the ear of Jack Winch? Even the bark of the rebel mastiff was music in
comparison, and his bite would have hurt him less.
"By the way," said Seth, "the old skinflint will be after us, sure as
guns. Hurry! or we'll hear--'The deep-mouthed bull-dog's heavy bay
resounding up the rocky way, and faint, from farther distance borne, the
darned old rebel's dinner horn.' Give me that chicken, Ellis. And, boys,
we must manage some way to smuggle these fowls into camp. I can carry
this chicken under my coat; but how in Sam Hill you'll manage with the
turkeys, I don't see."
"I know," said Frank, always full of invention. "If nobody else has a
better plan, I've thought of a good one."
Several devices were suggested, but none met with general approbation.
Then Frank explained his.
"Cover up the turkeys with evergreens, and we will go in with our arms
full, as if we were going to make wreaths for the regiment."
This plan was agreed upon, and shortly after the adventurers might have
been seen returning to camp loaded down with boughs and vines. Jack alone
came in empty-handed. Frank had no turkey, and so he threw down his load
outside the tent, where any one could examine it.
It was not long before the owner of the turkeys made his appearance,
carrying to headquarters his complaint of the robbery. Unfortunately,
Frank was not only known as a drummer boy, but he wore the letter of his
company on his cap. Besides, his youth rendered his identification
comparatively easy. As might have been expected, therefore, he was soon
called to an account. Captain Edney himself came to investigate the
matter, accompanied by the secessionist.
"That's the boy," said Buckley, with determined vindictiveness, when
Frank was arraigned before him.
Frank could not help looking a little pale, for he felt that he was in a
bad scrape, and how he was to get out of it, without either lying or
betraying his accomplices, he could not see. He did not care so much
about himself, but he would not for any thing have borne witness against
the others. He had almost made up his mind to tell a sturdy falsehood, if
necessary,--to stoop to a dishonorable thing in order to avoid another,
which he considered even more damaging to his character. For such is
commonly the result of wrongdoing; one step taken, you must take another
to retrieve that. One foot in the mire, you must put the other in to get
that out.
However, the drummer boy still hoped that by putting a bold face on the
matter, and prevaricating a little, he might still keep clear of that
thing he had been taught always to abhor--a downright untruth.
"This man brings serious charges against you, Frank," said Captain Edney.
"I should think it was for me to bring charges against him," replied
Frank, trying to look indignant.
"Why, what has he done to you?" The captain could not help smiling as he
spoke, and Frank felt encouraged.
"He's a rebel of the worst kind. He is always insulting the federal
uniform, and he seems to think that whoever wears it is a villain. He
threatened to set his dog on me the other day, and to-day he was going to
knock me down with his gun."
"What was he going to knock you down for? You must have done something to
provoke him."
"Yes, I did!" said Frank, boldly. "I went to his house, and asked him, in
the politest way I could, if he would sell us fellows a turkey. I might
have known that it would provoke him, for he has been heard to say he'd
rather his turkeys should die in the pen than that a Union soldier should
have one, even for money."
It was evident to the secessionist that instead of making out a case
against the boy, the boy was fast making out a case against him. In his
impatience he broke forth into violent denunciations of Frank, but
Captain Edney stopped him.
"None of that, sir, or I'll send you out of the camp forthwith. He
says,"--turning to Frank,--"that you decoyed him into the woods while
your companions stole his turkeys."
"Decoyed him?" said Frank. "He may call it what he pleases. I'll tell you
just what I did, sir. He said he hadn't any turkeys. So I said, 'Then the
one I heard in the woods, as I came along, isn't yours--is it?'"
"Had you heard one?"
"I had heard a noise so much like one,"--laughing,--"that he himself,
when he heard it, was ready to swear it was his gobbler."
"And was it really a turkey?"
"No, sir. It was Seth Tucket hid behind the bushes."
Frank was now conscious of making abundant fun for his comrades, who all
crowded around, listening with delight to the investigation. Even Captain
Edney smiled, as he gave a glance at the green-looking, seriously-winking
Seth.
"So it was you that played the gobbler, Tucket," said the captain.
"I hope there wan't no great harm in't ef I did, sir," replied Seth, with
ludicrous mock solemnity. "Bein' Christmas so, I thought I'd like a
little bit of turkey, sir, ef 'twant no more than the gobble. And there I
was, enjoying it all by myself, hevin' a nice time, when this man comes
up and lays claim to me for his turkey."
This sober declaration, uttered in a high key, with certain jerks of the
arms and twists of the down-east features, which Seth could use with the
drollest effect, excited unrestrained mirth among the men, and made the
officer's sword-belts shake not a little with the suppressed merriment
inside.
"What do you mean by his claiming you?" asked the captain.
"He told Manly I belonged to him, and that some thieving Yankee had
stolen me." said Seth, with open eyes and mouth, as if he had been making
the most earnest statement. "Now I'll leave it to any body ef that's so.
And I guess that's about all his complaints of hevin' turkeys stole
amounts to; for ef he can make a mistake so easy in my case, he may in
others. Though mabby he means I stole the _gobble_ of one of his
turkeys. I own it's a gobble I picked up somewheres, but I didn't know
'twas his." And Tucket drew down his face with an expression of
incorruptible innocence.
"Well, boys," said the captain, silencing the laughter, "we have had fun
enough for the occasion, though it _is_ a merry Christmas. No more
buffoonery. Tucket. Were you aware, Frank, that it was Tucket, and not a
turkey, in the bushes, when you took this man to the woods?"
"I rather thought it was Tucket," said Frank, "though the man stuck to it
so stoutly that 'twas his gobbler, I didn't know but----"
"Never mind about that." The captain saw that it was Frank's object to
lead the inquiry back to the ludicrous part of the business, and promptly
checked him. "What was your motive in deceiving him?"
"To have a little fun, sir."
"Did you not know that there was a design to rob his poultry pen?"
Frank recollected his momentary doubts as to the good faith of his
companions, when the dog assailed him, and thought he could make that
uncertainty the base of a strong "No, sir."
"But you know his pen was robbed?"
"No, sir, I do not know it----," Frank reflecting as he spoke, that a
man cannot really _know_ any thing of which he has not been an
eye-witness, and comforting his conscience with the fact that he had not
_seen_ the turkeys stolen.
"Now,"--Captain Edney did not betray by look or word whether he believed
or doubted the boy's assertion,--"tell me who was with you in the woods."
"Seth Tucket, sir."
"Who else?"
"O, ever so many fellows had been with me."
"Name them."
And Frank proceeded to name several who had really been with him that
morning, but not on the forage after poultry. On being called up and
questioned, they were able to give the most positive testimony, to the
effect that they had neither stolen any fowls themselves nor been with
any party that had. In the mean time the sergeant and second lieutenant
instituted a search through the company's tents, and succeeded in finding
a solitary turkey, which nobody could give any account of, and which
nobody claimed. This the secessionist identified; averring that there
were also a dozen more, besides several chickens, for which redress was
due. But not one of them could be discovered, perhaps because they were
so skilfully concealed, but more probably because those who searched were
not anxious to find.
Captain Edney accordingly paid the man for the loss of the single turkey,
which he ordered sent immediately to the hospital. He also told the
secessionist that he would pay him for all the poultry he was ready to
swear had been appropriated by the men of his company, provided he would
first take the oath of allegiance to the United States. This Buckley
sullenly refused to do, and he was immediately conducted by a guard
outside the lines. Seth Tucket followed at a short distance, saying, as
he put his hand in his pocket, as if to produce some money, "Say, friend!
better le' me pay ye for that gobble I stole. Any thing in reason, ye
know."
But Buckley gave him only a glance of compressed rage, and marched off in
silence, with disappointment and revenge in his heart.
XIII.
THE EXPEDITION MOVES.
Frank won the greatest credit from his comrades by the manner in which
he had gone through the investigation. And the fowls, which those who
searched could not discover, found their way somehow to the cooks, and
back again to the boys, and were shared among their companions, who had
a feast and a good time generally.
But when all was over, and the excitement which carried Frank through
had subsided, and it was night, and he lay in the darkness and solitude
of the tent, with his comrades asleep around him,--then came sober
reflection; and he thought of the poor man who had lost his turkeys, and
who, for one, had got no fun out of the business; and he remembered that
he had, to all intents and purposes, lied to Captain Edney; and he knew
in his heart that he had done a dishonest thing.
Yes, he had actually been engaged in stealing turkeys. He was guilty
of an act of which, a few weeks before, he would have deemed himself
absolutely incapable. All the mitigating circumstances of the case, which
had lately stood out so clear and strong as almost to hide the offence
from his moral vision, now faded, and shrunk away, and the wrong itself
stood forth, alone, in its undisguised ugliness.
"What is it to me that the man is a secessionist? That doesn't give us
the right to rob him. He is not in arms against the government; and we
don't know that he assists the rebels in any way, either by giving them
information or money. Perhaps he had good reason to hate the Union
soldiers. If he had not before, he has now. I wish I had let his turkeys
alone."
These words Frank did not exactly frame to himself, lying there in the
dark and silent tent; but so said the soul within him. And the next day
the culpability of his conduct was brought home still more forcibly to
his conscience by the receipt of a box from home. It contained, besides a
turkey, pies, cakes, apples, and letters. And in one of the letters his
mother wrote,--
"I hope these things will reach you by Christmas, and that you will
enjoy them, and share them with those who have been good to you, and
be very happy. We all think of the hardships you have to go through,
and would willingly give up many of our comforts if you could only
have them. We shall not have any turkey at Christmas--we shall all
be so much happier to think you have one. For I would not have you
so much as _tempted_ to do what you say some of the soldiers have
done--that is, steal the turkeys belonging to the secessionists. If
there are rebels at heart, not yet in open opposition to the
government, I would have you treat them kindly, and not provoke them
to hate our cause worse than they do already. And always remember
that, whatever the government may see fit to do to punish such men,
you have no right to interfere with either their private opinions or
their private property."
Why was it that the contents of Frank's Christmas box did not taste so
good to him as he had anticipated? Simply because he could partake of
neither pie nor turkey without the sorry sauce of a reproving conscience.
He thought to atone for his fault by magnanimity in sharing with others
what he could not relish alone. He gave liberally to all his mates, and
carried a large piece of the turkey, together with a generous supply of
stuffing, and an entire mince pie, to his old friend Sinjin.
Now, Frank had not, for the past month, been on as good terms with the
veteran as formerly. The meeting with Mrs. Manly in Boston seemed to have
awakened unpleasant remembrances in the old drummer's mind, and to render
him unpleasantly stiff and cold towards her son. He had received the
thanksgiving wreath with a very formal and stately acknowledgment, and
Frank, who knew not what warm torrents might be gushing beneath the stern
old man's icy exterior, had kept himself somewhat resentfully aloof from
him ever since. But he still felt a yearning for their former friendship,
and he now hoped, with the aid of the good gifts of which he was the
bearer, to make up with him.
"I wish you a merry Christmas," said Frank, arrived at the old man's
tent.
"You are rather late for that, it seems to me," replied Sinjin, lifting
his brows, as he sat in his tent and looked quietly over his shoulder at
the visitor.
"I know it," said Frank. "But the truth is, I hadn't any thing to wish
you a merry Christmas with yesterday. But this morning I got a box by
express, full of goodies, direct from home."
"Ah!" said the old man, with a singular unsteadiness of eye, while he
tried to look cold and unconcerned.
"Yes; isn't it grand? A turkey of my mother's own stuffing, and pies of
her own baking, and every thing that's splendid. And she said she hoped
you would accept a share, with her very kind regards. And so I've brought
you some."
The old man had got up on his feet. But he did not offer to relieve
Frank's hands. He made no reply to his little speech; and he seemed not
so much to look _at_ him, as _through_ him, into some visionary past far
away. Perhaps it was not the drummer boy he saw at all, but fairer
features, still like his--a sweet young girl; the same he used to trot
upon his knees, in those unforgotten years, so long ago, when he was in
his manhood's prime, and life was still fresh to him, and he had not
lost his early faith in friendship and love.
There Frank stood, holding the cover of the Christmas box, with the good
things from home upon it, and waited, and wondered; and there the old man
stood and dreamed.
"Please, sir, will you let me leave them here?" said Frank, ready to cry
with disappointment at this strange reception.
The old man heaved a sigh, brushed his hand across his eyes, and came
back to the present. He stooped and took the gift with a tremulous smile,
but without a word. He did not tell the drummer boy that he had, in that
instant of forgetfulness, seen his mother as she was at his age, and that
his old heart now, though seemingly withered and embittered, gushed again
with love so sorrowful and yearning, that he could have taken her son in
his arms, even as he had so often taken her, and have wept over him. And
Frank, in his ignorance, went away, feeling more hurt than ever at his
old friend's apparent indifference.
* * * *
And now matters were assuming a more and more warlike appearance. For
some time Frank's regiment had been out on brigade drill twice a week,
and he had written home a glowing description of the scene. But an
incomparably grander sight was the inspection and review of the entire
division, which took place the last week of December. The parade ground,
comprising two thousand acres, at once smooth and undulating, was
admirably fitted to show off, with picturesque and splendid effect, the
evolutions of regiment, brigade, and division. Thousands of spectators
flocked from Annapolis and the vicinity, in vehicles, on horseback, and
on foot, to witness the display.
Frank was with his company, carrying his knapsack, haversack, tin cup,
and canteen, like the rest, and with his drum at his side. He could not
but feel a pride in the grand spectacle of which he formed a part. At
eleven o'clock, Brigadier-General Foster, commanding the department in
Burnside's absence, passed down the line, accompanied by a numerous
staff, and followed by the governor of the state and members of the
legislature. They inspected each regiment in turn; and many were the
looks of interest and pleased surprise which the young drummer boy
received from officers and civilians.
The reviewing party then took its position on the right, the words of
command rang along the line, and regiment after regiment, breaking into
battalion column, filed, with steady tramp, in superb, glittering array,
to the sound of music, past the general and his assistants. No wonder the
drummer boy's heart beat high with military enthusiasm, as he marched
with his comrades in this magnificent style, marvelling what enemy could
withstand such disciplined masses of troops.
And now the fleet of transports, which were to convey them to their
destination, were gathering at Annapolis. The camp was full of rumors
respecting the blow which was to be struck, and the troops were eager to
strike it.
So ended the old year, the first of the war; and the new year came in. It
was now January, 1862.
On the 3d, the regiment was for the first time paid off. Frank received
pay for two months' service, at twelve dollars a month. He kept only four
dollars for his own use, and sent home the remaining twenty dollars in a
check, to be drawn by his father in Boston. It was a source of great
pride and satisfaction to him that he could send money to his parents;
and he wondered at the greedy selfishness of John Winch, who immediately
commenced spending his pay for pies and cakes, at the sutler's enormous
prices.
On the 6th, the regiment broke camp and marched to Annapolis. There was
snow on the ground, which had fallen the night before; and the weather
was very cold. The city was a scene of busy activity. The fleet lay in
the harbor. Troops and baggage trains crowded to the wharves. Transport
after transport took on board its precious freight of lives, and hauling
out into the stream to make room for others, dropped anchor off the town.
After waiting five hours--five long and dreary hours--at the Naval
Academy, our regiment took its turn. One half went on board an armed
steamer, whose decks were soon swarming with soldiers and bristling with
guns. The other half took passage in a schooner. And the steamer took the
schooner in tow, and anchored with her in the river. And so Frank and his
comrades bade farewell to the soil of Maryland.
The excitement of these scenes had served to put Frank's conscience to
sleep again. However, it received a sting, when, on the day of leaving
Annapolis, he learned that the secessionist whose turkeys had been
stolen, had, in revenge for his wrongs, quitted his farm, and gone to
join the rebel army.
XIV.
THE VOYAGE AND THE STORM.
On the morning of the 9th of January the fleet sailed.
Frank was on board the schooner towed out by her steam consort.
Although the morning was cold and wet, the decks of the transports were
crowded with troops witnessing the magnificent spectacle of their own
departure.
Just before they got under way, a jubilant cheering was heard. Frank made
his way to the vessel's side, to see what was going on. A small row-boat
passed, conveying some officer of distinction to his ship. Frank observed
that he was a person of quite unpretending appearance, but of pleasant
and noble features.
"Burnside! Burnside! Burnside!" shouted a hundred voices.
And in acknowledgment of the compliment, the modest hero of the
expedition stood up in the boat, and uncovered his high, bald forehead
and dome-like head.
The rowers pulled at their oars, and the boat dashed on over the dancing
waters, greeted with like enthusiasm every where, until the general's
flag-ship, the little steamer Picket, took him on board.
And now the anchors were up, the smoke-pipes trailed their cloudy
streamers on the breeze, flags and pennants were flying, paddle-wheels
began to turn and plash, the bands played gay music, and the fleet drew
off, in a long line of countless steamers and sailing vessels, down the
Severn, and down the Chesapeake.
All day, through a cold, drizzling rain, the fleet sailed on, the
transports still keeping in sight of each other, in a line extending for
miles along the bleak, inhospitable bay.
The next morning, Frank went on deck, and found the schooner at anchor in
a fog. The steamer lay alongside. No other object was visible--only the
restlessly-dashing waters. The wild shrieking of the steamer's whistle,
blowing in the fog to warn other vessels of the fleet to avoid running
down upon them, the near and far responses of similarly screaming
whistles, and of invisible tolling bells, added impressiveness to the
situation.
At nine o'clock, anchors were weighed again, and the fleet proceeded
slowly, feeling its way, as it were, in the obscurity. There was more or
less fog throughout the day; but towards sundown a breeze blew from the
shore, the fog rolled back upon the sea, the clouds broke into wild
flying masses, the blue sky shone through, and the sunset poured its
placid glory upon the scene.
Again the troops crowded the decks. The fleet was entering Hampton Roads.
Upon the right, basking in the golden sunset as in the light of an
eternal calm, a stupendous fortress lay, like some vast monster of old
time, asleep. Frank shivered with strange sensations as he gazed upon
that immense and powerful stronghold of force; trying to realize that,
dreaming so quietly there in the sunset, those gilded walls, which seemed
those of an ancient city of peace, meant horrible, deadly war.
"By hooky!" said Seth Tucket, coming to his side, "that old Fortress
Monroe's a stunner--ain't she? I'd no idee the old woman spread her hoop
skirts over so much ground."
"You can see the big Union gun there on the beach," said Atwater. "To
look at that, then just turn your eye over to Sewell's Point there, where
the rebel batteries are, makes it seem like war." And the tall, grave
soldier smiled, with a light in his eye Frank had seldom seen before.
The evening was fine, the sky clear, the moon shining, the air balmy and
spring-like. The fleet had come to anchor in the Roads. The bands were
playing, and the troops cheering from deck to deck. The moonlight
glittered on the water, and whitened the dim ships riding at anchor, and
lay mistily upon the bastions of the great slumbering fortress. At a late
hour, Frank, with his eyes full of beauty and his ears full of music,
went below, crept into his berth, and thought of home, and of the great
world he was beginning to see, until he fell asleep.
The next day the fleet still lay in Hampton Roads. There were belonging
to the expedition over one hundred and twenty-five vessels of all
classes, freighted with troops, horses, forage, and all the paraphernalia
of war. And this was the last morning which was to behold that
magnificent and powerful armada entire and unscattered.
At night the fleet sailed. Once at sea, the sealed orders, by which each
vessel was to shape its course, were opened, and Hatteras Inlet was found
to be its first destination.
The next day was Sunday, January 12. The morning was densely foggy.
Frank, who had been seasick all night, went on deck to breathe the fresh
sea air. The steamer, still towing the Schooner, was just visible in the
fog, at the other end of the great sagging hawser. And the sea was
rolling, rolling, rolling. And the ship was tossing, tossing, tossing.
And Frank's poor stomach, not satisfied with its convulsive efforts to
turn him wrong side out the night before, recommenced heaving, heaving,
heaving. He clung to the rail of the schooner, and every time it went
down, and every time it came up, he seemed to grow dizzier and sicker
than ever. He consoled himself by reflecting that he was only one of
hundreds on hoard, who were, or had been, in the same condition; and when
he was sickest he could not help laughing at Seth Tucket's inexhaustible
drollery.
"Well, try again, ef ye want to," said that poetical private, addressing
his stomach. "Be mean, and stick to it. Keep heaving, and be darned!"
Stomach took him at his word, and for a few minutes he leaned heavily by
Frank's side.