been obliged to own he was a--traitor. And since I left home my folks
have had a letter from him, in which he wrote that he was on the point of
joining the confederate army, and that we would not probably hear from
him again. So I suppose he is fighting against us somewhere."
"Not here, I hope," said Atwater.
"As well here as any where," said Frank. "I always loved my brother. I
love him still. But, as you say, wicked as we are, Christ is in our
cause, and----" Frank read,--
"'He that loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me; and
he that loveth son or daughter more than me, is not worthy of me.'"
"And I," said the boy, lifting up his face with a patriotic, even a
religious, fervor in it, "I love my country, I love the cause of right
and freedom, better than I love my brother!"
"With that true of us, with that love in our hearts," said Atwater, "we
can dare to fight, and whatever the result, I believe it will be well
with us. See what the book says."
And Frank read on.
"'He that findeth his life shall lose it; and he that looseth his life
for my sake shall find it.'"
"That is enough," said Atwater. "I can bind that sentence like an armor
around my heart."
"What does it mean?"
"It means, I think, that though wickedness triumphs, it triumphs to its
own confusion, for it has no immortal life. But even the death of a saint
is victory."
After that the soldier seemed inclined to relapse into revery. Frank
thought he did not wish to talk any more; so he gave him back the book.
Abram put it in his pocket, and took the boy's hand.
"Good night, Frank," he smilingly said. "We shall see each other in the
morning."
"Good night, Abe."
Frank left him. And Atwater, stretching himself upon the ground, put his
arm beneath his head, and with the fire-light on his placid countenance,
dismissed all worldly care from his mind, and slept peacefully.
XXVI.
OLD SINJIN.
At the foot of a pine tree, on a pillow of boughs, lies the old
drum-major. The blaze of the bivouac fire covers him with its glow as
with a mantle. But his face looks haggard and care-worn, and his grizzled
mustache has a cynical curl even in sleep.
At a sound he starts, opening wide those watchful gray eyes an instant,
then closing them quickly. It is a footstep approaching.
Stealthily it comes, and passes by his side. Then silence--broken only by
the crackle and roar of the flames. At length one eye of the sleeper
opens a little, and peeps; and as it peeps, it sees, sitting on the pine
roots, in the broad fire-light, with his cap before his eyes shading
them, and his eyes fixed wistfully on him, Frank, the drummer boy.
The eye that opened a little and peeped, closes again. The old fellow
begins to snore.
"Poor old man!" says the boy to himself; "how tired he looks. And to
think I have done so much to hurt his feelings! I wish I could tell him
how sorry I am; but I must not wake him."
Again the ambushed eye opens, and the little corner of the sleeper's soul
that happens to be _not_ asleep, reconnoitres. Frank is sitting there
still, faithfully watching. A stream of electric fire tingles in that
misanthropic breast, at the sight. But still the old man snores.
"I may as well lie down and go to sleep too," says Frank. And, very
softly, so as not to awaken Mr. Sinjin, he lays himself down by his side,
puts his cheek on the pillow of boughs, and keeps perfectly still.
The heart of the veteran burns within him, but he makes no sign. And
now--hark! Patter, patter, patter. It is beginning to rain.
This, then, is what the dark canopy meant, hanging so luridly over the
fire-lit forest. Patter, patter; faster, faster; dripping through the
trees, hissing in the fire, capering like fairies on the ground, comes
the midnight rain.
Sinjin thinks it about time to wake. But Frank is stirring; so he
concludes to sleep a little longer, and see what he will do.
Frank takes some pine boughs, and lays them carefully over the old man,
to shelter him from the rain. Hotter and hotter glows the old heart
beneath; melt it must soon.
"There!" says Frank in a whisper; "don't tell him I did it!"
He is going. Old Sinjin can sleep--or pretend to sleep--no more.
"Hello! Who's there?"--awaking with amazing suddenness.--"That you,
Frank? What are you here for at this time of night?"
"O, I'm a privileged character. They let me go around the camp about as I
like, you know."
"How long has it been raining? And how came all this rubbish heaped over
me?"
The pattering becomes a rushing in the tree-tops, a wild sibilation as of
serpents in the fire, and a steady rattling and whizzing in the swamps.
"Well, well! this won't do, boy! Come with me!"
They run to the shelter of a huge leaning trunk and crouch beneath it.
"You're not so used to these things as I am," says the old man, shielding
the boy with his arms.
"Let me bring some boughs to throw over you!" cries Frank.
"No--sit still! You have heaped boughs enough on me for one night!"
"Were you--awake?"
"One eye was a little awake."
"And you saw!"
"I saw all you did, my boy!"
Frank knows not whether to be happy or ashamed. Neither speaks. The storm
is roaring in the trees. The water drips and the spray sifts upon them,
At length Frank says,--
"I wanted to tell you I have the watch again, and I know who gave it to
me, and I think he is one of the best old men in the world. And I wanted
to say that I am very sorry for every thing I have said and done that was
wrong."
The bosom of the lonely old man heaves as he answers, "Don't, my boy!
don't say you are sorry--I can't stand that!" And he hugs the boy close.
"But why didn't you want me to know you gave the watch?"
"Because I am such a foolish old fellow, and have forgotten how to treat
a friend. For twenty years and more I have not known what it was to have
a living soul care for me."
"O, it must be so hard for you to be alone so! Have you no sisters?"
"Sisters! I would tell you of one so proud, and rich, and in fashion,
that her great house has no room in it for a rusty old brother like me!"
Frank thought of his own sisters--of Hattie, who was gone, and of Helen,
who, though she should wed a prince, would never, he was sure, shut her
doors against him; and he was filled with pity for the poor old man.
"But you must have had friends?"
"I had one, who was a fast friend enough when he was poor and I had a
little property. But I became responsible for his debts, which he left me
to pay; then I was poor, whilst he grew rich and hated me!"
"Hated you?"
"Of course! We may forgive those who wrong us, but not those we have
wronged. He never forgave me for having been robbed by him!" And the old
man's voice grew hard and ironical at the recollection.
"Why didn't you ever get married?" asked Frank. "You have one of the
best, biggest hearts in the world, and you ought to have loved somebody
with it. Didn't you ever?"
The spirit of the old man shrank sensitively within him for a moment.
Then he said to himself, "He will know of it some day, and I may as well
tell him." For the heart that had been frozen for years this youth had
had power to thaw.
"I never loved--any woman--well enough to marry her. But there was once a
little girl that I had known from her cradle--for I was many years older
than she. I used to pet her, and tell her stories, and sing and play to
her, until I became more bound up in her than was very wise for one who
was not her father or her brother. Well, she got to be of your age, and
still ran to kiss me when I came, and never guessed what was growing up
in my heart and taking possession of me, for it was stronger than I, and
stronger than all the world. I saw her fast becoming a woman, and forgot
that I was at the same time fast becoming an old man. And one day I asked
her to marry me. I did not mean then, but in a few years. But she did not
stop to hear my explanations. She sprang from me with a scream. And that
ended it. She could never be to me again the innocent pet she had been,
and as for being what I wished--I saw at once how absurd the proposal
was! I saw that from that time she could regard me only with astonishment
and laughter. I was always extremely sensitive, and this affair, with the
other I have told you of, proved too much for me. I fled from society. I
enlisted as a drummer, and I suppose I shall never be any thing but a
drummer now. And this, my boy, is the reason I was never married."
Drearily sounded the old man's voice as he closed.
"It is all so sad!" said Frank. "But ought a man to do so, because he has
been once or twice deceived? I have heard my mother say that as we are to
others, so they will be to us. If we are generous, that excites them to
be generous; and love calls out love."
"Your mother says that?" replied Mr. Sinjin in a low voice. "Ah, and she
says true! If one is proud and reserved, he will find the world proud and
reserved: that I know! Because two or three failed me, I distrusted every
body, and was repaid with distrust. O my boy, do not do so! Never let
your soul be chilled by any disappointment, if you would not become a
solitary and neglected old man. Better trust a thousand times, and be
deceived as often, better love a thousand times in vain, than shut up
your heart in suspicion and scorn. Your mother is right, Frank,--in that,
as in every thing else, she is perfectly right!"
"It isn't too late yet--is it?--to have friends such as you like. I am
sure you can if you will," said Frank.
"You have almost made me think so," answered the old drummer. "You have
brought back to my heart more of its youth and freshness than I had felt
for years. I want you to know that, my boy."
Frank did not understand how it could be, and the old man did not inform
him. It was now very late. The rain poured dismally. Frank lay nestled in
the old man's bosom, like a child. For a long time he did not speak. Then
the veteran bent forward so that he could look in his face. The boy was
fast asleep.
"How much he looks like his mother! Her brow, her mouth! God bless the
lad, God bless him!"
And the old man sat and watched whilst the drummer boy slept.
XXVII.
THE SKIRMISH.
The night and the storm passed, and day dawned on Roanoke Island.
No reveillé roused up the soldiers. Silently from their drenched, cold
beds, they arose and prepared for the rough day's work before them.
The morning was chill and wet, the rain still dripping from the trees.
Far in the cypress swamps the lone birds piped their matin songs--the
only sounds in those dim solitudes, so soon to be filled with the roar of
battle.
Ten thousand men had been landed from the fleet; and now ten thousand
hearts were beating high in anticipation of the conflict.
The line of advance lay along the road, which run in a northerly
direction through the centre of the island. Across this road the rebels
had erected their most formidable battery, with seemingly impenetrable
swamps on either side, an ample space cleared for the play of their guns
in front, and felled trees all around.
General Foster's brigade took the advance, having with it a battery of
twelve-pounders from the fleet, to operate on the enemy's front. General
Reno followed, with orders to penetrate on the left the frightful lagoons
and thickets which protected the enemy's flank. A third column, under
General Parke, brought up the rear.
General Foster rode forward with his staff into the woods, and made a
reconnoissance. The line of pickets opened to let the brigade pass
through. Not a drum was beat. Slowly, in silence, occasionally halting,
regiment succeeded regiment, in perfect order, with heavy muffled tramp.
Along the forest road they passed, the men laughing and joking in high
spirits, as if marching to a parade. The still, beautiful light of the
innocent morning silvered the trees. The glistering branches arched
above; the glistening stream of steel flowed beneath. Wreaths of vines,
beards of moss, trailed their long fringes and graceful drapery from the
boughs. The breeze shook down large shining drops, and every bush a
soldier touched threw off its dancing shower.
"'And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, dewy with nature's
tear-drops, as they pass,'" remarked Seth Tucket.
"Come, none o' your solemncholy poetry to-day," said Jack Winch. "I never
felt so jolly in my life. There's only one kind of poetry I want to hear,
and that's the pouring of our volleys into the rebels."
"The pouring of their volleys into us ain't quite so desirable, I
suppose," said Harris.
"There wouldn't be much fun without some danger," said Jack.
"If that's fun, I guess Winch 'll have fun enough before we're through
with this job," remarked Ellis.
"What a long road it is!" cried Jack, impatiently.
"We'll come to a short turn in it pretty soon," said Atwater,
significantly.
"Well, Abe has spoken!" said Jack. "His mouth has been shut so tight all
along, I didn't think 'twould open till the time comes for him to cry
quarter."
"Atwater means to let his gun speak for him to-day," said Harris.
"What do we go so slow for? Why don't we hurry on?" said Jack. "I want to
get at the rebels some time this week. I don't believe they----"
He was going to say that he didn't believe they would wait to fire a
shot. But even as he spoke the confutation of his opinion resounded in
the woods. Crack--crack--crack--went the rebel muskets; then followed a
volley from the troops in advance.
"Why didn't you finish your sentence, Jack?" said Harris, with a smile.
"They're at it!" whispered Jack, in a changed voice.
"A little skirmishing," said Atwater, quietly.
Crack, crack, again; and--_sing!_--came a bullet over the heads of the
men, cutting the leaves as it passed.
"Too high," laughed Gray, coolly.
"Halt!" come the command, which John Winch, for one, obeyed with amazing
promptness.
"Hallo, Jack!" said Ellis; "who taught you to halt before the word is
given?"
"Are they going to keep us standing here all day?" said Jack, presently.
"He's as wide awake now to be on the move as he was to stop," laughed
Harris.
"Well," said Jack, nervously, "who likes to stand still and be shot at?"
"There's no shooting at us," replied Harris. "When it comes to that,
we'll see the fun you talk about."
Fun! Jack's countenance looked like any thing but fun just then.
He gained some confidence by observing the officers coolly giving their
orders, and the men coolly executing them, as if nothing of importance
had happened, or was expected to happen.
Captain Edney deployed his company, pressing forward into the swamp.
Bushes and fallen logs impeded their progress; the mud and water were in
places leg-deep; and the men were permitted to pick their way as best
they could. Suddenly out of a thicket a bullet came whizzing. Another and
another followed. One tore the bark from a tree close by Captain Edney's
head.
"Keep cool, boys!" he said; "and aim low."
He then gave the order, "Commence firing!" and the front rank men,
halting, poured their volley into the thicket--their first shot at the
enemy. Whilst they were reloading, the second rank advanced and delivered
their fire.
"Don't waste a shot, my brave fellows!" cried the captain. "Fire wherever
you see signs of a rebel. Always aim at _something_."
This last order was a very useful one; for many, in the excitement of
coming for the first time under fire, were inclined to let off their
pieces at random in the air; and the deliberation required to take aim,
if only at a bush behind which a rebel might be concealed, had an
excellent effect in quieting the nerves.
Yet some needed no such instruction. Atwater was observed to load and
fire with as steady a hand and as serene a countenance as if he had been
practising at a target. Others were equally calm and determined. There
were some, however, even of the brave, who, from constitutional
excitability, and not from any cowardice of spirit, exhibited symptoms of
nervousness. Their cheeks paled and their hands shook. But, the momentary
tremor past, these men become perhaps the most resolute and efficient of
all.
Such a one was Frank; who, though in the rear of the regiment, with the
ambulance corps, felt his heart beat so wildly at the first whiz of a
bullet over his head, that he was afraid he was going to be afraid.
Was Jack Winch another of the sort? It was pitiful to see him attempt to
load his piece. He never knew how it happened, but, instead of a
cartridge, he got hold of the tompion,--called by the boys the
"tompin,"--used to stop the muzzle of the gun and protect it from
moisture, and was actually proceeding to ram it down the barrel before he
discovered his mistake!
"Take a cartridge, Winch!" said Captain Edney, who was coolly noting the
conduct of his men.
So Jack, throwing away the stopper, took a cartridge. But his hand shook
_around_ the muzzle of the gun so that it was some time before he could
insert the charge. He had already dodged behind a tree, the men being
allowed to shelter themselves when they could.
"Dry ground is scarce as hen's teeth!" remarked Seth Tucket, droll as
ever, looking for a good place to stand while he was loading.
"Fun, ain't it?" said Ned Ellis, who had sought cover by the same tree
with Winch.
He stood at Jack's left hand, and a little behind him. Jack, too much
agitated to respond to the unseasonable jest, threw up the barrel of his
piece, in order to prime, when a bullet came, from nobody knew where,
aslant, and put an end to jesting for the present.
Jack felt a benumbing shock, and dropped his gun, the stock of which had
been shivered in his grasp. At the same instant Ellis dropped his gun
also, and threw out his hands wildly, exclaiming,--
"I am shot!"
And both fell to the ground together.
"That's what ye call two birds with one stun!" said Tucket, a flash of
ferocity kindling his face as he saw his comrades fall. "Pay 'em for
that, boys! Pay 'em for that!"
And hearing the order to charge the thicket, he went forward with a yell,
taking strides that would have done credit to a moose in his own native
woods of Maine.
Ellis had by this time got upon his feet again. But Jack lay still, his
neck bathed in blood.
XXVIII.
JACK WINCH'S CATASTROPHE.
Several companies were by this time engaged driving in the rebel
skirmishers, and three or four men had been disabled.
It was impracticable to take the stretchers, or litters for the wounded,
into such a wilderness of bogs and thickets; and accordingly the most
forward and courageous of the carriers leaped into the swamps without
them.
As soon as Frank heard that some of his company had been wounded, all
sense of danger to himself was forgotten, and no remonstrance from his
friend the drum-major could prevent his rushing in to assist in bringing
them off.
Finding that the boy, whose welfare was so precious to him, could not be
restrained, Mr. Sinjin plunged in with him, and kept at his side,
scrambling through mud and brush and water, and over logs and roots, in
the direction of the firing.
They had not gone far when they met a wounded soldier coming out. His
right hand hung mangled and ghastly and bleeding at his side. A slug from
a rifle musket had ploughed it through, nearly severing the fingers from
the wrist.
"Ellis!" cried Frank--"you hurt?"
Ned swung the disabled and red-dripping member up to view, with a sorry
smile.
"Not so bad as might be!" he said, with a rather faint show of gayety.
"Jack has got it worse."
"Jack who?"--for there were several Jacks in the company.
"Winch," said Ellis, whilst the old drummer was binding up his hand to
stop the blood.
"Is he killed?" asked Frank, with a strange feeling--almost of remorse,
remembering his late bitter and vindictive thoughts towards John.
"I don't know. We were both hit by the same ball, I believe. It must have
passed through his neck. It came from one side, and we tumbled both
together. What I tumbled for, I don't know. It didn't take me long to
pick myself up again!"
"And Jack?"
"There he lies, with blood all over his face."
"And nobody caring for him?"
"The boys have something else to think of!" said Ellis, with a pallid
smile.
Mr. Sinjin, having tied up the wound, directed him how to find the
surgeon. And Ellis, in return, pointed out the best way to get at Jack.
The company had advanced, driving the rebel skirmishers before them, and
leaving Winch where he had fallen. Frank and his companion soon reached
the spot. There lay the hapless youth under the roots of the tree, the
left side of his face and neck all covered with gore.
"Jack!" cried Frank, stooping by his side, and lifting his arm.
No answer. The arm fell heavily again as he released it.
"Dead!" said the boy, a sudden calmness coming over him. "We may as well
leave him where he is, and look for others."
"Not dead yet," said the more experienced Sinjin, feeling Jack's heart,
which was beating still. In corroboration of which statement Winch
uttered something between a gasp and a groan, and rolled up horrible
eyes.
Frank was standing, and the old man was trying to find Winch's wound, in
order to prevent his bleeding to death while they were carrying him out,
when the report of a rifle sounded, seemingly quite near, and a bullet
passed with a swift vehement buzz close by their ears. At the instant
Frank felt something like a quick tap or jerk on his arm. He looked, and
saw that the strip of red flannel, which betokened the service he was
engaged in, and which should have rendered his person sacred from any
intentional harm, had been shot away. A hole had been torn in his sleeve
also, but his flesh was untouched.
The old drummer looked up quickly.
"Are you hurt?"
"No," said Frank, feeling of his arm while he looked around to discover
where the shot came from. "It must have been a spent ball; for, see! it
fell there in the water!"--pointing at a pool behind them, the surface of
which was still rippling with the plunge of the shot.
Winch gave another groan.
"The wound must be an internal one," said Sinjin, "for he is not bleeding
much now."
Frank assisted to lift him, and together they bore him back towards the
road. It was a difficult task. Frank had neither the stature nor the
strength of a man; but he made up in energy and good will what he lacked
in force. Very carefully, very tenderly, through bogs and through
thickets, they carried the helpless, heavy weight of the blood-stained
volunteer.
"Frank! is it you?" murmured Winch, faintly.
"Yes, Jack!" panted the boy, out of breath with exertion.
"Am I killed?" articulated Jack.
"O, no!" said Frank. "You've got a bullet in you somewhere; but I guess
the surgeon will soon have it out, and you'll be all right again."
"O!" groaned Jack.
Just then there came another rifle-crack, not quite so near as before,
and another bullet came with its angry buzz. It cut a twig just over Mr.
Sinjin's head, and grazed a cypress tree farther on, at a point
considerably lower, and with a downward slant, as the mark revealed.
"Another spent ball," said Frank.
But the old drummer shook his head. "Those are no spent balls. Some
murderous rebel is aiming at us."
"How can that be?"
"I don't know. And our best way is not to stop to inquire, but to get out
of this as soon as possible."
"Frank!" groaned the burden they were bearing.
"What, Jack?"
"Forgive me, Frank!"
"For what?" said Frank, cheerily.
"For writing home lies about you."
"They were not all lies, I'm sorry to say, Jack. But even if they were, I
forgive you from my very soul."
Jack groaned, and said no more. Assistants now came to meet them, and
Frank, who was almost exhausted with the fatigue of bringing his comrade
so far, was relieved of the burden. The road was near, and Jack was soon
laid upon a stretcher.
"Frank!" he gasped, rolling his eyes again, "don't leave me! For God's
sake, stay by me, Frank!"
So Frank kept by his side, while the men bore him along the road to a
tree, where the surgeon had hung up his red flag, and established his
hospital.
Ellis had just undergone the amputation of his mangled hand, without once
flinching under the surgeon's knife, and he remained on the spot to
encourage Winch.
"If I die," began Jack, stirring himself more than he had been observed
to do before. "Frank, do you hear me?"
"What is it, Jack?" asked the sympathizing boy.
"If I die, don't let me be buried on this miserable island!"
"But you are not going to die," said the surgeon, kindly, cutting away
the clothes from his neck.