fastened upon him. Perhaps it was to show how little he deserved it,
that he made his conduct appear as unclerical as possible--smoking,
swaggering, and, I am sorry to add, swearing. Imbibing unconsciously the
spirit of his companions, and imitating by degrees their habits and
conversation, he became profane before he knew it,--excusing himself on
the plea that every body swore in the army. This was only too near the
truth. Men who had never before indulged in profanity, now frequently let
slip a light oath, and thought nothing of it. For it is one of the great
evils of war that men, however refined at home, soon forget themselves
amid the hardships, roughness, and turbulence of a soldier's life. It
seems not only to disguise their persons, but their characters also; so
that those vices which would have shocked them when surrounded by the
old social influences appear rather to belong to their new rude, half
barbarous existence. And we all know the pernicious effect when numbers
of one sex associate exclusively together, unblessed by the naturally
refining influence of the other.
Such being the case with men of years and respectability, we need not
wonder that Frank should follow their example. Indeed, from the first, we
had but one strong ground of hope for one so young and susceptible--that
he would remember his pledges to his mother. These violated, the career
of ill begun, where would he end?
Here, however, I should state that Frank never thought, as some boys do,
that it is smart and manly to swear. Sometimes we hear a man talk, whom
the vicious habit so controls that he cannot speak without blasphemy.
With such, oaths become as necessary a part of speech as articles or
prepositions. If deprived of them they are crippled; they seem lost, and
cannot express themselves. They are therefore unfit for any society but
that of loafers and brawlers. Such slavery to an idle and foolish custom
Frank had the sense to detest, even while he himself was coming under its
yoke.
Here, too, before quitting the subject, justice requires us to bear
witness in favor of those distinguished exceptions to the common
profanity, all the more honorable because they were few. Although,
generally speaking, officers and men were addicted to the practice, the
language of here and there an officer, and here and there a private,
shone like streaks of unsullied snow amid ways of trodden mire. Captain
Edney never swore. Atwater never did. No profane word ever fell from the
lips of young Gray. And there were others whose example in this respect
was equally pure.
Fortunately, Frank was kept pretty busy these times; else, with that
uneasy hankering for excitement which possesses unoccupied minds, and
that inclination to mischief which possesses unoccupied hands, he might
have acquired worse vices.
No doubt some of our young readers will be interested to know what he had
to do. The following were some of his duties:--
At daybreak the _drummer's call_ was beat by the drums of the guard-tent.
Frank, though once so profound a sleeper, had learned to wake instantly
at the sound; and, before any of his comrades were astir, he snatched up
his drum, and hurried from the tent. That call was a signal for all the
drummers to assemble before the colors of the regiment, and beat the
reveillé. Then Frank and his fellow-drummers practised the _double-quick_
for two hours. Then they beat the _breakfast call_. Then they ate their
breakfast. At eight o'clock they had to turn out again, and beat the
_sergeant's call_. At nine o'clock they beat for _guard mounting_. Then
they practised two hours more at _wheeling_, _double-quick_, _etc_. They
then beat the _dinner call_. Then they had the pleasure of laying aside
the drumsticks, and taking up the knife and fork once more. After dinner
more _calls_ and similar practice. The time from supper (five o'clock)
until the beat for the evening roll-call (at eight), the drummers had to
themselves. After that the men were dismissed for the night, and could go
to bed if they chose,--all except the drummers, who must sit up and beat
the _tattoo at nine_. That is the signal for the troops to retire. Then
come the _taps_ (to extinguish lights), beat by each drummer in the
company, going down the line of tents.
There were other calls besides those mentioned, such as the company
_drill call_, the _adjutants call_, to _the color_, _etc._, all of which
were beat differently; so that, as you see, the drummer boy's situation
was no sinecure.
He found his watch of great assistance to him, in giving him warning of
the moment to be ready for the stated calls. Although evidently a new
watch, it had been well regulated, and it kept excellent time. The secret
donor of this handsome present was still undiscovered. Sometimes he
suspected the colonel, sometimes Captain Edney; then he surmised that it
must somehow have come to him from home. But all his conjectures and
inquiries on the subject were alike in vain; and he enjoyed the exquisite
torment of feeling that he had a lover somewhere who was unknown to him.
XI.
A CHRISTMAS FROLIC.
Christmas came. The men had a holiday, but no turkeys, no plum puddings,
except such as had come to individuals in private boxes from home. The
sight of these boxes was not very edifying to those who had none. Frank,
who was once more in communication with his friends, had expected such a
box, and been disappointed.
"You just come along with me, boys," said Seth Tucket, "and we'll lay in
for as merry a Christmas as any of 'em. It may come a little later in
the day; but patient waiters are no losers,--as the waiter said when he
picked the pockets of the six gentlemen at dinner."
"What's the fun?" asked the boys, who were generally ready for any sport
into which Seth would lead them.
He answered them enigmatically. "'_Evil, be thou my good!_'--that's what
Milton's bad angel said. '_Fowl, be thou my fare!_'--that's what I say."
From which significant response, followed by an apt imitation of a
turkey-gobbler, the boys understood that he had some device for
obtaining poultry for dinner.
It was a holiday, and I have said, and they had already got permission
to go beyond the lines. There were some twenty of them in all, Frank
included. Tucket led them to a thicket about two miles from camp, where
they halted.
"You see that house yonder? That's where old Buckley lives--the meanest
man in Maryland."
"I know him," said Frank. "He's a rebel; he threatened to set his dog on
us one day. He hates the Union uniform worse than he does the Old
Scratch."
"He has got lots of turkeys," said Ellis, "which he told the sergeant
he'd see die in the pen before he'd sell one to a Yankee."
"I know where the pen is," said John Winch; "he keeps 'em shut up, so our
boys shan't steal 'em, and he and his dog and his nigger watch the pen."
"Well, boys," said Seth, "now the thing is to get the turkeys. As rebel
property, it's our duty to confiscate 'em, and use 'em for the support of
the Union cause. Now I've an idee. I'll go over in the woods there, and
wait, while one of you goes to the house and asks him if he has got any
turkeys to sell. He'll say no, of course. Then ask him if you may have
the one out in the woods there. He'll say there ain't none in the woods;
but you must insist there is one, and say if 'tain't his you'll take it,
and settle with the owner when he calls. That'll start him, and I'll see
that he goes into the woods fur enough, so that the rest of you can rush
up, grab every man his turkey, and skedaddle. Winch 'll show you the way;
he says he knows the pen. 'Charge, Ellis, charge! On, Harris, on! Shall
be the words of private John.' But who'll go first to the house?" asked
Seth, coming down from the high key in which he usually got off his
poetry.
"Let Frank," said Harris; "for he knows the man."
"He? He dasn't go!" sneered Jack. "He's afraid of the dog."
This base imputation decided Frank to undertake the errand, which, after
all, notwithstanding the danger attending it, was less repugnant to his
feelings than more direct participation in the robbery.
Seth departed to ensconce himself in the woods. Frank then went on to the
secessionists house, quieting his conscience by the way with reflections
like these: It was owing to such men as this disloyal Marylander that the
Union troops were now suffering so many hardships. The good things
possessed by traitors, or by those who sympathised with traitors, were
fairly forfeited to patriots who were giving their blood to their
country. Stealing, in such a case, was no robbery. And so forth, and so
forth--sentiments which prevailed pretty generally in the army. Besides,
there was fun in the adventure; and with boys a little fun covers a
multitude of sins.
The fun, however, was considerably dampened, on Frank's part, as he
approached the house. "Bow, wow!" suddenly spoke the deep, dreadful tones
of the rebel mastiff. He hated the national uniform as intensely as his
master did, and came bounding towards Frank as if his intention was to
eat him up at once.
Now, the truth is, Frank was afraid of the dog. His heart beat fast, his
flesh felt an electric chill, and there was a curious stirring in the
roots of his hair. The dog came right on, bristling up as large as two
dogs, opening his ferocious maw, and barking and growling terribly. Then
the fun of the thing was still more dampened, to the boy's appreciation,
by a sudden suspicion. Why had his companions thrust the most perilous
part of the enterprise upon him, the youngest of the party? It was mean;
it was cowardly; and the whole affair was intended to make sport for the
rest, by getting him into a scrape. So, at least, thought Frank.
"But I'll show them I've got some pluck," said something within him,
proud and determined.
To fear danger is one thing. To face it boldly, in spite of that fear, is
quite another. The first is common; the last is rare as true courage. The
dog came straight up to Frank, and Frank marched straight up to the dog.
"Even if I had known he would bite," said Frank, afterwards, "I'd have
done it." For he did not know at the time that this was the very best way
to avoid being bitten. The dog, astonished by this straightforward
proceeding, and probably thinking that one who advanced unflinchingly,
with so brave a face, without weapons, must have honest business with his
master, stepped aside, and growlingly let him pass.
"Where's your master?" said Frank, coolly, to an old negro, who was
shuffling across the yard. "I want to see him a minute."
"Yes, massa," said the black, pulling at his cap, and bowing
obsequiously.
He disappeared, and presently "old Buckley" came out, looking worthy to
be the dog's master.
"Perhaps," thought Frank, "if I treat him in the same way, he won't bite,
either;" and he walked straight up to him. The biped did not bark or
growl, as the quadruped had done, but he looked wickedly at the intruder.
"How about those turkeys?" said Frank.
"What turkeys?" returned the man, surlily.
"It is Christmas now, and I thought you might be ready to sell some of
them," continued Frank, nothing daunted.
"I've no turkeys to sell," said the man.
"But you had a lot of them," said Frank.
"I had fifty." Buckley looked sternly at Frank, and continued: "Half of
them have been stolen by you Yankee thieves. And you know it."
"Stolen! If that isn't too bad!" exclaimed Frank. "I am sure I have never
had one of them. Are you certain they have been stolen? I heard a gobbler
over in the woods here, as I came along."
"You did?" said the man.
Frank thought it only a very white lie he was telling, having heard, at
all events, a very good imitation of a gobbler. He repeated roundly his
assertion. The man regarded him with a steady scowling scrutiny for near
a minute, his surly lips apart, his hands thrust into his pockets. Frank,
who could speak the truth with as clear and beautiful a brow as ever was
seen, could not help wincing a little under the old fellow's slow,
sullen, suspicious observation.
"Boy," said the man, without taking his hands from his pockets, "you're a
lying to me!"
"Very well," said Frank, turning on his heel, "if you think so, then I
suppose it isn't your turkey."
"And what are you going to do about it?" said the man.
"The federal army," said Frank, with a smile, "has need of that turkey. I
shall take him, and settle with the owner when he turns up."
And he walked off. The man was evidently more than half convinced there
was a turkey in the woods--probably one that had escaped when a part of
his flock was stolen.
"Toby," said he, "fetch my gun."
The old negro trotted into the house, and trotted out again, bringing a
double-barrelled shot-gun, which Frank did not like the looks of at all.
"There's some Yankee trick here," said the secessionist, cocking the
piece, and carefully putting a cap on each barrel; "but I reckon they'll
find me enough for 'em. Toby, you stay here with the dog, and take care
of things. Now, boy, march ahead there, and show me that gobbler."
The old negro grinned. So did his master, in a way Frank did not fancy.
It was a morose, menacing, savage grin--a very appropriate prelude, Frank
thought, to a shot from behind out of that two-barrelled fowling-piece.
But it was too late now to retreat. So, putting on a bold and confident
air, he started for the woods, followed by the grim man with the gun.
His sensations by the way were not greatly to be envied. He had never
felt, as he afterwards expressed it, so _streaked_ in his life. By that
term I suppose he alluded to those peculiar thrills which sometimes
creep over one, from the scalp to the ankles, when some great danger is
apprehended. For it was evident that this man was in deadly earnest.
Tramp, tramp, he came after Frank, with his left hand on the stock of
his gun, the other on the lock, ready to pop him over the moment he
should discover he had been trifled with. No doubt their departure had
been watched by the boys from the thicket, and the unlucky drummer
expected every moment to hear the alarm of a premature attack upon the
turkey-pen, which would, unquestionably, prove the signal for his own
immediate execution.
"He will shoot me first," thought Frank, "to be revenged; then he'll ran
back to defend his property."
And now, although he had long since made up his mind that he was willing
to die, if necessary, fighting for his country, his whole soul shrunk
with fear and dread from the shameful death, in a shameful cause, with
which he was menaced.
"_Shot, by a secessionist, in the act of stealing turkeys._" How would
that sound, reported to his friends at home?
"_Shot while gallantly charging the enemy's battery_." How differently
that would read! and the poor boy wished that he had let the miserable
turkeys alone, and waited to try his fortunes on the battle-field.
However, being once in the scrape, although the cause was a bad one, he
determined to show no craven spirit. With a heart like hot lead within
him, he marched with every appearance of willingness and confidence into
the woods, regarding the gun no more than if it had been designed for the
obvious purpose of shooting the gobbler.
"When we come in sight of him," said Frank, "let me shoot him, won't
you?"
"H'm! I reckon I'll give you a shot!" muttered the man, with darkly
dubious meaning.
"I wish you would," said Frank. "Our boys have two cartridges apiece
given them every day now, and they practise shooting at a target. But as
I am a drummer, I don't have any chance to shoot. There's your turkey
now."
In fact an unmistakable gobble was just then heard farther on in the
woods.
"May I take the gun and go on and shoot him?" Frank asked, with an
innocent air.
And he stopped, determined now to get behind the man, if he could not
obtain the gun.
The rebel laughed grimly at the idea of giving up his weapon. But the
sound of the turkey, together with the boy's cool and self-possessed
conduct, had so far deceived him that he no longer drove Frank inexorably
before him, but permitted him to walk by his side, and even to lag a
little behind.
"Gobble, obble, obble!" said the turkey, behind some bushes, still
several rods off.
"Yes, that's my turkey!" said the man, ready enough to claim the unseen
fowl.
"How do you know he is yours?" asked Frank.
"I know his gobble. One I had stole gobbled jest like that." And the
secessionist's stern features relaxed a little.
Frank's relaxed a little, too; for, serious as his dilemma had seemed
a minute since, he could not but be amused by the man's undoubting
recognition of _that_ gobble.
"All turkeys make a noise alike," said Frank.
"No they don't, no they don't!" said the man, positively,--no doubt
fearing a plot to get the fowl away from him, and anxious to set up his
claim in season. "I reckon I know about turkeys. Hear that?"--as the
sound was heard again, still at a distance. "That's my bird. I should
know that gobble among five hundred."
Frank suppressed his merriment, thinking that now was his time to get
away.
"Well," said he, "unless you'll sell me the bird, I don't know that
there's any use of my going any farther with you."
He expected a repetition of the refusal to sell, when he would have the
best excuse in the world for making his escape. But Buckley was still
suspicious of some trick,--fearing, perhaps, that Frank would run off and
get help to secure the turkey.
"We'll see; we'll see. Wait till we get the bird," said the man. "You've
done me a good turn telling me about him, and mayhap I'll sell him to you
for your honesty. But wait a bit; wait a bit."
They were fast approaching the bushes where the supposed turkey was.
"Quit, quit, quit! Gobble, obble, obble!" said the pretended fowl.
"He _must_ know now," thought Frank, with renewed apprehension; but he
dared not run.
In fact, the old fellow was beginning to see that his recognition of
_his_ gobbler had been premature. A patch of blue uniform was visible
through the brush. The rebel stopped, and drew up his gun. As Hamlet
killed Polonius for a rat, so would he kill a Yankee for a turkey.
Click! the piece was cocked and aimed.
"Here, you old clodhopper, you; don't you shoot! don't you shoot!"
screamed Seth Tucket, rushing wildly out of the bushes just as the rebel
pulled the trigger.
XII.
THE SECESSIONIST'S TURKEYS.
In the mean time the boys watching from their ambush, and seeing that the
rebel had gone off with Frank, but left his dog and negro behind, armed
themselves with clubs. When all was ready, Winch gave the word, and
forward they dashed at the doublequick, clearing more than half the space
intervening between them and the barns, before they were discovered by
the enemy. Then the dog bounded out with a bark, and the old negro began
to "holler," and the rebel's wife and daughter ran out and screamed, and
an old negress also appeared, brandishing a broom, and adding her voice
to the chorus.
At this moment the report of a gun came from the direction in which the
secessionist had gone off with Frank.
John Winch heard it, just as the dog met the charging party. Who was
killed? Frank or Seth? John did not know, but he was frightened. He had
come for fun and poultry, not for fighting and bullets. Neither was he
particularly ambitions to be bitten by that monstrous dog. He lost faith
in his club, and dropped it. He lost confidence in the prowess of his
companions, and deserted them. In short, Jack Winch, who had been one of
the most eager to engage in the adventure, took ignominiously to his
heels.
He reached the thicket before venturing to look behind him. Then he saw
that his comrades had frightened away the negro, beaten back the dog, and
taken the turkey-pen by storm. He would now have been but too glad to
join them; but it was too late. Having accomplished their undertaking,
they were returning, each bringing, pendent by the legs, a flopping fowl.
It is better to be a brave man than a coward, even in a bad cause.
Fortune often favors brave men in the wrong in preference to aiding
cowards in the right, for Fortune loves not a poltroon. John Winch felt
at that moment that nobody henceforth would love or favor him, and he
began to frame excuses for his shameful conduct.
"Hello, Jack Winch," cried Ellis, coming up with a turkey in one hand
and a chicken in the other, "you're a smart leader--to run away from a
yelping dog like that!"
"Coward! coward!" chimed in the others, with angry contempt.
"I sprained my ankle. Didn't you know it?" said the miserable Jack, with
a writhing countenance, limping.
"Sprained your granny!" exclaimed Harris. "I never saw a sprained ankle
go over the ground as fast as yours did, just as we came to the dog."
"Then I heard the gun," said Jack, "and I was afraid either Seth or Frank
was shot."
"Woe to the man of turkeys if they are!" said Joe, twisting the neck of
his fowl to quiet it. "We'll serve him as I am serving this hen."
The boys hastened to a rendezvous they had appointed with the absent
ones, followed by Jack at a very creditable pace, considering his
excruciating lameness.
As yet, neither Frank nor Seth had been shot. The charge of buck shot
fired from the rebel fowling-piece had entered the bushes just as the
blue uniform left them. But the secessionist cocked the other barrel of
his piece immediately, with the intention of making up for the error of
his first aim.
"Shoot me," shouted Seth, "and you'll be swinging from that limb in five
minutes!"
The man hesitated, glancing quickly about for those who were expected to
put Seth's threat into execution.
"I've twenty fellows with me," added Seth, "and they'll string you up in
no time, by darn!"
The secessionist was not so much impressed by the rather slender oath
with which Seth clinched his speech, as by the sharp and earnest tone in
which the whole was uttered,--Seth walking savagely up to him as he
spoke. All the while, the alarm raised by the negro, and the dog, and the
women, was sounding in the man's ears.
"They're after my turkeys! This is your trick, boy!" and he sprang upon
Frank, lifting his gun as if to level him to the earth.
But Seth sprang after him, and seized the weapon before it descended.
That green down-easter was cool as if he had been at a game of ball. He
was an athletic youth, and he readily saw that Buckley, though a sturdy
farmer, was no match for him. He pushed him back, shouting shrilly, at
the same time, in the words of his favorite poet,--
"'Now, if thou strik'st him but one blow, I'll hurl thee from the brink
as far as ever peasant pitched a bar!'"
This strange form of salutation astonished the rebel even more than the
rough treatment he received at the hands of the vigorous and poetical
Tucket. He saw that it was no time to stay and parley. He knew that his
turkeys were going, and, muttering a parting malediction at Frank, he set
off at a run to protect his poultry-yard.
"Now's our time," said Tucket, starting for the rendezvous, and striking
into another quotation from his favorite minstrel, parodied for the
occasion. "'Speed, Manly, speed! the cow's tough hide on fleeter foot was
ne'er tied. Speed, Manly, speed! such cause of haste a drummer's sinews
never braced. For turkey's doom and rebel deed are in thy course--speed,
Manly, speed!'"
And speed they did, arriving at the place of meeting just as their
companions came up with the poultry.
"Hello, Jack!" said Frank; "what's the matter with you?"
"He stumbled over a great piece of bark," Ellis answered for Winch.
"Did you, Jack?"
"Yes!" said Jack, putting on a look of anguish. He had not thought of the
bark before, but supposing Ellis had seen such a piece as he spoke of, he
accepted his theory of the stumbling as readily as the rebel had
recognized in Seth's gobbling one of his own lost turkeys. "And broke my
ankle," added Jack.
"What kind of bark was it? do you know?" said Ellis.
"No. I was hurt so I didn't stop to look."
"Well, I'll tell you. It was the dog's bark." And Ellis and his comrades
shouted with laughter, all except poor Jack Winch, who knew too well that
no other kind of bark had checked his progress.
Then the turkey-stealers had their adventure to relate, and Frank had his
amusing story to tell, and Tucket could brag how near he had come to
being shot for one of Buckley's gobblers, and all were merry but Jack,
who had brought from the field nothing but a counterfeit lameness and
dishonor, and who accordingly lagged behind his comrades, sulky and dumb.
"He limps dreadfully--when any body is looking at him," said Harris.
"Nobody killed, and only one wounded," said Frank.
"The sight of old Buckley coming with his dog would be better than a
surgeon, to cure that wound," said Tucket. "You'd see Winch leg it faster
'n any of us--like the old woman that had the hypo's, and hadn't walked a
step for twenty years, and thought she couldn't; but one day her friends
got up a ghost to scare her, and she ran a mile before they could ketch
her."