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THE
DRUMMER BOY
by
J. T. TROWBRIDGE
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
J. T. TROWBRIDGE SERIES
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME
By J. T. TROWBRIDGE
Coupon Bonds.
Cudjo's Cave.
Drummer Boy, The.
Martin Merryvale, His X Mark.
Lucy Arlyn.
Father Bright Hopes.
Neighbor Jackwood.
Three Scouts, The.
_Price, postpaid, 50¢. each, or any three books for $1.25_
HURST & COMPANY
Publishers, New York
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Frank at Home 5
II. Off to the War 12
III. Under Canvas 21
IV. The old Drummer and the new Drum 32
V. Fun in Camp 41
VI. Breaking Camp 51
VII. Through Boston 59
VIII. Annapolis 71
IX. Thanksgiving in Camp 81
X. Frank's Progress 89
XI. A Christmas Frolic 93
XII. The Secessionist's Turkeys 105
XIII. The Expedition Moves 118
XIV. The Voyage and the Storm 125
XV. Hatterns Inlet 134
XVI. How Frank lost his Watch 143
XVII. In which Frank sees strange Things 151
XVIII. Bitter Things 161
XIX. Seth gets "Riled" 170
XX. Sunday before the Battle 178
XXI. Up the Sound 187
XXII. The Attack of the Gunboats 194
XXIII. The Troops disembark.--The Island 201
XXIV. The Bivouac 206
XXV. Atwater 212
XXVI. Old Sinjin 219
XXVII. The Skirmish 225
XXVII. Jack Winch's Catastrophe 231
XXIX. How Frank got News of his Brother 238
XXX. The Boys meet an old Acquaintance 248
XXXI. "Victory or Death!" 255
XXXII. After the Battle 261
XXXIII. A Friend in need 268
XXXIV. The Hospital 273
XXXV. Conclusion 279
FRANK MANLY, THE DRUMMER BOY.
I.
FRANK AT HOME.
One evening, in the month of October, 1861, the Manly family were
gathered together in their little sitting-room, discussing a question of
the most serious importance to all of them, and to Frank in particular.
Mrs. Manly sat by the table, pretending to sew; but now and then the
tears rushed into her eyes, and dropped upon her work, in spite of all
she could do to keep them back. Frank watched her with a swelling breast,
sorry to see his mother so grieved, and yet glad in one little corner of
his heart; for, although she had declared that she could not think of
granting his request, he knew well, by those tears of hers, that she was
already thinking of granting it.
"A pretty soldier you'll make, Frank!" said Helen, his elder sister,
laughing at his ambition. "You never fired a gun in your life; and if you
should see a rebel, you wouldn't know which end of the gun to point at
him, you'd be so frightened."
"Yes, I know it," retorted Frank, stoutly, determined not to be dissuaded
from his purpose either by entreaties or ridicule; "and for that reason I
am going to enlist as a drummer boy."
"Well," exclaimed Helen, "your hands will tremble so, no doubt you can
roll the drumsticks admirably."
"Yes, to be sure," replied Frank, with a meaning smile; for he thought
within himself, "If she really thinks I am such a coward, never mind;
she'll learn better some day."
"O, don't go to war, dear Frank," pleaded, in a low, sweet voice, his
younger sister, little Hattie, the invalid, who lay upon the lounge,
listening with painful interest to the conversation; "do, brother, stay
at home with me."
That affectionate appeal touched the boy's heart more deeply than his
mother's tears, his elder sister's ridicule, and his father's opposition,
all combined. He knelt down by little Hattie's side, put his arms about
her neck, and kissed her.
"But somebody must go and fight, little sister," he said, as soon as he
could choke back his tears. "The rebels are trying to overthrow the
government; and you wouldn't keep me at home--would you?--when it needs
the services of every true patriot?"
"Which of the newspapers did you get that speech out of?" asked Helen.
"If Jeff Davis could hear you, I think he'd give up the Confederacy at
once. He would say, 'It's no use, since Young America has spoken.'"
"Yes; like the coon in the tree, when he saw Colonel Crockett taking aim
at him," added Frank: "says the coon, 'Don't shoot! If it's you, colonel,
I'll come down!' And I tell ye," cried the boy, enthusiastically,
"there's something besides a joke in it. Jeff'll be glad to come down out
of his tree, before we hang him on it."
"But if you go to war, Frank," exclaimed the little invalid, from her
pillow, "you will be shot."
"I expect to be shot at a few times," he replied; "but every man that's
shot at isn't shot, sissy; and every man that's shot isn't killed; and
every man that's killed isn't dead--if what the Bible says is true."
"O my son," said Mrs. Manly, regarding him with affectionate earnestness,
"do you know what you say? have you considered it well?"
"Yes," said Frank, "I've thought it all over. It hasn't been out of my
thoughts, day or night, this ever so long; though I was determined not to
open my lips about it to any one, till my mind was made up. I know five
or six that have enlisted, and I'm just as well able to serve my country
as any of them. I believe I can go through all the hardships any of them
can. And though Helen laughs at me now for a coward, before I've been in
a fight, she won't laugh at me afterwards." But here the lad's voice
broke, and he dashed a tear from his eye.
"No, no, Frank," said Helen, remorsefully, thinking suddenly of those
whose brothers have gone forth bravely to battle, and never come home
again. And she saw in imagination her own dear, brave, loving brother
carried bleeding from the field, his bright, handsome face deathly pale,
the eyes that now beamed so hopefully and tenderly, closing--perhaps
forever. "Forgive my jokes, Frank; but you are too young to go to war. We
have lost one brother by secession, and we can't afford to lose another."
She alluded to George, the oldest of the children, who had been several
years in the Carolinas; who had married a wife there, and become a
slave-owner; and who, when the war broke out, forgot his native north,
and the free institutions under which he had been bred, to side with the
south and slavery. This had proved a source of deep grief to his parents;
not because the pecuniary support they had derived from him, up to the
fall of Fort Sumter, was now cut off, greatly to their distress,--for
they were poor,--but because, when he saw the Union flag fall at
Charleston, he had written home that it was a glorious sight; and they
knew that the love of his wife, and the love of his property, had made
him a traitor to his country.
"If I've a brother enlisted on the wrong side," said Frank, "so much the
more reason that I should enlist on the right side. And I am not so young
but that I can be doing something for my country, and something for you
here at home, at the same time. If I volunteer, you will be allowed state
aid, and I mean to send home all my pay, to the last dollar. I wish you
would tell me, father, that I can have your consent."
Mr. Manly sat in his easy-chair, with his legs crossed, his hands pressed
together, and his head sunk upon his breast. For a long time he had not
spoken. He was a feeble man, who had not succeeded well in the business
of life; his great fault being that he always relied too much upon
others, and not enough upon himself. The result was, that his wife had
become more the head of the family than he was, and every important
question of this kind, as Frank well knew, was referred to her for
decision.
"O, I don't know, I don't know, my son," Mr. Manly groaned; and,
uncrossing his legs, he crossed them again in another posture. "I have
said all I can; now you must talk with your mother."
"There, mother," said Frank, who had got the answer he expected, and now
proceeded to make good use of it; "father is willing, you see. All I want
now is for you to say yes. I must go and enlist to-morrow, if I mean to
get into the same company with the other boys; and I'm sure you'd rather
I'd go with the fellows I know, than with strangers. We are going to
befriend each other, and stand by each other to the last."
"Some of them, I am afraid, are not such persons as I would wish to have
you on very intimate terms with, any where, my child," answered Mrs.
Manly; "for there is one danger I should dread for you worse than the
chances of the battle-field."
"What's that?"
"That you might be led away by bad company. To have you become corrupted
by their evil influences--to know that my boy was no longer the pure,
truthful child he was; that he would blush to have his sisters know his
habits and companions; to see him come home, if he ever does, reckless
and dissipated--O, I could endure any thing, even his death, better than
that."
"Well," exclaimed Frank, filled with pain, almost with indignation, at
the thought of any one, especially his mother, suspecting him of such
baseness, "there's one thing--you shall hear of my death, before you hear
of my drinking, or gambling, or swearing, or any thing of that kind. I
promise you that."
"Where is your Testament, my son?" asked his mother.
"Here it is."
"Have you a pencil?"
"He may take mine," said Hattie.
"Now write on this blank leaf what you have just promised."
Mrs. Manly spoke with a solemn and tender earnestness which made Frank
tremble, as he obeyed; for he felt now that her consent was certain, and
that the words he was writing were a sacred pledge.
"Now read what you have written, so that we can all hear what you
promise, and remember it when you are away."
After some bashful hesitation, Frank took courage, and read. A long
silence followed. Little Hattie on the lounge was crying.
"But you ought to keep this--for I make the promise to you," he said,
reflecting that he had used his own Testament to write in.
"No, you are to keep it," said his mother, "for I'm afraid we shall
remember your promise a great deal better than you will."
"No, you won't!" cried Frank, full of resolution. "I shall keep that
promise to the letter."
Mrs. Manly took the Testament, read over the pledge carefully, and wrote
under it a little prayer.
"Now," said she, "go to your room, and read there what I have written.
Then go to bed, and try to sleep. We all need rest--for to-morrow."
"O! and you give your consent?"
"My son," said Mrs. Manly, holding his hand, and looking into his face
with affectionate, misty eyes, "it is right that you should do something
for your family, for we need your help. Your little sister is sick, your
father is feeble, and I--my hand may fail any day. And it is right that
you should wish to do something for your country; and, but that you are
so young, so very young, I should not have opposed you at all. As it is,
I shall not oppose you any more. Think of it well, if you have not done
so already. Consider the hardships, the dangers--every thing. Then decide
for yourself. I intrust you, I give you into the hands of our heavenly
Father."
She folded him to her heart, kissing him and weeping. Frank then kissed
his sisters good-night, his resolution almost failing him, and his heart
almost bursting with the thought that this might be the last evening he
would ever be with them, or kiss them good-night.
II.
OFF TO THE WAR.
It was a calm, clear October night. The moonlight streamed through the
window of Frank's room, an he lay in bed, thinking of the evening that
was past, and of the morning that was to come. Little Willie, his younger
brother, was sleeping sweetly at his side. He had heard his sisters come
up stairs and go to bed in the room next to his; and they were conversing
now in low tones,--about him he was sure.
Would he ever sleep in that nice warm bed again? Would he ever again fold
dear little Willie in his arms, and feel his dewy cheek against his own,
as he did now? What was the future that awaited him? Who would fill his
mother's place when he was gone from her? He had read over the prayer she
wrote for him; it was still fresh in his thoughts, and he repeated it now
to himself in the silence of the moonlit chamber.
When he opened his eyes, he saw a white shape enter softly and approach
his bedside. There it stood in the moonlight, white and still. Was it a
ghost? Was it an angel? Frank was not afraid.
"Mother!"
"Are you awake, my darling?"
"O, yes, mother. I haven't slept at all."
"I didn't mean to awake you, if you were asleep," she said, kneeling down
beside him. "But I could not sleep; and I thought I would come and look
at you, and kiss you once more; for perhaps I shall never see you in your
bed again."
"O, mother, don't talk so. I hope I shall be spared to you a long, long
time yet."
"I hope you will; but we must think of the worst, and be prepared for it,
my son. If it is God's will, I can give you up. And you--you must make up
your mind to brave all dangers, even to die, if necessary. It is a great
and holy cause you are engaging in. It is no gay and pleasant adventure,
as perhaps you think. Are you sure you have thought of it well?"
"I have," responded Frank. "I am going; and I am going to do my duty,
whatever it is. For a few minutes after I came to bed, thinking of what
you had said, and of leaving you, and of"--here he choked--"I was almost
sorry I had said a word about going; it looked so dreary and sad to me.
But I said my prayers, and now I feel better about it. I don't think any
thing can shake my resolution again."
"If it is so," replied his mother, "I have nothing more to say." And she
kissed him, and gave him plentiful good advice, and finally prayed with
him, kneeling by his bedside.
"O, don't go, mother," said Frank; "it is such a comfort to have you
here! May-be it is the last time."
"May-be it is, my son. But I must bid you goodnight. You must sleep. See
how soundly Willie is sleeping all this time! He don't know that he is
losing a brother."
After she was gone, Frank felt more lonesome than ever, the house was so
silent, the moonshine in his chamber was so cold. But he hugged his warm
little brother close to his heart, and cried very softly, if he cried at
all.
I do not know how much he slept that night. No doubt his excited thoughts
kept him awake until very late, for he was fast asleep the next morning
when Helen came to call him.
"Hurrah!" he exclaimed, starting up; "fight for the old flag!" for he was
dreaming of a battle. "Hallo!" he said, rubbing his eyes open. "That you,
Helen?"
"A wide-awake drummer boy you are," she replied, with her usual
good-natured irony. "You'll have to rouse up earlier than this, I tell
you, if you ever beat the reveillé for the soldiers."
"So much the more reason why I should have a good nap in the morning,
when I can," said Frank.
"Well, lie and sleep, if you want to," she added, with a touch of
tenderness. "I thought I'd let you know breakfast was ready."
But Frank was wide awake enough now. He felt there was something great
and grand in the day before him, and he was anxious to meet it. He was up
and dressed in a minute. He threw open his window, and looked away
towards the city, which lay dim and strange in the beautiful mists of the
morning, with the crimson clouds of the sunrise lifting like curtains
behind it. And the far-off roar of the rumbling streets reached his ear,
inspiring him freshly with hope and action.
All the family were at breakfast, except Hattie, the sick one, when Frank
came down stairs. Even Willie had crept out of bed before him, wondering
what made his brother sleep so long that morning. And now he found the
little fellow dividing his attentions between his breakfast and his toy
gun, which had acquired a new interest in his eyes since Helen had told
him Frank was going to the war.
"I'm going with my bwother Fwank," he declared, shouldering arms over his
johnny-cake. "And if any body--any webel"--breathing earnestly--"hurt my
bwother Fwank, me shoot 'em me will!"
"Yes," remarked Helen, "you and Frank will put down the rebellion, I've
not the least doubt."
This was meant for a sly hit at Frank's youthful patriotism; but Willie
took it quite seriously.
"Yes," he lisped; "me and Fwank--we put down the webellion. Take
aim!"--pointing his toy at his father's nose. "Fire! bang! See, me kill a
webel."
"How little the child realizes what it is to fight the rebels," said his
mother, with a sigh.
"I'm afraid," said Helen, "Frank doesn't realize it much more than Willie
does. He has just about as correct a notion about putting down the
_webellion_."
"Very likely," said Frank, who had learned that the beat way to treat a
joke of this kind is always to humor it, instead of being offended. For a
joke is often like a little barking dog--perfectly harmless, if you pass
serenely by without noticing it, or if you just say, "Poor fellow! brave
dog!" and pat its neck; but which, if you get angry and raise your stick,
will worry you all the more for your trouble, and perhaps be provoked to
bite.
There was a silence of several minutes--Willie alone manifesting a desire
to keep up the conversation on war matters. He stuck his johnny-cake on
the end of his gun, and bombarded his mother's coffee-cup with it; and
was about to procure more johnny-cake, in order to shell the sugar-bowl,
which he called "Fort Sumter," when Helen put an end to his sport by
disarming him.
"I want father to go to town with me, to the recruiting office," said
Frank; "for I don't suppose I will be accepted, unless he does."
That sounded like proceeding at once to business, which Mr. Manly never
liked to do. He was one of those easily discouraged men, whose rule is
always to postpone until to-morrow what they are not absolutely obliged
to do to-day. He waited, however, as usual, to hear what his wife would
say to the proposition, before expressing himself decidedly against it.
Fortunately, Mrs. Manly had energy and self-reliance enough for both.
"If you are still firmly resolved to go, then your father will go with
you to the recruiting office," she said; and that settled it: for Frank
was resolved--his character resembling his mother's in respect to energy
and determination.
Accordingly, after breakfast, Mr. Manly, with frequent sighs of
foreboding and discouragement, made a lather, honed his razor, and shaved
himself, preparatory to a visit to town. Frank, in the mean while, made
ready for his departure. He put in order the personal effects which he
intended to leave at home, and packed into a bundle a few things he
purposed to take with him. An hour passed quickly away, with all its busy
preparations, consultations, and leave takings; and the last moment
arrived.
"Say good-by twice to me," said Hattie, the little invalid, rising up on
her lounge to give him a farewell kiss.
"Why twice to you?" asked Frank.
"Because," she answered, with a sad, sweet smile, "If you do come home
from the war, perhaps you won't find me here;" for the child had a notion
that she was going to die.
"O sissy," exclaimed Frank, "don't say so; I shall come back, and I shall
find you well."
"Yes," replied Hattie, sorry that she had said any thing to make him feel
bad; "we will think so, dear brother." And she smiled again; just as
angels smile, Frank thought.
"Besides, this isn't my good-by for good, you know," said he. "I shall
get a furlough, and come home and see you all, before I leave for the
seat of war with my regiment." Frank couldn't help feeling a sort of
pride in speaking of _his regiment_. "And may-be you will all visit
me in camp before I go."
"Come," called his father, at the door; "if we are going to catch this
car, we must be off."
So Frank abbreviated his adieus, and ran.
"Wait, wait!" screamed Willie, pulling his cap on "Me go, me go!"
"Go where, you little witch?" cried Helen.
"Me go to war, along with my bwother Fwank. Put down webellion," pouted
the child, shouldering his gun, and trudging out of the door in eager
haste, fearing lest he should be left behind.
Mrs. Manly was parting from her son on the doorstep, putting back a stray
curl from his cheek, smoothing his collar, and whispering, with wet eyes
and quivering lips, "My child, remember!"
"I will--good-by!" were Frank's last words; and he hastened after his
father, just pausing on the next corner to look around at the faces in
the door of his home, and wave his hat at them. There was Hattie, leaning
on Helen's arm, and waving her handkerchief, which was scarcely whiter
than that thin white face of hers; and there was his mother gazing after
him with steadfast eyes of affection and blessing, while her hands were
fully occupied in restraining that small but fiery patriot, Willie, who,
with his cap over his eyes, was vehemently struggling to go with his
bwother Fwank.
This was the tableau, the final picture of home, which remained imprinted
on Frank's memory. For the corner was passed, and the doorway and windows
of the dear old house, and the dearer faces there, were lost to sight. He
would have delayed, in order to get one more look; but already the
tinkling bells gave warning of the near approach of the horse-car, and he
and his father had no more than time to reach the Main Street, when it
came up, and stopped to take them in.
In but little more than an hour's time, by far the most important step in
Frank's life had been taken. He had enlisted.
"Well," said his father, after Frank, with a firm and steady hand, had
written his name, "it is done now. You are a brave boy!"--with a tear of
pride, as he regarded his handsome, spirited young volunteer, and thought
that not many fathers had such promising sons.
While they were at the recruiting office, one of their neighbors came in.
"What!" he exclaimed, "you here? on business?"
"Patriotic business," replied Mr. Manly, showing his son with a fond
father's emotion. "He has volunteered, neighbor Winch."
"And you give your consent?"
"I do, most certainly, since he feels it his duty to go, and his mother
is willing."
Neighbor Winch stood speechless for a moment, the muscles of his mouth
working. "I have just heard," he said, in an agitated voice, "that my son
John has enlisted _without_ my consent; and I have come here to ascertain
the fact. Do you know any thing about it, Frank?"
"I suppose I do," replied Frank, with some reluctance. "He enlisted three
days ago. He wanted me to go with him then; but I----"
"You what?" said neighbor Winch.
"I couldn't, without first getting permission from my father and mother,"
explained Frank.
"O, if my John had only acted as noble a part!" said the neighbor. "It's
a bad beginning for a boy to run away. He has nearly broken his mother's
heart."
"Well, well, neighbor," observed Mr. Manly, consolingly, "reflect that
it's in a good cause. Jack might have done worse, you know."
"Yes, yes. He never was a steady boy, as you know. He has set out to
learn three different trades, and got sick of them all. I couldn't keep
him at school, neither. Of late nothing would do but he must be a
soldier. If I thought he'd stick to it, and do his duty, I wouldn't say a
word. But he'll get tired of carrying a gun, too, before he has seen hard
service. Where is he? Do you know, Frank?"
"He is in camp, in the Jackson Blues," mid Frank. "I am going as drummer
in the same company."
"I'm glad of that," replied Mr. Winch. "For, though he is so much older
than you, I think you always have had an influence over him, Frank--a
good influence, too." And the neighbor took the young volunteer's hand.
Frank's eyes glistened--he felt so touched by this compliment, and so
proud that his father had heard it, and could go home and tell it to his
mother and sisters.
Neighbor Winch went on: "I want you to see John, as soon as you can,
Frank, and talk with him, and try to make him feel how wrongly he has
acted----"
Here the poor man's voice failed him; and Frank, sympathizing with his
sorrow, was filled with gratitude to think that he had never been tempted
to grieve his parents in the same way.
Mr. Manly accompanied his son to the railroad depot, and saw him safely
in the cars that were to convey him to camp, and then took leave of him.
The young volunteer would have forgotten his manhood, and cried, if the
eyes of strangers had not been upon him; even as it was, his voice broke
when he said his last good-by, and sent back his love to his mother and
sisters and little Willie.
III.
UNDER CANVAS.
The cars were soon off; and the heart of Frank swelled within him as he
felt himself now fairly embarked in his new adventure.
Soon enough the white tents of the camp rose in sight. The Stars and
Stripes floating under the blue sky, the soldiers in their blue uniforms,
the sentinels with their glittering bayoneted guns pacing up and down,
and above all, the sound of a drum, which he considered now to be a part
of his life, made him feel himself already a hero.
Several other recruits had come down in the train with him, accompanied
by an officer. Frank was a stranger to them all. But he was not long
without acquaintances, for he had scarcely alighted at the depot when he
saw coming towards him his neighbor and chum, Jack Winch, in soldier
clothes--a good-looking young fellow, a head taller and some two years
older than himself.
"Hello, Jack! how are you?"
"Tip-top!" said Jack, looking happy as a prince.
The officer who had brought down the recruits went with them to the
quartermaster's department, and gave orders for their outfit. When
Frank's turn came, his measure was taken, and an astonishing quantity of
army clothing issued to him. He had two pairs of drawers, two shirts, two
pairs of stockings, a blouse, a dress coat, an overcoat, a cap, a pair of
shoes, a pair of pantaloons, and a towel. Besides these he received a
knapsack, with two blankets; a haversack, with a tin plate, knife and
fork, and spoon; and a tin cup and canteen. He had also been told that he
should get his drum and drumsticks; but in this he was disappointed. The
department was out of drums.
"Never mind!" said Jack, consolingly. "You may consider yourself lucky to
draw your clothes so soon. I had to wait for mine till I was examined and
sworn in. The surgeons are so lazy, or have so much to do, or something,
it may be a week before you'll be examined."
Frank was soon surrounded by acquaintances whom he scarcely recognized at
first, they looked so changed and strange to him in their uniforms.
"How funny it seems," said he, "to be shaking hands with soldiers!"
"These are our tents," said Jack. "They all have their names, you see."
Which fact Frank had already noticed with no little astonishment.
The names were lettered on the canvas of the tents in characters far more
grotesque than elegant One was called the "Crystal Palace;" another, the
"Mammoth Cave;" a third bore the mystical title of "Owl House;" while a
fourth displayed the sign of the "Arab's Home;" etc.
"My traps are in the 'Young Volunteer,'" said Jack. "We give it that
name, because we are all of us young fellows in there. You can tie up
here too,"--entering the tent,--"if you want to."
Frank gladly accepted the proposition. "How odd it must seem," he said,
"to live and sleep under canvas!"
"You'll like it tip-top, when you get used to it," remarked Jack, with an
air of old experience.
Frank made haste to take off his civil suit and put on his soldier
clothes. Jack pronounced the uniform a splendid fit, and declared that
his friend looked "stunning."
"But you must have your hair cut, Frank. Look here; this is the fighting
trim!" and Jack Winch, pulling off his cap, made Frank laugh till the
tears came into his eyes, at the ludicrous sight. Jack's hair had been
clipped so close to his head that it was no longer than mouse's hair,
giving him a peculiarly grim and antique appearance.
"You look like Sinbad's Old Man of the Sea!" exclaimed Frank. "I won't
have my hair cut that way!"--feeling of his own soft brown curls, which
his mother was so fond of, and which he meant to preserve, if only for
her sake.
"Pshaw! you look like a girl! Come, Frank, there's a fellow in the 'Owl
House' that cuts all the hair for our company."
But here an end was put to the discussion by some of the boys without
crying, "Dinner!"
"Dinner!" repeated Jack. "Hurrah! let's go and draw our rations."
Three or four young volunteers now came into the tent, and, opening their
haversacks, drew forth their tin plates, knives and forks. Frank did the
same, and observing that they all took their tin cups, he took his also,
and followed them, with quite as much curiosity as appetite, to the
cook-shop, where a large piece of bread and a thick slice of boiled beef
was dealt out to each, together with a cup of coffee.
"How droll it seems to eat rations!" said Frank, on their return, seating
himself on his bed,--a tick filled with straw,--and using his lap for a
table.
The bread was sweet; but the beef was of not quite so fine a quality as
Frank had been used to at home and the coffee was not exactly like his
mother's.
"Here, have some milk," said Jack. "I've an account open with this
woman"--a wrinkled old creature, who came into the tent with a little
girl, bearing baskets of cakes and fruits, and a can of milk.
"No, I thank you," said Frank. "I may as well begin with the fare I shall
have to get used to some time, for I mean to send all my pay home to my
folks except what I'm actually obliged to use myself."
"You'll be a goose if you do!" retorted Jack. "I shan't send home any of
mine. I'm my own man now, ye see, and what I earn of Uncle Sam I'm going
to have a gallus old time with, you may bet your life on that!"
Frank drew a long breath, for he felt that the time had now come to have
the talk with his friend which Mr. Winch had requested.
"I saw your father, this morning, Jack."
"Did ye though? What did the old sinner have to say?"
"I don't like to hear you call your father such names," said Frank,
seriously. "And if you had seen how bad he felt, when he spoke of your
enlisting----"
"Pshaw, now, Frank! don't be green! don't get into a pious strain, I beg
of ye! You'll be the laughing-stock of all the boys, if ye do."
Frank blushed to the eyes, not knowing what reply to make. He had felt no
little pride in Mr. Winch's responsible charge to him, and had intended
to preach to his more reckless companion a good, sound, moral discourse
on this occasion. But to have his overtures received in this manner was
discouraging.
"Come," continued Jack, taking something from the straw, "we are soldiers
now, and must do as soldiers do. Have a drink, Frank?"--presenting a
small bottle.
"What is it?" Frank asked, and when told, "Brandy," he quickly withdrew
the hand he had extended. "No, I thank you, Jack, I am not going to drink
any thing of that sort, unless I need it as a medicine. And I am sorry to
see you getting into such habits so soon."
"Habits? what habits?" retorted Jack, blushing in his turn. "A little
liquor don't hurt a fellow. _I_ take it only as a medicine. You mustn't
go to being squeamish down here, I tell you." And Jack drank a swallow or
two, smacking his lips afterwards, as he returned the cork to the bottle.
By this time Frank's courage was up--his moral courage, I mean, which is
more rare, as it is far more noble, than any merely physical bravery in
the face of danger.
"I don't mean to be squeamish," he said; "but right is right, and wrong
is wrong, Jack. And what was wrong for us at home isn't going to be right
for us here. I, for one, believe we can go through this war without doing
any thing that will make our parents ashamed of us when we return."
"My eye!" jeered his companion; "and do you fancy a little swallow of
brandy is going to make my folks ashamed of me?"
"It isn't the single swallow I object to, Jack; it's the habit of
drinking. That's a foolish thing, to say the least, for young fellows,
like you and me, to get into; and we all know what it leads to. Who wants
to become a tobacco-spitting, rum-drinking, filthy old man?"
"Ha, ha, ha," laughed Jack; rather feebly, however, for he could not help
feeling that Frank was as much in the right as he was in the wrong. "You
look a long ways ahead, it seems to me. I haven't thought of being an old
man yet."
"If we live, we shall be men, and old men, too, some day," said Frank,
without minding his sneers. "And you know we are laying the foundations
of our future characters now."
"That's what your mother, or your Sunday school teacher, has been saying
to you."
"No matter who has said it. I know it's true, and I hope I never shall
forget it. I mean to become a true, honest man if I live; and now, I
believe, is the time to begin."
"O, no doubt you'll be great things," grinned Jack.
The tone in which he said this was highly offensive; and Frank was
provoked to retort,--
"You don't seem even to have thought what you are going to be. You try
first one thing, then another, and stick to nothing. That's what your
father said this morning, with tears in his eyes."
Jack turned red as fire, either with anger or shame, or both, and seemed
meditating a passionate reply, when some of his companions, who had been
eating their rations outside, entered the tent.
"Come in, boys," cried Jack, "and hear Frank preach. You didn't know we
had a chaplain in our company--did ye? That's the parson, there, with the
girl's hair. He can reel you off sermons like any thing. Fire away,
Frank, and show the boys."
"Yes, steam up, parson," said Joe Harris, "and give us a specimen."
"Play away, seven," cried Ned Ellis, as if Frank had been a fire-engine
of that number.
These, together with other facetious remarks, made Frank so ashamed and
confused that he could not say a word. For experience had not yet taught
him that even the most reckless and depraved, however they may laugh at
honest seriousness in a companion, cannot help respecting him for it in
their hearts.
"You needn't blush so, young chap," said tall Abram Atwater, a stalwart,
square-shouldered, square-featured young man of twenty, who alone had not
joined in the derisive merriment. "It won't hurt any of these fellows to
preach to them, and they know it."
Frank cast a grateful look at the tall soldier, who, though almost a
stranger to him, had thus generously taken his part against some who
professed to be his friends. He tried to speak, but could not articulate
a word, he was still feeling so hurt by Jack's ingratitude. Perhaps his
pride was as much wounded as his friendship; for, as we have hinted, he
had been a good deal puffed up with the idea of his influence over Jack.
This incident, as we shall see, had a bad effect upon Frank himself; for,
instead of persevering in the good work he had undertaken, he was
inclined to give up all hope of exerting an influence upon any body.
In the mean time Jack was washing down the sermon, as he said, with more
brandy.
"'Twas such an awful dry discourse, boys;" and he passed the bottle
around to the others, who all drank, except Abram Atwater. That stalwart
young soldier stood in the midst of the tent, straight and tall, with his
arms calmly folded under his blue cape (a favorite attitude of his), and
merely shook his head, with a mild and tolerant smile, when the liquor
was passed to him.
Such was the beginning of Frank's camp life. It was not long before he
had recovered from his confusion, and was apparently on good terms with
his messmates. He spent the afternoon in walking about the camp; watching
some raw recruits at their drill; watching others playing cards, or
checkers, or backgammon; getting acquainted, and learning the ways of the
camp generally.
So the day passed; and that night Frank lay for the first time
soldier-fashion, under canvas. He went to bed with his clothes on, and
drew his blanket over him. It was not like going to bed in his nice
little room at home, with Willie snuggled warmly beside him; yet there
was a novelty in this rude and simple mode of life that was charming. His
companions, who lay upon the ground around him, kept him awake with their
stories long after the lights were out; but at length, weary with the
day's excitement, he fell asleep.
There,--a dweller now in the picturesque white city of tents gleaming in
the moonlight, ruggedly pillowed on his soldier's couch, those soft brown
curls tossed over the arm beneath his head,--the drummer boy dreamed of
home. The last night's consultation and the morning's farewells were
lived over again in the visions of his brain; and once more his mother
visited his bedside; and again his father accompanied him to the
recruiting office. But now the recruiting office was changed into a
barber's shop, which seemed to be a tent supported by a striped pole;
where, at John Winch's suggestion, he was to have his hair trimmed to the
fighting-cut. The barber was a stiff-looking officer in epaulets, who
heated a sword red-hot in an oven, while Frank preached to him a neat
little sermon over his ration. Then the epaulets changed to a pair of
roosters with flaming red combs, that flapped their wings and crowed. And
the barber, approaching Frank with his red-hot sword, made him lie on his
back to be shaved. Then followed an excruciating sense of having his hair
pulled and his face scraped and burnt, which made him move and murmur in
his sleep; until, a ruthless attempt being made to thrust the sword up
his nostrils, he awoke.
Shouts of laughter greeted him. His companions had got up at midnight,
lighted a candle, and burnt a cork, with which they had been giving him
an artificial mustache and whiskers. He must have been a ludicrous sight,
with his countenance thus ornamented, sitting up on his bed, rubbing his
eyes open, and staring about him, while Winch and Harris shrieked with
mirth, and Ned Ellis flapped his arms and crowed.
Frank put up his hand to his head. O grief! his curls had been mangled by
dull shears in the unskilful hands of John Winch. The depredator was
still brandishing the miserable instrument, which he had borrowed for the
occasion of the fellow who cut the company's hair in the "Owl House."
Frank's sudden awaking, astonishment, and chagrin were almost too much
for him. He could have cried to think of a friend playing him such a
trick; and to think of his lost curls! But he had made up his mind to
endure every thing that might befall him with unflinching fortitude. He
must not seem weak on an occasion like this. His future standing with his
comrades might depend upon what he should say and do next. So he summoned
all his stoutness of heart, and accepted the joke as good-naturedly as
was possible under the circumstances.
"I wish you'd tell me what the fun is," he said, "so that I can laugh
too."
"Give him the looking-glass," cried Jack Winch, holding the candle, while
Ellis stopped crowing, to bring a little three-cornered fragment of a
broken mirror, by which Frank was shown the artistic burnt-cork work on
his face. He could hardly help laughing himself at his own hideousness,
now that the first disagreeable sense of being the sport of his friends
had passed.
"I hope you have had fun enough to pay for waking me up out of the
queerest dream any body ever had," he said. And he told all about the
barber, and the epaulets that became roosters, and the red-hot sword for
a razor, etc. Then, looking at himself again in the piece of glass, he
called out, "Give me those shears;" and taking them, he manfully cut off
his mutilated curls. "There, that isn't exactly the fighting-cut, Jack,
but 'twill do. Now, boys, tell some more of those dull stories, and I
guess I can go to sleep again."
And he lay down once more, declining to accept an urgent invitation to
preach.
"There, boys," said stout Abram Atwater, who had sat all the time
cross-legged, a silent, gravely-smiling spectator of the scene, "you
shan't fool him any more. He has got pluck; he has shown it. And now let
him alone."
IV.
THE OLD DRUMMER AND THE NEW DRUM.
As yet, Frank had no drum. Neither had he any scientific knowledge of the
instrument. He was ambitious of entering upon his novel occupation, and
was elated to learn, the next morning, that he was to begin his
acquaintance with the noble art of drumming that very day.
"The sergeant is inquiring for you," said Abram Atwater, with his mild,
pleasant smile, calling him out of the tent.
Frank, who was writing a letter to his mother, on his knapsack, jumped up
with alacrity, hid his paper, and ran out to see what was wanted.
"This way, Manly," said the sergeant. "Here's the man that's to give you
lessons. Go with him."
The teacher was a veteran drummer, with a twinkling gray eye, a long,
thick, gray mustache, and a rather cynical way of showing his teeth under
it. He had some drumsticks thrust into his pocket, but no drum.
"I suppose," thought Frank, "we shall find our drums in the woods;" into
which his instructor straightway conducted him in order to be away from
the diversions and noises of the camp.
Frank was disappointed. The veteran gave him his first exercise--on a
board!
"I thought I was to learn on a drum," he ventured to suggest, looking up,
not without awe, at the bushy mustache.
"You don't want a drum till you know how to drum," said the veteran.
"But I should think it would be better----"
"Wait!" lifting his drumstick. "Do you understand what we are here for?"
"To learn to drum," replied Frank, in some astonishment.
"To learn to drum," repeated the veteran, a curious smile just raising
the corners of that grizzled mustache. "You understand correctly. Now, am
I your teacher, or are you mine?"
"You are mine, sir," answered the boy, still more amazed.
"Right again!" exclaimed the professor. "That's the way I understood it;
but I might be wrong, you know. We are all liable to be wrong--are we
not?"
"Yes, sir."
Frank stared.
"Good again! But now it is understood correctly; I am your instructor,
and you are not mine; that is it."
Frank assented.
"Very well! Now listen. Since I am to give you lessons, and you are not
to give me lessons, you will follow the method I propose, and excuse me
if I decline to follow your method. That is reasonable,--isn't it?"
"Certainly, sir," murmured the abashed pupil.
"The point settled, then, we will proceed," said the veteran, with the
same incomprehensible, half-sarcastic, half-humorous, but now quite
good-natured smile lighting up his grim visage.
"But before we proceed," said Frank, "may I just say what I was going
to?"
The old drummer lifted both his sticks, and his eyebrows too (not to
speak of his shaggy mustache), in surprise at the lad's audacity.
"Do you want me to report you as insubordinate?" he asked, after a pause,
during which the two regarded each other somewhat after the fashion of
two dogs making acquaintance--a tall, leering old mastiff looking surlily
down at the advances of an anxious yet stout and unflinching young
spaniel.
"No, sir," answered Frank. "But I thought----"
"You thought! What business have you to think?"
"No business, perhaps," Frank admitted, confronting the weather-beaten
old drummer with his truthful, undaunted, fine young face. "But I can't
help thinking sir, for all that."
"You can help expressing your thoughts out of season, though," said the
veteran.
"I will try to in future, sir," answered Frank, laughing.
At the same time a smile of genuine benevolence softened the tough,
ancient visage of the veteran; and they proceeded with the lesson.
After it was over, the teacher said to the pupil,--
"Now, my young friend, I will hear that observation or question of yours,
whatever it is."
"I think I have answered it for myself," said Frank. "I was going to say,
I should think it would be better to learn to drum on a drum; but I see
now, if I get to roll the sticks on a board, which is hard, I can roll
them so much the better on a drumhead, which is elastic."
"Right, my young friend," replied the veteran, approvingly. "And in the
mean time, we avoid a good deal of unpleasant noise, as you see." For he
had other pupils practising under his eye in the woods, not far from
Frank.
"And I should like to ask--if I could have permission," began Frank,
archly.
"Ask me any thing you please, out of lesson-hours." And the old drummer
patted the young drummer's shoulder.
Frank felt encouraged. He was beginning to like his teacher,
notwithstanding his odd ways; and he hoped the old man was beginning to
like him.
"I want to know, then, if you think I will make a drummer?"
"And what if you will not?"
"Then I shall think I ought to give up the idea of it at once; for I
don't want to be second-rate in any thing I once undertake."
"And you have been just a little discouraged over your first lesson? and
would be willing now to give up?"
"No, sir. I should feel very bad to be obliged to give up the drum."
"Very well. Then I can say something to comfort you. Stick to it, as you
have begun, and you will make a drummer."
"A first-rate one?" Frank asked, eagerly.
"First-rate, or else I am no judge."
"I am glad!" and the delighted pupil fairly jumped for joy.
From that time the two got on capitally together. Frank soon become
accustomed to the veteran's eccentric manners, and made great proficiency
in his exercises. And it was not long before the hard-featured old
drummer began to manifest, in his way, a great deal of friendly interest
in his young pupil.
"Now, my boy," said he one day, after Frank had been practising
successfully the "seven-stroke roll," greatly to the satisfaction of his
instructor,--"now, my boy, I think you can be safely intrusted with your
comrade."
"My comrade?" queried the pupil.
"I mean, your better half."
"My better half?"
Frank was mystified.
"Yes, your wife." And the grizzly mustache curled with quiet humor.
"I must be a married man without knowing it!" laughed Frank.
"Your ship, then," said the veteran, dryly. "Come with me."
And conducting Frank to his tent, he took from one side an object covered
with a blanket.
"My ship!" cried Frank, joyfully, already guessing what treasure was now
to be his.
"Your sword, then, if you like that name better. For what his sword is to
a hero, what his ship is to a true sailor, what a wife is to a true
husband,--such, my young friend, to a genuine drummer is his drum."
So saying, the veteran threw aside the covering, and presented to his
pupil the long-coveted prize. The boy's eyes shone with pleasure, and (as
he wrote that evening to his parents) he was so happy he could have
hugged both the old drummer and the new drum.
"I selected it for you, and you may be sure it is a good one. It won't be
any handsomer, but, if you use it well, it won't be really much the
worse, for going through a campaign or two with you. For it is with drums
as it is with the drummers; they grow old, and get some honorable
scratches, and some unlucky bruises, and now and then a broken head; but,
God prospering them, they come out, at last, ugly to look at, perhaps"
(the veteran stroked his mustache), "but well-seasoned, and sound, and
very truly at your service."
Frank thought be saw a tear in his twinkling gray eye, and he was so much
affected by it, that he caught his hand in both of his, exclaiming,
"Bless you, dear sir! Dear, good sir, God bless you!"
The old man winked away the moisture from his eye, smiling still, but
with a quivering lip, and patted him gently on the shoulder, without
saying a word.
Frank had the sense to perceive that the interview was now over; the
veteran wished to be left alone; and, with the new drum at his side, he
left the tent, proud and happy, and wishing in his heart that he could do
something for that singular, kind old man.
As Frank was hastening to his tent, he was met by one of the captains in
his regiment, who, seeing the bright beaming face and new drum, accosted
him.
"So, you are a drummer boy--are you?"
"Yes, sir, I am learning to be one," said Frank, modestly.
Now, these two had seen each other often in camp and the captain had
always regarded Frank with a smile of interest and kindness, and Frank
(as he wrote home) had "always liked the looks of the captain
first-rate."
"I saw you, I think, the day you came here," said the captain. "You had
some curls then. What has become of them?"
Frank's lip twitched, and he cast down his eyes, ashamed to betray any
lingering feeling on that subject.
"The boys cut them off in my sleep, sir."
"The rogues!" exclaimed the captain. "And what did you do?"
Frank lifted his eyes with a smile. "I partly finished them myself--they
had haggled them so; and the next day I found a man to cut my hair
nicely."
"Well, it is better so, perhaps: short hair for a soldier. But I liked
those curls. They reminded me of a little sister of mine--she is gone
now--," in a low, mellow tone. "Are you attached to any company?"
"I am enlisted in the Jackson Blues."
"What is your name?"
"Frank Manly, sir."
"Are you any relation to Mrs. Manly, of----?"
"She is my mother, sir," said Frank, with proud affection.
"Is it possible! Mrs. Manly's son! Indeed, you look like her."
"Do you know my mother, sir?"
"My lad," said the captain, "I used to go to school to her. But, though I
have heard of her often, I haven't seen her for years."