"I do now solemnly promise my mother and sisters that, when I am in the army, I will never be guilty of swearing, or gambling, or drinking, or any other mean thing I know they would not approve of. And I do solemnly pledge my word that they shall sooner hear of my death than of my being guilty of any of those things.Frank Manly."
"I do now solemnly promise my mother and sisters that, when I am in the army, I will never be guilty of swearing, or gambling, or drinking, or any other mean thing I know they would not approve of. And I do solemnly pledge my word that they shall sooner hear of my death than of my being guilty of any of those things.Frank Manly."
And beneath those words were written these also, in his mother's hand:—
"O heavenly Father! I beseech Thee, help my dear son to keep his promises. Give him strength to resist temptation. Save him, I pray Thee, from those who kill the body, but above all from those who kill the soul. If it be Thy gracious will, let him pass safely through whatever evils may beset him, and return to us uncontaminated and unhurt. But if this may not be, then, O, our Saviour! take him, take my precious child, I implore Thee, pure unto Thyself. And help us all so to live, that we shall meet again in joy and peace, if not here, hereafter. Amen."
"O heavenly Father! I beseech Thee, help my dear son to keep his promises. Give him strength to resist temptation. Save him, I pray Thee, from those who kill the body, but above all from those who kill the soul. If it be Thy gracious will, let him pass safely through whatever evils may beset him, and return to us uncontaminated and unhurt. But if this may not be, then, O, our Saviour! take him, take my precious child, I implore Thee, pure unto Thyself. And help us all so to live, that we shall meet again in joy and peace, if not here, hereafter. Amen."
Frank did not turn that page, but sat looking at it long. And he saw something besides the words there written. He saw himself once more a boy at home, the evening before his enlistment; pencil in hand, writing that solemn promise; his mother watching near; the bright face of his sister Helen yonder, shadowed by the thought of his going; the little invalid Hattie on the lounge, her sad face smiling very much as he saw it smiling out just now from the flowers in the coffin.
He saw his mother also, pencil in hand, writing that prayer,—her countenance full of anxious love and tears, her gentle lips tremulous with blessings. He saw her come to his bed in the moonlight night, when last he slept there with little Willie at his side, as maybe he will never sleep again. And he heard her counsels and entreaties, as she knelt there beside him; and felt her kisses; and lived over once more the thoughts of that night after she was gone, and when he lay sleepless with the moonlight on his bed.
But here he was now—not away there in the room at home, but here, among soldiers, on shipboard. And the pure, innocent Frank of that night lived no more. And all those promises had been broken, one by one. And he knew not what to do, he was so miserable.
Yet—the sudden thought warmed and thrilled his breast—he might be pure as then, he might be innocent as then, and all the stronger for having known what temptation was, and fallen, and risen again. And he might keep those promises in a higher and nobler sense than he dreamed of when he made them; and his mother's prayer might, after all, be answered.
"Frank," said the voice of Captain Edney. He had come to visit the quarters of his company, and, seeing the boy sitting there so absorbed, his young face charged with thought and grief, had stopped some moments to regard him, without speaking.
Frank started, almost like a guilty person, and gave the military salute rather awkwardly as he got upon his feet. He had been secretly dreading Captain Edney's displeasure, and now he thought he was to be called to an account.
"I have something for you in my room," said the officer, with a look of serious reserve, unlike the cheerful, open, brotherly glance with which he formerly regarded the drummer boy.
Frank accompanied him, wondering what that something was. A reproof for his drunkenness, or for gambling away the watch, he expected more than any thing else; and his heart was heavy by the way.
"Did you know a mail came on board to-day?" said the captain, as they entered his stateroom.
Frank remembered hearing Atwater say he had that day got a letter from his wife. But his mind had been too much agitated by other things to consider the subject then.
"No, sir, I didn't know it."
"How happens that? You are generally one of the most eager to receive letters."
Frank hung his head. What answer could he make? That he was intoxicated in his berth when the mail arrived? A sweat of shame covered him. He was silent.
"Well, well, my boy!"—Captain Edney patted him gently on the shoulder,—"you are forgiven this time. I am sure you did not mean to get drunk."
"O, sir!" began Frank, but stopped there, over whelmed by the captain's kindness.
"I know all about it," said Captain Edney. "Tucket assures me that he and the rest were more to blame than you. But, for the sake of your friends, Frank, take warning by this experience, and never be betrayed into any thing of the kind again. I trust you. And here, my boy, are your letters."
He put half a dozen into Frank's hands. And Frank, as he took them, felt his very heart melt within him with gratitude and contrition. He was not thinking so much of the letters as of Captain Edney and his watch.
"Forgive me; forgive me!" he humbly entreated.
"I do, freely, as I told you," said the captain.
"But—the watch you gave me!"
"Dear boy!"—the captain put his arm kindly about him,—"haven't I always told you I knew nothing about the watch? I did not give it to you, nor do I know what generous friend did."
"It is true, then?" Frank looked up with a half-glad, half-disappointed expression. He was disappointed to know that so good a friend was not the donor of the watch, and yet glad that he had not wrongedhimby gambling it away. "Then, Captain Edney, I wish you would tell me what to do. I have done the worst and meanest thing. I have lost the watch."
And he went on to relate how he had lost it. Captain Edney heard him with deep concern. He had all along felt a sense of responsibility for the boy Mrs. Manly had intrusted to him, as well as a genuine affection for him; he had therefore double cause to be pained by this unexpected development.
"Frank," said he, "I am glad I did not first hear this story from any body else; and I am glad that the proof of your thorough repentance accompanies the confession. That breaks the pain of it. To-morrow I will see what can be done about the watch. Perhaps we shall get it again. To-night I have only one piece of advice to give. Don't think of winning it back with cards."
"Then how shall I ever get it?" asked Frank, in despair. For he did not wish his mother to know of the circumstances; and to buy the watch back when he was paid off again, would be to withhold money which he felt belonged to her.
Captain Edney could not solve the difficulty; and with that burden upon his mind, Frank returned to his bunk with his letters.
He bent over them with doubt and foreboding. The first he selected was from his mother. As he opened it, his eye caught these words:—
"... He says that you beat some of the worst men in the regiment at their own vices. He says you are generally smoking, except when you take out your pipe to swear. According to his account, you are one of the profanest of the profane. And he tells of your going with others to steal turkeys of a secessionist in Maryland, and how you got out of the scrape by the most downright lying. He gives the story so circumstantially that I cannot think he invented it, but am compelled to believe there is something in it. O, my child, is it possible? Ill as your sister is, to hear these things of you is a greater trial than the thought of parting with her so soon. Have you forgotten your promises to me? Have you forgotten——"
"... He says that you beat some of the worst men in the regiment at their own vices. He says you are generally smoking, except when you take out your pipe to swear. According to his account, you are one of the profanest of the profane. And he tells of your going with others to steal turkeys of a secessionist in Maryland, and how you got out of the scrape by the most downright lying. He gives the story so circumstantially that I cannot think he invented it, but am compelled to believe there is something in it. O, my child, is it possible? Ill as your sister is, to hear these things of you is a greater trial than the thought of parting with her so soon. Have you forgotten your promises to me? Have you forgotten——"
Frank could read no more. He gnashed his teeth together, and held them tight, like a person struggling against some insupportable pain. His sister so ill? That was Hattie. He saw the name written farther back. "He says,"—"according to his account,"—who was it sending home such stories about him? He glanced up the page, until his eye fell upon the name.
"John Winch——"
"John Winch——"
O, but this was too much! To be accused of swearing byhim! To be charged with stealing by one who went with him to steal, and did not, only because he was a coward! Frank felt an impulse to fall instantly upon that wretched youth, and choke the unmanly life out of him. John was at that moment writing a letter under the lantern, probably filling it with more tales about him;—and couldn't he tell some great ones now!—grinning, too, as he wrote; quite unaware what a tiger was watching him, athirst for his blood.
Yes. Winch had got letters to-day, and, learning what a lively sensation his stories of Frank created, had set to work to furnish the sequel to them; giving interesting particulars up to latest dates.
N. B. He was writing on the head of Frank's drum, which he had borrowed for the purpose. He had written his previous letters on the same. It was a good joke, he thought, to get the boy he was abusing to contribute some needful assistance towards the work; it added a flavor to treachery. But Frank did not so much enjoy the pleasantry. He was wild to be beating the tattoo, not on the said drum, but on the head of the rogue who was writing on the drum, and with his fist for drumsticks.
But he reflected, "I shall only be getting deeper into trouble, if I pitch into him. Besides, he is a good deal bigger than I,"—a powerful argument in favor of forbearance. "I'll wait; but I'll be revenged on him some way."
Little did he know—and as little did Winch surmise—how that revenge was to be accomplished. But it was to be, and soon.
For the present, Frank had other things to think of. He read of Hattie's fading away; of her love for him; and the tender messages she sent,—perhaps the last she would ever send to him. And he remembered his wonderful vision of her that evening. And tears came to cool and soften his heart.
And so we quit him for the night, leaving him alone with his letters, his grief, and his remorse.
XIX.
SETH GETS "RILED."
There is in the life of nearly every young person a turning-point of destiny. It may be some choice which he makes for himself, or which others make for him, whether of occupation, or companion, or rule of life. It may be some deep thought which comes to him in solitary hours,—some seed of wisdom dropped from the lips of teacher, parent, or friend, sinking silently as starlight into the soul, and taking immortal root there, unconsciously, perhaps, even to himself. Now it is the quickening of the spirit at the sight of God's beautiful universe—a rapture of love awakened by a morning in spring, by the blue infinity of the sky, by the eternal loneliness and sublimity of the sea. Or, in some moment of susceptibility, the smiles of dear home faces, the tender trill of a voice, a surge of solemn music, may have power over the young heart to change its entire future. And again, it is some vivid experience of temptation and suffering that shapes the great hereafter. For the Divinity that maketh and loveth us is forever showering hints of beauty and blessedness to win back our wandering affections,—dropping cords of gentlest influences to draw home again all hearts that will come.
Then the spirit of the youth rises up within him, and says,—
"Whereas I was blind, now I am beginning to see. And whereas I was weak, now, with God's help, I will strive for better things. Long enough have I been the companion of folly, and all the days of my life have I been a child. But now I perceive that I am to become a man, and I will henceforth think the thoughts and do the deeds of a man."
Such an experience had come to Frank; and thus, on the new morning, as he beheld it rise out of the sea, his spirit spake unto him.
He answered his mother's letter, confessing that his conduct had afforded only too good a foundation for Jack's stories.
"The trouble, I think, is," said he, "that I wrote my promises first witha pencil. They did get a littlerubbed outI own. I have since takena pen, and written them all over again, word by word, and letter by letter,with ink. So you may depend upon it, dear mother, that not another syllable of my pledge willget blurredordimmed, either on theleaf of my Testament; or on thepage of my heart. Onlybelieve this, and then you may believe as much as you please of what J. W. writes."
Not a word to the sameJ. W.did Frank say of the base thing he had done; and as for the revenge he had vowed, the impulse to wreak it in tigerish fashion had passed like a night-fog before the breezy purity of the new life that had dawned.
In a couple of days Frank had mostly recovered his equanimity. The loss of the watch was still a source of anxious grief to him, however; less on his own account, let me say, than for the sake of the unknown giver. Nor had he, as yet, found any opportunity to atone for his rudeness to the old drum-major, who had lately, for some cause, gone over to the other wing of the regiment on board the steamer, so that Frank yearned in vain to go to him and humbly beg forgiveness for his fault.
"What has taken Mr. Sinjin away?" he asked of his friend, the young corporal.
Gray shrugged his shoulders, and looked at Frank as if he had a good mind to tell a secret.
"How should I know? He's such a crotchety old boy. I don't think he could account for his conduct himself. He asked permission to remove his quarters to the steamer, and got it; pretending, I believe, that he could have better accommodations there."
"AndIbelieve," said Frank, "that you know more about it than you will own."
"Well, I have my suspicions. Shall I be candid with you, Frank? and you'll forgive me if I hurt your feelings?"
"Yes," said Frank, anxiously.
"Well, then," said Gray. "I suppose you know Sinjin had taken a great fancy to you."
"I thought at one time he liked me."
"At one time? I'll wager my head he was liking you the most when he appeared to the least—he's such a queer old cove! I've heard he was disappointed in love once, and that some friend of his proved traitor to him; and that's what has made him so shy of showing any thing like affection for any body. Well, he heard of your gambling, and went to talk with you about it, and you said something to him that wounded him so I think he couldn't bear the sight of you afterwards."
The boy's heart was wrung by this revelation. What reason, he demanded to know, had Gray for thinking thus?
"Because I know the man, and because I know something which I think you ought to know." Gray drew Frank confidentially aside. "He may anathematize me for betraying his secret; but I think it is time to do him justice, even against his will. Frank, it was Old Sinjin who gave you the watch."
Frank's heart leaped up, but fell again instantly, convulsed with pain and regret.
"Are you sure, Gray?"
"Sure as this: I was with him when he bought the watch in Annapolis. I helped him to do it up in the wrappers. And it was I that pitched it into the tent at you Thanksgiving-day evening. That is being pretty sure—isn't it?"
"And he knows that I lost it?" said Frank.
"He had just heard so when he went to speak with you about gambling."
"And I told him it was none of his business," said Frank, remorsefully. "O, he will never forgive me now; and who can blame him? Good old man! dear, good old man! My mother told me to be always very kind to him—and how have I repaid his goodness to me!"
It seemed now that the boy could not control his impatience until once more he had seen his benefactor, confessed all to him, and heard him say he was forgiven for his unkindness and ingratitude.
But the old drummer still remained on board the steamer. And Frank had only this faith to comfort him—that if his repentance was sincere, and he henceforth did only what was right, all would yet be well.
The next morning he was viewing the sunrise from the deck, when Seth Tucket came to his side.
"'Once more upon the waters! yet once more! and the waves bound beneath me as the steed that knows his rider—welcome to their roar!' Only they don't bound much, and they don't roar to-day," said Seth. "The boys have found out it's Sunday; and as we're to have a battle 'fore the week's out, they seem to think it's about as well to remember there's a difference in days. How are you, Manly?"
"Better," said Frank, with a smile.
"Happy?"—with a grimace meant to be sympathizing, but which was droll enough to be laughable.
"Happier than I was," said the drummer boy. "Happier than I've been for a long time."
"What! not happier, now you've lost every thing, than when you was hevin' such luck at play?"
"I wasn't happy then. I thought I was. But I was only excited. I am happier now that I've lost every thing; it's true, Tucket."
"Well, I swan to man! I thought you was mourning over your luck, and I was bringing ye sunthin' to kind o' cheer ye up. Glad to hear you've no need. Fine day, but rather windy. Wonder what's the time!"
So saying, Seth drew out the watch, and regarded it with provoking coolness.
"I'm plagued ef the darned thing hain't run down! Say, Frank, ye couldn't think of throwin' in the key, too—could ye? I can't wind her up without a key."
Frank choked a little, but his look was cheerful, as he put his hand in his pocket, and, without a word, delivered over to the new owner of the watch the key also.
"Thank ye; much obleeged;" and Seth "wound her up" with extraordinary parade. Then he shook it, and held it to his ear. Then he said, "All right! she's a puttin' in again, lickety-switch! Good watch, that." Then he set it "by guess." Then he was returning it to his pocket, when a new thought seemed to strike him.
"What do ye do for a watch-pocket, Frank? Gov'ment don't provide watch-pockets, seems."
"I made one for myself," said Frank.
"Sho now! ye didn't, though—did ye? What with?"
"With a needle and thread I brought from home, and with another old pocket," said Frank.
"Well, you air the cutest! Say, what'll ye tax to make me one? I don't care to hev it very large; a small watch, so."
A dry proposal, that. It was not enough to furnish watch and watch-key; but Frank was required also to provide a watch-pocket.
"What do ye say?" asked Seth, with a shrewd squint.
"I'll make you one for nothing," said Frank.
"Come, by darn!" exclaimed Seth; "none o' that, now!"
"None of what?"
"You're a-trying my disposition!"—And, indeed, Tucket was visibly moved; there was a tear in his eye—a bona fide tear. "I've a good disposition, nat'rally; but I shall git riled ef you say much more. I've got your watch, and that's all right. I've got the key, and that's all right, too. But when you talk of makin' a watch-pocket for nothin', I tell ye a saint couldn't stand that."
Frank, who thought he had learned to know pretty well the man's oddities, was puzzled this time.
"I didn't mean to offend you, Tucket."
"No, you didn't. And now see here, Manly. We'll jest compromise this matter, ef you've no 'bjection. I've no watch-pocket, and you've no watch. So, s'posin' you carry the watch for me, and tell me what time it is when I ax ye? That won't be too much trouble—will it?"
"Are you in earnest?" asked Frank.
"Yes, I be, clean up to the hub. The truth is, I can't carry that watch with any kind o' comfort, and I'm bent on gitt'n' it off my hands, ef I hef to throw it overboard. Here! It's yours; take it, and be darned!" said Seth.
"I was going to propose to you,"—stammered Frank from his too full heart,—"to take the watch, and pay you for it when I can."
"Ez for that the pay's no consequence. I was more to blame than you; and the loss ought to be mine."
"But——" insisted Frank.
"No buts! Besides, I never make bargains Sundays." And Seth turned away, abruptly, leaving the watch in Frank's hand.
The boy would have called him back, but a rush of emotions—joy, gratitude, contrition—choked his voice. A dash of tears fell upon the watch as he gazed on it, and pressed it, and would have kissed it, had he been alone. It was his again; and that, after all, was an unalloyed satisfaction. He could lie awake nights and study days to devise means to reward Seth's generosity. And he would do it, he resolved. And Mr. Sinjin should know that he had recovered the prize, and that he held it all the more precious since he had found out the giver.
XX.
SUNDAY BEFORE THE BATTLE.
Frank was leaning over the rail of the schooner gazing down at the beautiful flashing water, and thinking of home. It was Sunday there, too, he remembered; and he could almost hear the sweet-toned bells solemnly chiming, and see the atmosphere of Sabbath peace brooding over field and village, and feel the serious gladness of the time. The folks were getting ready for church. There was his father, shaved and clean, in his black stock and somewhat threadbare, but still respectable, best coat. And there was Helen, bright and blooming, with her bonnet on, and with her Bible and question-book in her hand, setting out for the morning Sunday-school. His mother was not going to meeting; she was to stay at home with Hattie, and read to her, or, what was better, comfort her with affectionate, gentle, confiding words. But Willie was going with Helen, as he seemed anxious, by strut, and hurry, and loud, impatient talk, to let every body know. And Frank wished from his heart that he could be with them that day; and he wondered, did they miss him, and were they thinking of him, far off here in Carolina waters, alone in the midst of such crowds of men?
"Wouldn't I like to be in that boat, boys!" said Ellis. "Don't she come dancing on the waves!"
"She's pulling towards us," said Atwater. "I believe they're coming aboard."
"O, Atwater!" cried Frank, as the boat drew near. "There's a face there I know! One you know, too!" And he clapped his hands with joy; for it was a face he had seen in Boston, and he felt that it came with news from home.
The rare brightness kindled in Atwater's eyes as he gazed, and remembered. The boat came alongside, and hailed the schooner. And a man in the bow, as it rose upon a wave, seizing hold of the ladder of tarred rope, stepped quickly upon it, and came on board, cordially received by Captain Edney, who appeared to have been expecting him.
"It's the minister that married Atwater!" the rumor ran round among the troops. "What's his name, Frank?"
"His name's Egglestone," said Frank, his heart swelling with anxiety to speak with him.
The minister had come on a mission of Christian love to the soldiers of the expedition; and having, the day before, sent word to Captain Edney of his arrival, he had in return received an invitation to visit the schooner and preach to the men this Sunday morning.
A previous announcement that religious services would probably be held on board, had excited little interest; the troops surmising that the chaplain of the regiment, who had never been with them enough to win their hearts or awaken their attention, was to rejoin them, and preach one of his formal discourses.
But far different was the feeling when it was known that the "man that married Atwater" was to conduct the exercises. Then the soldiers remembered that they were New Englanders; and that here also God's Sabbath shed its silent influence, far though they were from the rude hills and rocky shores of home.
'Tis curious how a little leaven of memory will sometimes work in the heart. Here was half a regiment of men, who had come to fight the battles of their country. As with one accord they had left the amenities of peaceful life behind them, and assumed the rugged manners of war. Of late they had seemed almost oblivious of the fact that God, and Christian worship, and Christian rules of life were still in existence. But to-day they were reminded. To-day the child was awakened—the child that had known the wholesome New England nurture, that had sat on mother's knee, and had its earliest thought tuned to the music of Sunday bells; the child that lay hidden in the deep heart of every man of them, the same lived again, and looked forth from the eyes, and smiled once more in the softened visage of the man. And the man was carried back, far from these strange scenes, far from the relentless iron front of war, across alien lands, and over stormy seas,—carried back by the child yearning within,—to the old door yard, the village trees, the family fireside, the family pew, and the hushed congregation.
It was Mr. Egglestone's aim, in the beginning of the sermon he preached that morning, to remind the soldiers of their childhood. "It is a thought," he said, "which almost moves me to tears,—that all these hardy frames around me were but the soft, warm, dimpled forms of so many infants once. And nearly every one of you was, I suppose, watched over by tender parents, who beheld, with mutual joy, the development of each beautiful faculty. The first step taken by the babe's unassisted feet, the first articulate word spoken by the little lisping lips,—what delight they gave, and how long were they remembered! And what thoughts of the child's future came day and night to those parents' breasts! and of what earnest prayers was it the subject! And of all the parents of all those children who are here as men to-day, not one foresaw a scene like this; none dreamed that they were raising up patriots to fight for freedom's second birth on this continent, in the most stupendous of civil wars.
"But Providence leads us by strange ways, and by hidden paths we come upon brinks of destiny which no prophet foresaw. Now the days of peace are over. Many of you who were children are now the fathers of children. But your place is not at home to watch over them as you were watched over, but to strive by some means to work out a harder problem than any ever ciphered on slates at school."
Then he explained to his audience the origin of the war; for he believed it best that every soldier should understand well the cause he was fighting for. He spoke of the compact of States, which could not be rightfully broken. He spoke of the serpent that had been nursed in the bosom of those States. He related how slavery, from being at first a merely tolerated evil, which all good men hoped soon to see abolished, had grown arrogant, aggressive, monstrous; until, angered by resistance to its claims, it had deluged the land with blood. Such was the nature of an institution based upon selfishness and wrong. And such was the bitter result of building alieinto the foundations of our national structure. Proclaiming to the world, as the first principle of our republican form of government, that "all men are created free and equal," we had at the same time held a race in bondage.
"Neither nation nor individual," said he, "can in any noble sense succeed, with such rotten inconsistency woven into its life. It was this shoddy in the garment of our Goddess of Liberty, which has occasioned the rent which those needles there"—pointing to some bayonets—"must mend. And it is this shoddy of contradiction and infidelity which makes many a man's prosperity, seemingly substantial at first, promising warmth and wear, fall suddenly to pieces, and leave his soul naked to the winds of heaven."
It was not so much a sermon as a friendly, affectionate, earnest talk with the men, whom he sought to counsel and encourage. There was a melting love in his tones which went to their inmost souls. And when he exhorted them to do the work of men who feared God, but not any mortal foe, who dreaded dishonor, but not death, he made every heart ring with the stirring appeal.
Then suddenly his voice sank to a tone of solemn sweetness, as he said,—
"Peace! O, my brothers! struggle and violence are not the all of life. But God's love, the love of man to man, holiness, blessedness,—it is for these realities we are created, and placed here on this beautiful earth, under this blue sky, with human faces and throbbing human hearts around us. And the end of all ispeace. But only through fiery trial and valiant doing can any peace worth the name come to us; and to make the future truly blessed, we must make the present truly brave."
Before and after the discourse the men sang some of the good old tunes which all had been familiar with at home, and which descended like warm rain upon the ground where the scattered seed of the sermon fell.
The services ended, Mr. Egglestone went freely among the soldiers, and conversed with any who wanted to have speech of him; especially with Atwater; whose wife he had seen a few days before leaving Boston, where she came to see him, having learned who he was, and that he was about departing for the army in which her husband served.
After long waiting, Frank's turn came at last. They sat down on a bench apart; and the clergyman told him he had lately seen his mother, and that she had charged him with many messages. And one was a message of sorrow.
"She had heard unwelcome news of you," he said, holding the boy's hand. "And she wished me to say to you what I could to save you from what she dreads most—what any wise, loving mother dreads most for her child. But is there need of my saying any thing? By what your captain tells me, and still more by what your face tells me, I am convinced that I may spare my words. You have had in your own experience a better lesson than any body can teach you. You have erred, you have suffered. And"—he took a letter from his pocket—"I have something here to make you remember what you have learned—I think, for always."
Frank had listened, humbly, tremblingly, full of tears which he did not shed for the eyes that were about them. But now he started, and took the letter eagerly. "What's it? any bad news?" for he felt an alarming presentiment.
"I do not think it is bad. If you had seen what I saw, you would not think so either." Mr. Egglestone's manner was exceedingly tender, and his voice was liquid and low. "All is well with your folks at home; both with those who are there as you left them, and with the one whose true home is not there any longer, but in a brighter land, we trust."
"O!"—it was almost a cry of pain that broke from Frank. "Hattie?"
"Yes, Frank; it is of Hattie I am speaking. She has passed away. I was present, and saw her depart. And she was very calm and happy, and her last look was a smile, and her last words were words of hope and love. The letter will tell you all about it. I recall one thing, however, which I will repeat, since it so nearly concerns you. They were speaking of you. And she said, 'Maybe I shall see him before any of you will! Yes!' she added, her face shining already like a spirit's with the joyful thought, 'tell him how I love him; and say that I shall be with him when he does not know!' And I am sure that, if it is possible for souls that have escaped from these environments of flesh to be near us still, she will often be near you, loving you, influencing you. Perhaps she is present now, and hears all we say, and sees how badly you feel, and thinks you would not feel quite so badly if you knew that she is happy."
Frank would have spoken, to ask some earnest question which arose in his heart; but his feelings were too much agitated, and he could not trust his voice.
"We will believe such things are true of our lost ones," Mr. Egglestone said, with a parting pressure of the boy's hand. "For, with that faith, we shall surely try so to live that, when they approach us, they will not be repelled; and thus we will be guarded from evil, if not by any direct influence of theirs, then by our own reverence and love for them."
With this he took his leave. And Frank crept into his bunk, and turned away his face, before he dared to open and read his mother's letter.
In that letter there were no reproofs for his misconduct. But in place of such his mother had written the simple story of Hattie's death, with many affecting little details, showing her thoughtful tenderness for all, her cheerful sweetness, and her love for Frank. Then followed affectionate messages from them at home, who were very lonely now, and longed to have him with them—all which had a power beyond any reproaches to win the boy back to that purity of heart and life which belonged to his home-affections, and was safe when they were strong, and was imperilled when they were forgotten.
"O, to think," he said to himself, "only this morning I was imagining how it looked at home to-day—and it is all so different! I am gone, and now Hattie is gone too!"
XXI.
UP THE SOUND.
So passed that Sunday, memorable to the expedition; for it ushered in the battle-week.
Besides the transports and store-ships belonging to the coast division, a squadron of United States gunboats, under command of Commodore Goldsborough, had rendezvoused at the inlet. These were to take care of the rebel fleet, attend to the shore batteries, and prepare the way for the operation of the land forces.
All the vessels destined to take part in the advance were now over the bulkhead, in Pamlico Sound. On Monday, the sailing vessels were hauled into position, each astern of its steam-consort, by which it was to be towed. Sixty-five vessels of various classes were to participate in the movement; while upwards of fifty were to remain behind at the inlet, holding in reserve sixty days' supply of stores for the entire expedition.
The stay at the inlet had occasionally been enlivened by the arrival of refugees, white and black, from the coast of North Carolina. Some of these were citizens escaped from the persecutions meted out by the rebels to all who still remained loyal to the old flag. Some were deserters from the confederate army, in which they had been compelled to serve. Others were slaves fleeing from bondage to freedom.
Again, on Monday, a sail-boat hove in sight, and, being overhauled by one of the gunboats, proved to be loaded with these fugitives. They were mostly negroes; two of whom were bright, intelligent boys, who gave such evidence of joy at their escape, of loyalty to the Union, and of a thorough knowledge of the country, that Flag-officer Goldsborough retained them for the information they might be able to give, while the rest were sent ashore.
And now, general orders were read to the troops, announcing to them that they were soon to land on the coast of North Carolina, and reminding them that they were there, not to pillage or destroy private property, but to subdue the rebellion, and to maintain the Constitution and the laws.
Monday and Tuesday were occupied with preparations. But early Wednesday morning—more than three weeks after the arrival of the expedition at the inlet—the signals to weigh anchor and set sail were given.
Commodore Goldsborough's gunboat took the lead. Other vessels of the naval squadron followed. Then came the transports—a goodly spectacle.
"''Twere wuth ten years of peaceful life, one glance at our array,'" observed the poetical Tucket.
Each brigade formed three columns of steamers and sailing vessels in tow; and brigade followed brigade. The shallow water of the sound was scarcely ruffled by a breeze. It lay like a field of silver before the furrows of the fleet. The tall, taper masts of the schooners pointed like needles to the sky under which they moved. The aisles between the three columns of ships were unbroken through the whole length of the fleet, which extended for two miles over the surface of the sound, and advanced with such slow and uniform motion, each vessel keeping its position, that now all seemed moving as one, and again all seemed at rest, with the waters of the sound flowing past their steady keels.
As yet, the destination of the fleet was unknown. As it proceeded at first southward and westward, the rumor grew that Newbern was to be attacked. But it was only the course of the channel which thus far shaped its course; and after a few zigzag turns, the cause of which was inexplicable to the green ones, ignorant of the shoals, it began to steer due north. Then all doubts with regard to its destination vanished.
"Roanoke Island, boys! Roanoke Island!" was echoed from mouth to mouth on board the schooner.
The day was beautiful—only a light breeze blowing, and a few light clouds floating in the blue ether. And now the vessels at the inlet began to sink below the horizon; first, the hulls, then the decks disappeared; and lastly, spars and rigging went down behind the curve of the sphere, and were visible no more to the clearest glass.
At the same time emerged in the west the main land of North Carolina. At first, tall cypresses rose to view, growing as it were "out of a mirror." Then appeared the long swampy shores, lying dim and low, with here and there a miserable fish-house, the sole trace of human habitation.
At sundown the fleet was within ten miles of Roanoke Island. The signal from the flag-ship was given, at which the vessels of each brigade drew together, the clank of running-out chains sounded along the lines, the anchors plashed, and the fleet was moored for the night.
As yet there were no signs of rebels. What the morrow, what the night, might bring forth was all uncertainty. The night set in dark enough. But soon the sky cleared, the moon came out resplendent, and the stars looked down from their far eternal calm upon the evanescent shows of mortal conflict—the batteries of the rebellion yonder, and here the fleet, no more than the tiniest shells to those distant, serene, awful eyes of Deity. And Frank looked up at the stars; and the spirit within him said, "They will shine the same to-morrow night, and the next night, and forever; and whether there is war or peace, whether victory comes or defeat, and whether thou, child, art living or art dead, they know not, they change not, neither do they rejoice or mourn." And the thought sank deep into the heart of the boy as he retired to his bed, and closed his eyes to sleep.
A sharp lookout was kept for the rebel gunboats all night, but they never made their appearance. The next morning the weather was heavy—promising rain. At eight o'clock, however, the signal to weigh anchor—the Union Jack at the foremast, and the American flag at the stern—was telegraphed from the flag-ship, and repeated by the flag-ship of each brigade. Again the fleet got in motion, approaching the entrance to Croatan Sound. The water was shoal, and progress was slow, and soon it came on to rain. It was a dismal day; rain on the decks, rain on the water, rain on the marshy shores of the main land, and over the forests beyond, where the ghosts of blasted trees stretched their naked arms despairingly to the dripping clouds. And now a low swampy point of Roanoke Island pushes out into the dim water, under a veil of rain.
At about noon, most of the vessels came to anchor. But some of the gunboats advanced to the entrance of Croatan Sound, and reconnoitred. The rebel fleet was discovered, drawn up in line of battle on the west side of the island, awaiting the conflict. A fog coming on, active operations against the enemy were postponed, and the gunboats, withdrawing also, came to anchor for the night.
During the day, several of the armed steamers, which had served as transports, prepared to cooperate with the naval squadron in their true character as gunboats; the troops on board of them being distributed among other vessels of the coast division. Among the steamers thus cleared was the schooner's consort; and thus it happened that Mr. Sinjin returned to his old quarters, to the great joy of the drummer boy, whose heart burned within him at the thought of meeting his old friend once more, after their unhappy parting.
They met, indeed; but the schooner was now so crowded, and such was the stir on board, that Frank scarce found an opportunity to offer the veteran his hand, and get one look out of those serious gray eyes.
The drummers being assembled, the surgeon came to them, and gave each a strip of red flannel to tie on his arm as a token, at the same time informing them that, when the troops landed, they were to go with him and help carry the wounded.
"This begins to look like serious business, my boy," said the old drummer, kindly, as he stooped to assist Frank in tying on his badge.
His touch was very gentle. Frank's breast began to swell. But before he could speak the old man had disappeared in the crowd.
"He don't know yet that I know he gave me the watch," thought the boy, "and he wouldn't look and see that I have it again."
Then he regarded the red token on his arm, and remembered that they all had other things to think of now.
Picket-boats were out in advance all night, at the entrance to Croatan Sound, in the darkness and fog, keeping watch for the enemy. No enemy appeared. Towards morning, however, the fog lifting, two rebel steamers were seen hastily taking to their heels, having come down in the obscurity to see what they could see.
It was Friday, the 7th of February. The morning was beautiful; the sunrise came in clouds of glory; there was as yet no taint of battle in the purity of the air. It was a lovely day for a sea fight. Frank climbed into the rigging to observe.
At ten o'clock Goldsborough's gunboats could be seen making their way, one by one, cautiously, through the narrow channel between marshy islands into Croatan Sound. There were nineteen of them. The gunboats of the coast division followed, six in number. The S. R. Spaulding, to which Burnside had transferred his flag, next went in, making signals for the transports to follow.
Far off a gun was heard. It was only a signal fired by a rebel steamer to announce the approach of the squadron; but it thrilled the hearts of the troops waiting to go into battle.
An hour later another cannon boomed, nearer and louder. It was a shot tossed from the commodore's flag-ship at the rebels, who promptly responded.
The flag-ship now hoisted the signal,—
"This day our country expects every man to do his duty."
From ship to ship, from man to man, from heart to heart, thrilled the electric message. It was greeted by cheers and the thunder of guns. This was at half past eleven o'clock.
XXII.
THE ATTACK OF THE GUNBOATS.
The spars of the transports were beginning to be thronged. Corporal Gray brought up a glass to Frank.
"O, good!" cried Frank. "Is it yours?"
"No; it belongs to Mr. Sinjin."
"Did he send it to me?"
"Not he! But he had been casting that sharp eye of his up at you, and I knew what he meant when he said, 'Corporal, there's a good lookout from the masthead, if you'd like to take a glass up there."
"Did he really mean it for me, after all my bad treatment of him?" said Frank. "Bless his old heart!"
With his naked eye for the general view, and the glass to bring out the details, Frank enjoyed a rare spectacle that day. Roanoke Island and its surroundings lay outspread before him like a map. On the west of it was Croatan Sound, separating it from the marshes and forests of the main land. On the east was Roanoke Sound, a much narrower sheet of water; beyond which stretched that long, low, interminable strip of land which forms the outer coast, or seaboard, of this double-coasted country. Still east of that glimmered the blue rim of the Atlantic, a dozen miles away. At about the same distance, on the north, beyond Roanoke Island and the two sounds each side of it, opened the broad basin of Albemarle Sound, like an inland sea. The island itself appeared to be some twelve miles in its greatest length, and two or three in breadth, indented with numerous creeks and coves, and forming a slight curve about Croatan Sound. It was within this curve that the naval battle took place. It had now fairly begun.
At noon the flag-officer's ship displayed the signal for closer action, and the engagement soon became general.
The enemy's gunboats, seven in number, showed a disposition to fight at long range, retreating up the sound as the fleet advanced—a movement which soon brought the latter under the fire of a battery that opened from the shore.
The air, which had previously been perfectly clear that morning, was now loaded with clouds of smoke, which puffed from a hundred guns, and surging up from the vessels of the squadron, from the rebel gunboats, and from the shore battery, rolled away in broken, sun-illumined masses, wafted by a light northeasterly breeze.
The soldiers in the rigging of the transports could see the flashes burst from the cannons' mouths, the spouted smoke, the shots throwing up high in air the water or sand as they struck, or coming skip-skip across the sound, the shells exploding, and the terrible roar of the battle filled the air.
For a time the fire of the attack was about equally divided between the rebel steamers and the fortification on the island. It was soon discovered, however, that boats had been sunk and a line of piles driven across the channel abreast of the battery, to prevent the farther advance of our gunboats in that direction. Behind those the retreating steamers discreetly withdrew, where they were presently reënforced by several other armed vessels. The gunboats made no attempt to follow, but took positions to give their principal attention to the battery.
The fire from the shore gradually slackened, and thousands of hearts swelled anew as the hour seemed at hand when the troops were to land and carry the works at the point of the bayonet.
Burnside paced the deck of the Spaulding, keeping an eye on the fort, watching the enemy's shots, and looking impatiently for the arrival of the transports. At length they came crowding through the inlet, dropping their anchors in the sound just out of range of the fort. Seen from the gunboats, they were a sight not less astonishing than that which they themselves were coming to witness. Troops, eagerly watching the conflict, crowded the decks and hung upon the rigging like swarms of bees. Ropes, masts, and yards were festooned with the heavy, clinging clusters, which seemed ready to part and fall with their own weight. The effect of the picture was enhanced by the mellow brilliancy of the afternoon sky, against which the dark masses were clearly defined, and by the perfect tranquility of the water, like a sea of glass mirroring the ships and their loaded spars.
The gunboats sent to the ships the roar of their artillery, and the ships sent back the chorus of thousands of cheering voices for every well-aimed shot.
Frank was in the rigging of the schooner, watching the fight, making drawings to send to his mother, and talking with his comrades, among whom Sinjin's glass passed from hand to hand.
"I tell ye, boys!" remarks Seth Tucket, "this is a leetle ahead of any game of bluff ever I took a hand in! The battery is about used up. S'pose you look at your—my—our watch, Frank, and see how often the darned rebels fire."
"Once in about ten minutes now," Frank informs him. "O! did you see that shell burst? Right over one of our gunboats!"
"She's aground," says Gray, with the glass. "She can neither use her guns nor get off! A little tug is going to help her."
"Bully for the tug!" says Jack Winch.
"Hurrah! hurrah!" ring the deafening plaudits from the ships.
"What is it?" is eagerly asked.
"The battery's flag-staff is shot away!" shouts Frank at the top of his voice. "Hooray!"
"Some think the flag has been hauled down, to surrender the fort, but it's a mistake," declares Gray. "See! up it goes again on a piece of the pole! And the guns are at it again."
"Where's Burnside?" asks some one. And Tucket quotes,—
"'O, where was Roderick then? One blast upon his bugle horn were worth a thousand men!'"
"He is sending off a boat to the shore yonder, to look for a landing-place. We'll be going in there soon, boys!"
The boat approaches a cove called Ashby's Harbor, taking soundings as it nears the land. On board of her is one of the negro lads, who fearlessly pilots her towards scenes familiar to his days of bondage.
"They'd better keep their eyes skinned!" says Tucket. "There's rebels in the mash there, I bet ye a dollar!"
The officers of the boat land safely, and reconnoitre. As they are reëmbarking, however, up spring from the tall grass a company of rebels, and flash, flash, goes a volley of musketry.
"I wish somebody had took me up on my bet," says Tucket; "'twould have been a dollar in my pocket."
"They're off; nobody left behind; nobody hurt, I hope," says Gray, watching the boat.
"Look, boys! the rebels works are afire!" is now the cry.
Flames break through the smoke, and the firing slackens on both sides for a short time.
"It's only the barracks, probably, fired by a shell," says Gray. "They've no idea of surrendering. They hold out well!"
The battery is completely enveloped in black smoke, out of which leaps the white puff of the cannon, showing that the gunners are still at work.
"See! the gunboat that was aground is getting off! that's a brave tug that's handling her!" cries Frank "O!"—an exclamation of surprise and wonder. For just then the gunboat, swinging around so that she can bring her guns to bear, lets fly her broadside, dropping shot and shell right into the smoking battery.
"It's about time," says Jack Winch, "for us boys to go ashore and clean the rebels out. I'm a gitting tired of this slow work."
"You'll get ashore soon enough, and have enough to do when you get there," says Atwater. "There are strong batteries towards the centre of the islands, that'll have to be taken when we go in."
"Abe's afraid," mutters Jack to some comrades near him. "Did ye see him, and Frank, and Seth Tucket, reading their Testaments?"
"It was the 'Lady of the Lake' Seth was reading," says Harris. "He carries it in his pocket, and pitches into it odd spells."
"Winch don't know the Lady of the Lake from the Bible!" chimes in Tucket's high nasal voice.
"Yes, I do, too! The Lady of the Lake, that's one of Bryon's poems! S'pose I don't know?"
"O, perfectly!" sneers Ellis, amid the laughter Jack's blunder elicits. "And no doubt you'll soon find out who the cowards are among us, if you don't know already."
"What's that, afire, away up the sound, close into the main land?" asks the phlegmatic Atwater.
"I swan, ef 'tan't one of the rebel steamers! She's got disabled, and they've run her ashore. She's all a sheet of fire now!"
"What's that saucy little tug around here for?"
"Burnside's aboard of her. He's coming to see if we're all right. We shall land soon," says Gray.
"See!" cries Frank; "our gunboats are shelling the shore, to make a landing-place for us. I wouldn't like to be in the woods there!"
"I guess Frank wouldn't!" observes Jack. "But I would; I'd like no better fun than to rush right in and skedaddle the rebels with the bayonet; that's the way to do it!"
"The woods are afire! Our shells have set them afire!" cries Ellis. "Look! there come the rebel steamers again, down the western shore. They think they can get down at us, now our gunboats are busy off there."
"When the cat's away the mice will play," says Tucket. "But the kittens are after 'em!"
"There goes Burnside's tug to see what the row is!"
"The battery scarcely fires at all now," says Frank, looking at his watch. "It's twenty minutes since it has fired a shot."
"There goes one! And see! the gunboats are fighting each other now like mad—again!" cries Gray. "They're all so wrapped in smoke you can hardly see one of 'em."—Bang, bang, bang!—"Isn't it grand?"
"A shell burst right over Burnside's tug!" exclaims Frank. "It burst, and sprinkled the water all around it!"
XXIII.
THE TROOPS DISEMBARK.—THE ISLAND.
At four o'clock the last of the transports had entered the inlet, and rejoined the fleet. Soon after commenced preparations for the landing of the troops. The boats were lowered and manned, and the soldiers, descending from decks and spars, began to crowd into them. Knapsacks were left behind; the men taking with them only their arms, overcoats, canteens, haversacks, and cartridge-boxes, with three days' rations of pork, beef, and hard bread, and forty rounds of ball cartridges. Down both sides of the vessels they passed, in rapid regular files, pouring into the boats. Their guns were taken as they stepped upon the stairs, and passed down to them as soon as they were embarked. Some took places at the oars; the rest filed in fore and aft. It must have been an amazing spectacle to the enemy to witness these stirring and formidable preparations for finishing the work the gunboats had begun. The troops were jubilant, and eager for battle.
As fast as the boats were filled, they pushed from the stairs to make room for others, and lay upon their oars watching for the signals. These were telegraphed from the flag-ship of each brigade. At the instant, the boats swarmed the water in miniature fleets, with oars flashing, flags flying, and arms gleaming in the sun. Rowing to the flag-ship, or steamer detailed for the purpose, they attached themselves under her stern in two lines as they arrived, each boat taking the painter of the one behind it Then, at a signal whistle, the steamers started for the shore, each towing its double string of boats.
In the mean time the fight between the fleet and the battery was continued,—rather languidly, however, on the part of the battery; and a couple of light draught gunboats, running in close to the shore, continued shelling the woods about Ashby's Harbor, to cover the landing of the troops.
When the steamers towing in the boats had arrived as near as the depth of water would permit, the signal whistles were sounded, the painters were cast off, the lines of boats broke simultaneously, the rowers took to their oars and pulled with all speed for the shore. As soon as the prows struck, the men jumped out, dashing through mud and water to the land. Many did not wait for the boats to get in, but, in their eagerness to follow their comrades, leaped overboard where the water was up to their waists. Some got stuck in the mire, and were helped out by those who came after them. Six thousand men were thus thrown upon the island at the first disembarkation; while the remainder of the troops on the transports watched the brilliant scene, and cheered lustily when they saw the flag of the Union waving on the shore.
Frank's regiment was not yet disembarked. The boys were still in the rigging, following with eager eyes the movements of the boats. An exciting incident added interest to the scene. Before the boats landed, a body of rebels in ambush, waiting to receive them, were betrayed by the gleam of their muskets. A shell dropped discreetly into their hiding-place, by one of the gunboats, sent them scampering, and the troops landed without opposition.
"It's our turn now, boys!" cried Tucket. And they slipped from the rigging, impatient to leap into the boats, and be put ashore. "I tell ye, won't it feel good to straighten out a fellow's legs once, on dry land!"
The men were generally of Seth's opinion; their long confinement on shipboard having become exceedingly monotonous and tiresome.
Frank was with his company. They loaded the boats to the gunwales. The water was still smooth, save where it was broken into waves and whirling eddies by the sweep of oars. The men shouted joyously, and waved their caps. Frank stood in the bow, and swung his cap with the rest. But looking back across the shining wakes at the forsaken schooner, a feeling of sadness came over him—a feeling of regretful memory, as of one leaving home.
There she lay, motionless; hull and spars painted dark against the sunset sky; her rigging, to the finest cordage, traced in exquisitely distinct lines upon that shining background—a picture of exceeding loveliness and peace.
As the boats swept down towards the shore, and the schooner seemed to recede into the flaming west, the network of cordage became black cobwebs on the sky, then melted away and vanished altogether. At the same time, the water, which the boats had troubled, grew smooth again, reflecting the sunset glow, with the sombre hull and ebon spars painted upon it, until Frank saw the spectre of a double ship suspended in a double heaven.
And as the last view of the schooner was all beautiful, so his last thoughts of her were all tender. He remembered no more against her the hardships of the voyage, the seasickness, the two gills of water a day. But that she had borne them faithfully through storms, that whether they slept or waked she had not failed them,—this he remembered. And his sister's death, and all his sufferings and errors, and the peace of soul which had come to him at last, were associated now and henceforth, with his memory of the ship swimming there in the illumined horizon. Only for a brief interval, like a wind that comes we know not whence, and goes again we know not whither, touching us with invisible perfumed wings, these thoughts swept over the boy, and passed as quickly. And he turned from gazing after the schooner to face the scenes before him. Nearer and nearer drew the boats to the island. Its woods and shores lay cool and tranquil in the evening light, and the troops there, half-hidden by the tall grass and the trees, were tinted with a gleam of romance.
It was now fast growing dark. Clouds were gathering in the sky. From their edges the last hues of the sunset faded, the moon was hid, and a portentous gloom fell upon the waves. The cannon were still thundering at intervals. The shells flew screaming through the air, and fell bursting on the fort or in the woods. It was now so dark that the flash of the guns had become lurid and sharp, and the meteoric course of the projectiles could be traced by their fiery wake.
Amid this scene the boats entered the cove, and as the prows struck, or before, the excited soldiers leaped out, regardless of mud and water.
"Shouldn't wonder if somebody got a wet foot," said Tucket, in the midst of the plunging and plashing—himself in up to his hips. "'A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!' Here, Manly, take a grip of my coat tail. I'm longer legged than you."
"I'm all right," said Frank. "I've no gun to carry, and I can get along." And he floundered on as fast as the deep, clinging ooze would permit.
"This is what they call the sacred soil!" observed Harris. "Just the thing, I should say, to breed rattle-snakes and rebels."
"I swan to man!" chimed in Tucket's voice from a distance,—for his long legs had given him an advantage in the general race,—"there ain't no shore after ye get to't. It's nothin' but salt ma'sh, all trod to pudd'n' by the fellers that have been in ahead of us. I thought we was to belanded; 'stead of that, we're swamped!"
The men pushed on, through marsh and swamp, sometimes in mire and water knee-deep, and now in tall, rank grass up to their eyes; the darkness adding to their dismal prospect.
"By Grimes!" mutters Jack Winch, "I don't think an island of this kind is worth taking. It's jest fit for secesh and niggers, and nobody else."
"We must have the island, because it's a key to the coast," says Frank.
"I wouldn't talk war, if I couldn't carry a gun," retorts Jack, made cross by the cold and wet.
"Perhaps before we get through you'll be glad to lend me yours," is Frank's pleasant response, as he hastens forward through grass which waves about his ears or lies trodden and tangled under foot.
"The gunboats have stopped firing," observes Atwater.
In fact, both gunboats and battery were now silent, the former having drawn off for the night.
XXIV.
THE BIVOUAC.
"There's a good time coming, and near, boys! there's a good time coming, and near!" sings out Tucket, holding his head high as he strides along, for he has caught a sight of fires beyond, and the company are now emerging upon a tract of sandy barrens, thinly covered with pines.
A road runs through the island. The advance of the column has already taken possession of it. Skirmishers have been thrown forward into the woods, and pickets are posted on the flanks.
The troops prepare to bivouac for the night. Fires are kindled, and soon the generous flames blaze up, illumining picturesque groups of men, and casting a wild glare far into the depths of the great, black, silent woods. The trees seem to stand out like startled giants, gazing at the unusual scene; and all above and around the frightened shadows lurk, in ghostly boughs, behind dark trunks, among the deep grasses, and in hollows of the black morass. And the darkness of the night overhangs the army like a vast tent, sombrely flickering.
A dry fence of cypress and pine rails is, without hesitation, appropriated to feed the fires of the bivouac; and the chilled, soaked soldiers gather around them to get warm and dry.
"My brave fellows," says Captain Edney, passing among them, "do the best you can for yourselves for the night. Try to keep warm, and get what rest and sleep you can. You will need all your strength to-morrow."
"To-morrow," observes Winch, with a swaggering, braggart air, "we're going to give the rebels the almightiest thrashing they've had yet! To wade in their blood as deep as I've waded to-night in this mud and water, that's what'll just suit me!"
"The less blood the better, boys," says Captain Edney. "But we must be prepared to shed our own to the last drop, if need be, for we're bound to sweep this island of every traitor to his country, before we leave it. Make up your minds to that, boys!"
There is that in his tone which promises something besides child's play on the morrow. He is calm, serious, spirited, resolute; and the hearts of his men are fired by his words.
The troops are full of jest and merriment as they kick off their shoes, and empty the water out of them, squeeze their dripping trousers, and, lying on the ground, toast their steaming legs by the fires.
"I say, le's have a gallus old time to-night, to pay for our ducking," suggests Jack Winch. "I don't want to sleep."
"You ought to be off in the swamps, on picket duty, then," says Harris. "Let them sleep that have a chance. For my part, I'm going to take the captain's advice. There's no knowing what sounds will wake us up, or how early."
"The sounds of muskets, I hope; and the earlier the better," says the valiant Jack. "Dang that shoe! I believe I've roasted it! Bah! look at Abe there, diving into his Testament, sure's you live."
And Winch, perceiving that Atwater paid no attention to the sneer, flung his shoe at him. The soldier was reading by the light of the flames, when the missile came, striking the book from his hands.
"Shame, shame!" cried Frank, indignantly. "Jack Winch, that is too mean."
"O, you go to"——France,—only Jack used a worse word,—"with that red rag on your arm! I don't have any thing to say to non-combatants."
Frank might not have been able to stifle his indignation but for the grave example of Atwater, who gave no more heed to Jack's shoe than he had given to his base taunt, but, silently gathering up his book again, brushed the sand from it, found his place, and resumed his reading, as composedly as if nothing had happened. Neither did Frank say any thing. But Ellis, near whom the shoe had fallen, tossed it back with a threat to consign it to the fire if it came that way again.
"Wonder if my pocket-book got wet any," said Harris, taking out his money and examining it.
"O, you feel mighty proud of your winnings!" said Jack, who seemed bent on picking a quarrel with some one.
"Yes, I do," said Harris. "I'm just so proud of it as this,"—reaching something towards the drummer boy. "Here, Frank, is all the money, I believe, that I've won off you. We're going into a fight to-morrow, and nobody knows how we shall come out of it. I want to stand right with every body, if I can."
Frank was too much astonished to accept the money. He seemed to think there was some joke in it.
"I'm in earnest," insisted Harris. "The truth is, I've been ashamed of winning your money, ever since. You didn't mean it, but you've acted in a way tomakeme ashamed."
"I have! How?" Frank was more amazed than ever.
"Because you gave over play, though you had a chance to try again, and acted as if you had got above such foolish things. It's time we all got above them. You're a good-hearted fellow, Frank,—you've shown that,—and nobody shall say I've robbed you."
Frank took the money with a heart too full for thanks. He thought Harris a fellow of unexampled generosity, never considering how much his own example had had to do with bringing about this most gratifying result.
Atwater stopped reading, and looked over his book at Harris with a smile of pleasure and approval clear as daybreak. But the silent man did not speak.
"Well! the idea of a battle makes some folks awful pious all at once!" was Winch's comment.
Nobody heeded him. As for Frank, with triumph in his heart and money in his fist, he ran barefoot to where Seth Tucket lay sprawled before the blazing rails, feeling of his stockings, to see if they were dry enough to put on.
"Hello, young chap! how goes it? 'Stranger what dost thou require? Rest, and a guide, and food and fire.' Get down here and have a toasting. It comes cheap."
Frank sat down, and began counting the money.
"What's all that?" demanded Seth.
"All I owe you, and a little to spare!" cried Frank, elated.
"Sho, ye don't say! See here, Frank! I never meant you should trouble yourself about that. I'm all right, money or no money. I'm an independent sort of nabob—don't need the vile stuff. 'Kings may be great, but Seth is glorious, o'er all the ills of life victorious!' So put it away, and keep it, Frank."
But when the drummer boy told him how he had come by the money, and that it was his wish to settle his accounts before the battle, Tucket screwed up his face with a resigned expression, and received back the loan.
A great weight was now lifted from Frank's mind. The vexing problem, how he was to retain the watch and yet satisfy Seth's rightful claims, was thus happily solved. He could have danced for joy, barefooted, in the grassy sand. And he yearned more than ever now to see Mr. Sinjin, and make up with him.
A few rods off, in the rear of the soldiers' bivouacs, the old drummer could be seen, sitting with a group of officers around a fire of their own. His stockings were hung upon the end of a rail, and he was busy roasting a piece of pork on the end of a stick, held out at arm's length to the fire. Frank saw that it was no time to speak with him then; so he returned to his place, and sat down to put on his shoes and join those who had not yet been to supper, over their rations.
XXV.
ATWATER.
As the evening wore on, Atwater was observed sitting apart from the rest, unusually silent and grave even for him; gazing at the fire, with the book he had been reading closed and folded thoughtfully between his hands.
Now Frank, following his example, had lately formed the resolution to read a little in the Testament every night,—"if only for his mother's sake." But to-night his Testament was in his knapsack, and his knapsack was on board the schooner.
"I'll borrow Atwater's," he thought; and with this purpose he approached the tall private.
"Sit down here, Frank," said Atwater, with a serious smile. "I want to talk with you."
It was so extraordinary for the phlegmatic Abe to express a wish to talk with any body, that Frank almost felt awed by the summons. Something within him said that a communication of no trivial import was coming. So he sat down. And the tongue of the taciturn was that night, for once in his life, strangely loosened.
"I can't say it to the rest, Frank; I don't know why. But I feel as if I could say it to you."
"Do," said Frank, thrilling with sympathy to the soldier's mysterious emotion. "What is it, Abe?"
For a minute Atwater sat gazing, gazing—not at the fire. Then he lifted from the book, which he held so tenderly, his right hand, and laid it upon Frank's. And he turned to the boy with a smile.