alford came along and asked her to ride, and she forgot all about the letter, and would never have thought of it again, I suppose, if I hadn't seen the postmaster and set off on the track of it this morning. She had gone over to her aunt's, and I had to follow her there; and then she had to go home again, to get the letter out of her other dress pocket; but her sister Jane had by this time got on the dress, in place of her own, which was being washed, and worn it to school; and so we had to go on a wild-goose chase after Jane."
"Well, I hope you had trouble enough for one letter!" said Frank.
"But you haven't heard all yet," said Helen, laughing, "for when we found Jane, she had not the letter, she had taken it out of the pocket, when she put the dress on, and left it on the bureau at home. So off again we started, Maggie and I, but before we got to her house, the letter had gone again—her mother had found it in the mean time, and sent it to us by the butcher boy. Well, I ran home, but no butcher boy had made his appearance; and, do you think, when I got to the meat shop, I found him deliberately sawing off a bone for his dog, with your letter in his greasy pocket."
"He had forgotten it too!" said Frank.
"Not he! but he didn't think it of very much importance, and he intended to bring it to us some time during the day—after he had fed his dog! By this time father had got news that the regiment was in town; and such a rush as we made for the horse-cars you never did see!"
"But Hattie! where is she?" Frank asked, anxiously.
Helen's vivacious face saddened a little.
"O, we came away in such a hurry we couldn't bring her, even if she had been well enough."
"In she worse?"
"She gets no better," said Mrs. Manly, "and she herself thought she ought not to try to come. Maggie Simpson offered to stay with her."
"I am so sorry! I wanted to seeher. Did she send any message to me?"
"Yes," said his mother. "She said, 'Give my love to dear brother, and tell him to think of me sometimes.'"
"Think of her sometimes!" said Frank. "Tell her I shall always think of her and love her."
By this time Captain Edney, seeing Frank with his friends, came towards them. Frank hastened to hide his emotion; and, saluting the officer respectfully, said to him, with a glow of pleasure:—
"Captain Edney, this is my mother."
Captain Edney lifted his cap, with a bright smile.
"Well," he said, "this is a meeting I rather think neither of us ever looked forward to, when we used to spend those long summer days in the old schoolhouse, which I hope you remember."
"I remember it well—and one bright-faced boy in particular," said Mrs. Manly, pressing his hand cordially.
"A rather mischievous boy, I am afraid I was; a little rebel myself, in those days," said the captain.
"Yet a boy that I always hoped much good of," said Mrs. Manly. "I cannot tell you how gratified I am to feel that my son is entrusted in your hands."
"You may be sure I will do what I can for him," said the captain, "if only to repay your early care of me."
He then conversed a few moments with Mr. Manly, who was always well satisfied to stand a little in the background, and let his wife have her say first.
"And this, I suppose, is Frank's sister," turning to Helen. "I should have known her, I think, for she looks so much as you used to, Mrs. Manly, that I can almost fancy myself stepping up to her with my slate, and saying, 'Please, ma'am, show me about this sum?'"
Frank, in the mean time, was occupied in exhibiting to Willie his drum, and in preventing him, partly by moral suasion, but chiefly by main force, from gratifying his ardent desire to pound upon it.
"And here is our little brother," said the captain, lifting Willie, notwithstanding his struggles and kicks, and kissing his shy, pouting cheeks. "He'll make a nice drummer boy too, one of these days."
This royal flattery won the child over to his new friend immediately.
"Me go to war with my bwother Fwank! dwum, and scare webels!" panting earnestly over his important little story, which the captain was obliged to cut short.
"Well, Frank, I suppose you would like to spend the rest of the time with your friends. Be at the Old Colony depot at five o'clock. Meanwhile,"—touching his cap,—"a pleasant time to all of you."
So saying, be left them, and Frank departed with his friends, carrying his drum with him, to the great delight of little Willie, whose heart would have been broken if all hope of being allowed to drum upon it had been cut off by leaving it behind.
"Mrs. Gillett has invited us to bring you to her house," said Mrs. Manly. "I want to have a long talk with you there; and I want Mrs. Gillett's brother, the minister, to see you."
Frank was not passionately fond of ministers; and immediately an unpleasant image rose in his mind, of a solemn, black-coated individual, who took a mournful satisfaction in damping the spirits of young people by his long and serious conversations.
"You needn't strut so, Frank, if youhavegot soldier clothes on," laughed Helen. "I'll tell folks you are smart, if you are so particular to have them know it."
"Do, if you please," said Frank. "And I'll tell 'em you're handsome, if you'll put your veil down so they won't know but that I am telling the truth."
"There, Helen," said Mrs. Manly, "you've got your joke back with interest. Now I'd hold my tongue, if I was you."
"Frank and I wouldn't know each other if we didn't have a little fun together," said Helen. "Besides, we'll all feel serious enough by and by, I guess." For she loved her brother devotedly, much as she delighted to tease him; and she would have been glad to drown in merry jests the thought of the final parting, which was now so near at hand.
They were cordially received at Mrs. Gillett's house; and there Mrs. Manly enjoyed the wished-for opportunity of talking with her son, and Willie had a chance to beat the drum in the attic, and Mrs. Gillett secretly emptied Frank's haversack of its rations of pork and hard tack, and filled it again with excellent bread and butter, slices of cold lamb, and sponge cake. Moreover, a delightful repast was prepared for the visitors, at which Frank laughed at his own awkwardness, declaring that he had eaten from a tin plate so long, with his drumhead for a table, that he had almost forgotten the use of china and napkins.
"If Hattie was only here now!" he said, again and again. For it needed only his invalid sister's presence, during these few hours, to make him perfectly happy.
"Eat generously," said the minister, "for it may be long before you sit at a table again."
"Perhaps I never shall," thought Frank, but he did not say so lest he might hurt his mother's feelings.
The minister was not at all such a person as he had expected to see, but only a very pleasant gentleman, not at all stiffened with the idea that he had the dignity of the profession to sustain. He was natural, friendly, and quite free from that solemn affectation which now and then becomes second nature in ministers some of us know, but which never fails to repel the sympathies of the young.
Mr. Egglestone was expecting soon to go out on a mission to the troops, and it was for this reason Mrs. Manly wished them to become acquainted.
"I wish you were going with our regiment," said Frank. "We have got a chaplain, I believe, but I have never seen him yet, or seen any body who has seen him."
"Well, I hope at least I shall meet you, if we both reach the seat of war," said the minister, drawing him aside. "But whether I do or not, I am sure that, with such a good mother as you have, and such dear sisters as you leave behind, you will never need a chaplain to remind you that you have something to preserve more precious than this mortal life of ours,—the purity and rectitude of your heart."
This was spoken so sincerely and affectionately that Frank felt those few words sink deeper into his soul than the most labored sermon could have done. Mr. Egglestone said no more, but putting his arm confidingly over the boy's shoulder, led him back to his mother.
And now the hour of parting had come. Frank's friends, including the minister, went with him to the cars. Arrived at the depot, they found it thronged with soldiers, and surrounded by crowds of citizens.
"O, mother!" said Frank, "youmustsee our drum-major, old Mr. Sinjin—my teacher, you know. There he is; I'll run and fetch him!"
He returned immediately, dragging after him the grizzled veteran, who seemed reluctant, and looked unusually stern.
"It's my mother and father, you know," said Frank. "They want to shake hands with you."
"What do they care for me?" said the old man, frowning.
Frank persisted, and introduced his father. The veteran returned Mr. Manly's salute with rigid military courtesy, without relaxing a muscle of his austere countenance.
"And this is my mother," said Frank.
With still more formal and lofty politeness, the old man bent his martial figure, and quite raised his cap from his old gray head.
"Madam, your very humble servant!"
"Mr. St. John!" exclaimed Mrs. Manly, in astonishment. "Is it possible that this is my old friend St. John?"
"Madam," said the veteran, with difficulty keeping up his cold, formal exterior, "I hardly expected you would do me the honor to remember one so unworthy;" bending lower than before, and raising his hat again, while his lips twitched nervously under his thick mustache.
"Why, where did you ever see him, mother?" cried Frank, with eager interest.
"Mr. St. John was an old friend of your grandfather's, Frank. Surely, sir, you have not forgotten the little girl you used to take on your knee and feed with candy?"—for the old man was still looking severe and distant.
"I have not forgotten many pleasant things—and some not so pleasant, which I would have forgotten by every body." And the old drummer gave his mustache a vindictive pull.
"Be sure," said Mrs. Manly, "I remember nothing of you that was not kind and honorable. I think you must have known who my son was, you have been so good to him. But why did you not inform him, or me through him, whoyouwere? I would have been so glad to know about you."
"I hardly imagined that."—The old cynical smile curled the heavy mustache.—"And if I could be of any service to your son, it was needless for you to know of it. I was Mr. St. John when you knew me; but I am nobody but Old Sinjin now. Madam, I wish you a very good-day, and much happiness. Your servant, sir!"
And shaking hands stiffly, first with Mrs. Manly, then with her husband, the strange old man stalked away.
"Who is he? what is it about him?" asked Frank, stung with curiosity. "Never didIthinkyouknewOld Sinjin."
"Your father knows about him, and I will tellyousome time," said Mrs. Manly, her eyes following the retreating figure with looks of deep compassion. "In the mean time, be very kind to him, very gentle and respectful, my son."
"I will," said Frank, "but it is all so strange! I can't understand it."
"Well, never mind now. Here is Captain Edney talking with Helen and Mr. Egglestone, and Willie is playing with his scabbard. Pretty well acquainted this young gentleman is getting!" said Mrs. Manly, hastening to take the child away from the sword.
"Pitty thord! pitty man!" lisped Willie, who had fallen violently in love with the captain and his accoutrements. "Me and Helen, we like pitty man! We go with pitty man!"
Helen blushed; while the captain, laughing, took a piece of money from his pocket and gave it to Willie for the compliment.
Frank, who had been absent a moment, now joined the group, evidently much pleased at something.
"The funniest thing has happened! A fellow in our company,—and one of the best fellows he is too! but I can't help laughing!—he met his girl to-day, and they suddenly took it into their heads to get married; so they sent two of their friends to get their licenses for them, one, one way, and the other another way, for they live in different places. And the fellow's license has come, and the girl's hasn't, and they wouldn't have time to go to a minister's now if it had. It is too bad! but isn't it funny? The fellow is one of my very best friends. I wrote to you about him; Abe Atwater. There he is, with his girl!"
And Frank pointed out the tall young soldier, standing stately and taciturn, but with a strong emotion in that usually mild, grave face of his, perceptible enough to those who knew him. His girl was at his side, crying.
"How I pity her!" said Helen. "But he takes it coolly enough, I should think."
"He takes every thing that way," said Frank; "but you can't tell much by his face how he feels, though I can see he is biting hard to keep his heart down now, straight as he stands."
"I'll speak to her," said Helen; and while Frank accosted Atwater, she made acquaintance with the girl.
"Yes," said the soldier, "it would be better to know I was leaving a wife behind, to think of me and look for my coming back. But I never knew she cared so much for me; and now it's too late."
"To think," said the girl to Helen, "he has loved me all along, but never told me, because he thought I wouldn't have him! And now he is going, and may be I shall never see him again! And we want to be married, and my license hasn't come!" And she poured out her sorrows into the bosom of the sympathizing Helen, with whom suffering and sympathy made her at once acquainted.
Just then the signal sounded for the train to be in readiness to start. And there were hurried partings, and tears in many a soldier's eye. And Frank's mother breathed into his ear her good-by counsel and blessing. And Atwater was bidding his girl farewell, when a man came bounding along the platform with a paper in his hand—the marriage license.
"Too late now!" said Atwater, with a glistening smile. "We are off!"
"But here is a minister!" cried Helen,—"Mr. Eggleston!—O, Captain Edney! have the train wait until this couple can be married. It won't take a minute!"
The case of the lovers was by this time well understood, not only by Captain Edney and Mr. Egglestone, but also by the conductor of the train and scores of soldiers and citizens. An interested throng crowded to witness the ceremony. The licenses were in the hands of the minister, and with his musket atorder armsby his right side, and his girl at his left, Atwater stood up to be married, as erect and attentive as if he had been going through the company drill. And in a few words Mr. Egglestone married them, Frank holding Atwater's musket while he joined hands with his bride.
In the midst of the laughter and applause which followed, the soldier, with unchanging features, fumbled in his pocket for the marriage fee. He gave it to Mr. Egglestone, who politely handed it to the bride. But she returned it to her husband.
"You will need it more than I shall, Abram!"—forcing it, in spite of him, back into his pocket. "Good-by!" she sobbed, kissing him. "Good-by, my husband!"
This pleasing incident had served to lighten the pain of Frank's parting with his friends. When sorrowful farewells are to be said, no matter how quickly they are over. And they were over now; and Frank was on the departing train, waving his cap for the last time to the friends he could not see for the tears that dimmed his eyes.
And the cars rolled slowly away, amid cheers which drowned the sound of weeping. And the bride who had had her husband for a moment only, and lost him—perhaps forever,—and the mother who had given her son to her country,—perhaps never to receive him back,—and other wives, and mothers, and fathers, and sisters, were left behind, with all the untold pangs of grief and anxious love in their hearts, gazing after the long swift train that bore their loved ones away to the war.
VIII.
ANNAPOLIS.
And the train sped on; and the daylight faded fast; and darkness shut down upon the world. And still the train sped on.
When it was too dark to see any thing out of the car windows, and Frank was tired of the loud talking around him, he thought he would amuse himself by nibbling a little "hard tack." So he opened his haversack, and discovered the cake, and bread and butter, and cold lamb, with which some one who loved him had stored it. He was so moved by this evidence of thoughtful kindness that it was some time before be could make up his mind to break in upon the little stock of provisions, which there was really more satisfaction in contemplating than in eating any ordinary supper. But the sight of some of his comrades resorting for solace to their rations decided him, and he shared with them the contents of his haversack.
The train reached Fall River at nine o'clock, and the passengers were transferred to the steamer "Metropolis." The boat was soon swarming with soldiers, stacking their arms, and hurrying this way and that in the lamp-light. Then the clanking of the engine, the trembling of the steamer, and the sound of rushing water, announced that they were once more in motion.
Frank had never been on salt water before, and he was sorry this was in the night; but he was destined before long to have experience enough of the sea, both by night and by day.
When he went upon deck the next morning, the steamer was cutting her way gayly through the waters of New York harbor,—a wonderful scene to the untravelled drummer boy, who had never before witnessed such an animated picture of dancing waters, ships under full sail, and steamboats trailing long dragon-tails of smoke in the morning air.
Then there was the city, with its forests of masts, its spires rising dimly in the soft, smoky atmosphere that shrouded it, and the far, faint sound of its bells musically ringing.
Then came the excitement of landing; the troops forming, and, after a patriotic reception by the "Sons of Massachusetts," marching through the city to the barracks; then dinner; and a whole afternoon of sight-seeing afterwards.
The next day the regiment was off again, crossing the ferry, and taking the cars for Philadelphia. From Philadelphia it kept on into the night again, until it reached a steamer, in waiting to receive it, on Chesapeake Bay.
The next morning was rainy; and the rain continued all day, pouring dismally; and it was raining still when, at midnight, the boat arrived at Annapolis. In the darkness and storm the troops landed, and took up their temporary quarters in the Naval Academy. In one of the recitation halls, Frank and his comrades spread their blankets on the floor, put their knapsacks under their heads, and slept as soundly after their wearisome journey as they ever did in their beds at home. Indeed, they seemed to fall asleep as promptly as if by word of command, and to snore by platoons.
The next morning the rain was over. At seven o'clock, breakfast; after which the regiment was reviewed on the Academy parade. Then Frank and a squad of jovial companions set out to see the town,—taking care to have with them an intelligent young corporal, named Gray, who had been there before, and knew the sights.
"Boys," said young Gray, as they sallied forth, "we are now in Queen Anne's city,—for that, I suppose you know, is what the word Annapolis means. It was the busiest city in Maryland once; but, by degrees, all its trade and fashion went over to Baltimore, and left the old town to go to sleep,—though it has woke up and rubbed its eyes a little since the rebellion broke out."
"When was you here, Gray?" asked Jack Winch.
Gray smiled at his ignorance, while Frank said,—
"What! didn't you know, Jack, he was here with the Eighth Massachusetts, last April, when they saved Washington and the Union?"
"The Union ain't saved yet!" said Jack.
"But we saved Washington; that's every where admitted," said Gray, proudly. "On the 19th of April the mob attacked the Sixth Massachusetts in Baltimore, took possession of the city, and destroyed the communication with Washington. You remember that, for it was the first blood shed in this war; and April 19, 1861, takes its place with April 19, 1775, when the first blood was shed at Lexington, in the Revolution."
"Of course I know all that!" said Jack, who never liked to be thought ignorant of any thing.
"Well, there was the government at Washington in danger, the Eighth Massachusetts on its way to save it, and Baltimore in the hands of the rebels. I tell you, every man of us was furious to cut our way through, and avenge the murders of the 19th. But General Butler hit upon a wiser plan, and instead of keeping on to Baltimore, we switched off, seized a ferry-boat on the Chesapeake, just as she was about to be taken by the secessionists, ran down here to Annapolis, saved the city, saved the old frigate 'Constitution,' and, with the New York Seventh, went to work to open a new route to Washington.
"Our boys repaired the railroad track, which the traitors had torn up, and put in shape again the engine they had disabled. We had men that could do anything; and that very engine was one they had made,—for the South never did its own engine-building, but sent to Massachusetts to have it done. Charley Homans knew every joint and pin in that old machine, and soon had her running over the road again."
"How far is it to Washington?" asked Frank.
"About forty miles; but then we thought it a hundred, we were so impatient to get there! What a march we had! all day and all night, the engine helping us a little, and we helping the engine by hunting up and replacing now and then a stray rail which the traitors had torn from the track. A good many got used up, and Charley Homans took 'em aboard the train. It was on that march I fell in with one of the pleasantest fellows I ever saw; always full of wit and good-humor, with a cheery word for every body. He belonged to the New York Seventh. He told me his name was Winthrop. But I did not know till afterwards that he was Theodore Winthrop, the author; afterwards Major Winthrop, who fell last June—only two months after—at Big Bethel."
"It was a North Carolina drummer boy that shot him," said Frank. "Winthrop was heading the attack on the battery; he jumped upon a log, and was calling to the men, 'Come on!' when the drummer boy took a gun, aimed deliberately, and shot him dead."
"I wouldn't want to be killed by a miserable drummer boy!" said Jack Winch, envious because Frank remembered the incident.
"A drummer boy may be as brave as any body," said Frank, keeping his temper. "But I wouldn't want to be even the bravest drummer boy, in a bad cause."
"And as for being shot," said Gray, "I think Jack wouldn't willingly place himself where there was much danger of being killed by any body."
"You'll see! you'll see!" said Jack, testily. "Just wait till the time comes."
"What water is this the town fronts on?" asked Frank.
"The Chesapeake, of course! Who don't know that?" said Jack, contemptuously.
"Only it ain't!" said Gray, with a quiet laugh. "This is the River Severn. The Chesapeake is some two miles below."
"There, Jack," said Ned Ellis, "I'd give up now. You don't know quite so much as you thought you did."
"What a queer old town it is," said Frank, generously wishing to draw attention from Jack's mortification. "It isn't a bit like Boston. It don't begin to be as smart a place."
"Of course not!" said Jack, more eager than ever now to appear knowing. "And why should it be? Boston is the capital of Massachusetts; and if Annapolis was only the capital of this state, it would be smart enough."
"What is the capital of this state?" asked Gray, winking slyly at Frank.
"Baltimore! I thought every body knew that," said Jack, with an air of importance.
This ludicrous blunder raised a great laugh.
"O Jack! O Jack Winch! where did you go to school?" said Joe Harris, "not to know that Frederick is the capital of Maryland."
"So it is! I had forgotten," said Jack. "Of course I knew Frederick was the capital, if I had only thought."
At this the boys laughed louder than ever, and Jack flew into a passion.
"Harris was fooling you," whispered Frank. "Annapolis is the capital. Gray is taking us now to see the State House."
"Ha, ha, ha!" Winch suddenly burst forth. "Did you think I didn't know? Annapolis is the capital; and there's the State House."
"Is it possible?" said Gray. "The rebels must have changed it then, for that was St. John's College when I was here before."
The boys shouted with merriment; all except Jack, who was angry. He had been as fickle at his studies, when at school, as he had always been at every thing else; never sticking long to any of them, but forever beginning something new; until, at last, ignorant of all, he gave up, declaring that he had knowledge enough to get through the world with, and that he wasn't going to bother his brain with books any longer. It added now to his chagrin to think that he had not education enough to prevent him from appearing ridiculous among his mates, and that the golden opportunity of acquiring useful information in his youth was lost forever.
Meanwhile Frank's reflections were very different. Gray's reminiscences of April had strongly impressed upon his mind the fact that he was now on the verge of his country's battle-fields; that this was the first soil that had been wrested from the grasp of treason, and saved for the Union,—that the ground he stood upon was already historic. And now the sight of some negroes reminded him that he was for the first time in his life in aslave state.
"These are the fellows that are the cause of this war," said Gray, indicating the blacks.
"Yes," said Winch, anxious to agree with him, "it's the abolitionists that have brought the trouble on the country. They insisted on interfering with the rights of the south, and so the south rebelled."
"We never interfered with slavery in the states where it belonged," said Frank, warmly. "The north opposed the extension of slavery over new territory, and took the power of the government out of the hands of the slaveholders, who had used it for their own purposes so long; and that is what made them rebel."
"Well, the north is partly to blame," insisted Jack, thinking he had Gray on his side.
"Yes; to blame for letting the slaveholders have their own way so long," said Frank. "And just as much to blame for this rebellion, as my father would be for my conduct, if he should attempt to enforce discipline at home, and I should get mad at it and set the house on fire."
"A good comparison," said Gray. "Because we were going to restore the spirit of the constitution, which is for freedom, and always was, though it has been obliged to tolerate slavery, the slaveholders, as Frank says, got mad and set Uncle Sam's house afire."
"He had heard somebody else say so, or he wouldn't have thought of it," said Jack, sullenly.
"No matter; it's true!" said Gray. "The south is fighting for slavery,—the corner-stone of the confederacy, as the rebel vice-president calls it,—while the north——"
"We are fighting for the Constitution and the Union!" said Jack.
"That's true, too; for the constitution, as I said, means freedom; and now the Union means, unionwithoutslavery, since we have seen that union with slavery is impossible. We are fighting for the same thing our forefathers fought for—Liberty!"
"They won liberty for the whites only," said Frank. "Now we are going to have liberty for all men."
"If I had a brother that was a slaveholder and secessionist, I wouldn't say any thing," sneered Jack.
Frank felt cut by the taunt; but he said, gayly,—
"I won't spoil a story for relation's sake! Come, boys, politics don't suit Jack, so let's have a song; the one you copied out of the newspaper, Gray. It's just the thing for the occasion."
Franks voice was a fine treble; Gray's a mellow bass. Others joined them, and the party returned to the Academy, singing high and clear these words:—