had stolen, and who, in consequence, had made haste to avenge his wrongs
by joining the confederate army.
A strange, sickening sensation came over Frank at the discovery. Thus the
evil he had done followed him. But for that wild freak of plundering the
poor man's poultry-yard, he might be plodding now on his Maryland farm,
and Atwater would not be lying there so white and still with a bullet in
his breast.
XXXI.
"VICTORY OR DEATH."
Where all this time was the old drum-major? He too had disappeared from
the ambulance corps to assume, like Frank, a position of still more
arduous service and greater danger.
Shortly after Frank left him, word came that the battery of
boat-howitzers, which, from a curve in the road that commanded the rebel
works, had been doing splendid execution, was suffering terribly, and
getting short of hands. It must soon withdraw unless reinforced. But who
would volunteer to help work the guns?
The old man had been familiar with artillery practice. At the thought of
the service and the peril his spirit grew proud within him. But his heart
yearned for Frank.
"Where is Manly?" he inquired of Ellis.
"I believe he has gone into the fight with our company," said the wounded
volunteer.
The truth flashed upon the veteran. Yes, the boy he loved had gone before
him into danger. He no longer hesitated, or lost any time in getting
leave to report himself to the commander of the battery.
"What can you do?" was the hurried question put to him, as he stood in
the thick powder-smoke, calmly asking for work.
Just then, a gunner was taken off his feet by a cannon-ball.
"I can take this fellow's place, sir," said the old man, grimly.
"Take it!" replied the officer.
The wounded sailor was borne away, and the old drummer, springing to the
howitzer, assisted in working it until, its ammunition exhausted, the
battery was ordered to withdraw.
During the severest part of the action Mr. Sinjin had observed a person
in citizen's dress, with his coat off, briskly handling the cannon-balls.
Their work done, he turned to speak with him.
"You are a friend of my young drummer boy, I believe," said the old man.
"Yes, and a friend of all his friends!" cordially answered the
white-sleeved civilian.
"You can preach well, and fight well," said the veteran, his eyes
gleaming with stern pride.
"I prefer to preach, but I believe in fighting too, when duty points that
way," said Mr. Egglestone,--for it was he, flushed and begrimed with his
toil at the deadly guns.
Even as they were speaking, a cannon-ball passed between them. Mr.
Egglestone was thrown back by the shock of the wind it carried, but
recovered instantly to find himself unhurt. But where was the old
drummer? He was not there. And it was some seconds before the bewildered
clergyman perceived him, several paces distant, lying on his face by the
road.
* * * *
The howitzers silenced, it was determined to storm the enemy's works.
Frank afterwards had the satisfaction of knowing that it was in part the
information gained from the prisoner he had taken that decided the
commanding general to order a charge.
Frank was with his company, where we left him, when suddenly yells rent
the air; and, looking, he saw the Zouaves of Parke's brigade dashing down
the causeway in front of the rebel redoubt.
They were met by a murderous fire. They returned it as they charged. As
their comrades fell, they passed over them unheedingly, and still kept
on--a sublime sight to look upon, in their wild Arab costumes, shouting,
"Zou! zou!" bounding like tigers, clearing obstructions, and sweeping
straight to the breastwork with their deadly bayonets.
"What is it?" asked Atwater, faintly.
"Victory!" answered Frank; for the firing ceased--the enemy were flying.
"That's enough!" And the still pallid face of the soldier smiled.
Victory! None but those who have fought a stern foe to the bloody close,
and seen his ranks break and fly, and the charging columns pursue, ranks
of bristling steel rushing in through clouds of battle smoke, know what
pride and exultation are in that word.
Victory! Reno's column, that had outflanked the rebels on the west side,
fighting valiantly, charged simultaneously with the Zouaves. The whole
line followed the example, and went in with colors flying, and shouts of
joy filling the welkin which had been shaken so lately with the jar of
battle. Over fallen trees, over pits and ditches, through brush, and bog,
and water, the conquering hosts poured in; Frank's regiment with the
rest, and himself among the foremost that planted their standard on the
breastwork.
There were the abandoned cannon, still warm and smoking. There lay a
deserted flag, bearing the Latin inscription "_Aut vincere aut
mori_,"--Victory or death,--flung down in the precipitate flight.
"They couldn't conquer, and they didn't want to die; so they split the
difference, and run," observed Seth Tucket.
There too lay the dead and dying, whom the boastful enemy had forsaken
where they fell. One of these who had _not_ run was an officer--handsome
and young. He was not yet dead. A strange light was in his eyes as he
looked on the forms of the foemen thronging around him, saw the faces of
the victors, and heard the cheering. Success and glory were for
them--for him defeat and death.
"Lift me up," he said, "and let me look at you once."
They raised him to a sitting posture, supported partly by a gun-carriage,
and partly by the arms of his conquerors. And they pressed around him,
their voices hushed, their triumphant brows saddened with respect for the
dying.
"Though we have been fighting each other," he said, solemnly, "we are
still brothers. God forgive me if I have done wrong! I too am a northern
man,--I too----"
As he spoke, a figure in the uniform of his foes sprang through the crowd
to his feet.
"O, my brother! O, my brother George!"
It was Frank Manly, who knelt, and with passionate grief clasped the hand
that had clasped his in fondness and merry sport so often in the happy
days of his childhood, when neither ever dreamed of their unnatural
separation and this still more unnatural meeting.
"Frank! my little brother! so grown! is it you?" said the wounded
captive, with dreamy surprise.
"O George! how could you?" Frank began, with anguish in his voice. But he
checked himself; he would not reproach his dying brother.
"My wife, you know!" was all the unhappy young man could murmur. He
looked at Frank with a faint and ever fainter smile of love, till his
eyes grew dim. "I am going, Frank. It is all wrong--I know now--but it is
too late. Tell mother----"
His words became inaudible, and he sank, swooning, in Captain Edney's
arms.
"What, George? what shall I tell mother?" pleaded Frank, in an agony.
"And father too," said the dying lips, in a moment of reviving
recollection. "And my sisters----" But the message was never uttered.
"George! O, George! I am here! Don't you see me?"
The dim eyes opened; but they saw not.
"Carry me up stairs! Let me die in the old room--our room, Frank."
It was evident his mind was wandering; he fancied himself once more at
home, and wished to be laid in the little chamber where he used to sleep
with Frank, as Frank had slept with Willie in later days.
"Kiss me, mother!" The ashen face smiled; then the light faded from it;
and the lips, grown cold and numb, murmured softly, "It is growing
dark--Good night!"
And he slept--the sleep of eternity.
When Frank rose up from the corpse he had mastered himself. Then Captain
Edney saw, what none had noticed before, that blood was streaming down
his arm--the same arm that had been grazed before; this time it had been
shot through.
"You are wounded!"
"Yes--but not much. I must go--let me go and take care of Atwater!"
"But you need taking care of yourself!"--for he was deadly pale.
"No, sir--I--Abe, there----"
Even as the boy was speaking he grew dizzy and fell fainting in his
captain's arms.
XXXII.
AFTER THE BATTLE.
It is over. The battle is ended, the victory won. The sun goes down upon
conquerors and conquered, upon the living and the dead. And the evening
comes, melancholy. The winds sigh in the pine-tops, the sullen waves dash
upon the shore, the gloom of the cypresses lies dismal and dark on
Roanoke Island.
Buildings suitable for the purpose, taken from the enemy, have been
converted into hospitals, and the wounded are brought in.
There is Frank with his bandaged arm, and Ellis with his stump of a hand
bound up, and others worse off than they. There is the surgeon of their
regiment, active, skilful, kind. There, too, is Mr. Eggleston, the
minister, proving his claim to that high title, ministering in the truest
sense to all who need him, holding to fevered lips the cup of medicine or
soothing drink, and holding to fevered souls the still more precious
drink.
There is Corporal Gray, assisting to arrange the hospital, and cheering
his comrades with an account of the victory.
"The rebels ran like herds of deer after we got the battery. We tracked
'em by the traps they threw away. Guns, knapsacks, coats,--they flung off
every thing, and skedaddled for dear life! We met an old negro woman, who
told us where their camp was; but some of 'em had taken another
direction, by a road that goes to the east side of the island. Our boys
followed, and found 'em embarking in boats. We fired on 'em, and brought
back two of their boats. In one we got Jennings Wise, of the Wise Legion,
that we had the bloody fight with flanking the battery. He was wounded
and dying.
"But our greatest haul was the camp the old negress pointed out The
rebels rallied, and as we moved up, fired upon us, doing no damage. We
returned the compliment, and dropped eight men. Then more running, of the
same chivalrous sort, our boys after them; when out comes a flag of truce
from the camp.
"'What terms will be granted us?' says the rebel officer.
"'No terms, but unconditional surrender,' says General Foster.
"'How long a time will be granted us to consider?'
"'Just time enough for you to go to your camp to convey the terms and
return.'
"Off went the rebel. We waited fifteen minutes. Then we pushed on again.
That movement quickened their deliberations; and out came Colonel Shaw,
the commander, and says to General Foster,--
"'I give up my sword, and surrender five thousand men!' For he didn't
know some two thousand of his force had escaped. What we have got is
about three thousand prisoners, and all their forts and quarters, which
we call a pretty good bag."
The boys forgot their wounds, they forgot their dead and dying comrades,
listening to this recital. But short-lived was the enthusiasm of one, at
least. Scarce was Gray gone, when Frank saw four men with a stretcher,
bringing upon it a grizzled, pallid old man.
"O, Mr. Sinjin! O, my dear, dear friend! You too!"
"Is it my boy?" said the veteran, with a wan smile. "Yes, I too! They
have done for me, I fear."
"But nobody told me. How--where----" The boy's grief choked his voice.
"An impertinent cannon-ball interrupted my conversation with Mr.
Egglestone," said the old man, stifling his agony as the men removed him
to a cot. "And took a--" he groaned in spite of himself--"a greedy
mouthful out of my side--that's all."
Frank knew not what to say or what to do, he was so overcome.
"There, my boy," said the old man, to comfort him, "no tears for me! It
is enough to see you again. They told me you were hurt--" looking at the
lad's disabled arm. "I am glad it is no worse." And the wan veteran
smiled content.
Frank, with his one hand, smoothed the pillow under the old gray head,
struggling hard to keep back his sobs as he did so.
"Who is my neighbor there?" Mr. Sinjin cheerfully asked.
"Atwater," Frank managed to articulate.
"Is it? I am sorry! A bad wound?"
"The bullet went through a Bible he carried, then into his breast, beyond
the reach of surgery, I am afraid," Mr. Egglestone answered for Frank.
"He lies in a stupor, just alive."
"Poor fellow!" said Mr. Sinjin, feelingly. "If Death must have one of us,
let him for once be considerate, and take me. Atwater is young, just
married,--he needs to live; but I--I am not of much account to any body,
and can just as well be spared as not."
"O, no, O, no!" sobbed Frank; "I can't spare you! I can't let you die!"
"My boy," said the old man, deeply affected, "I would like to tarry a
little longer in the world, if only for your sake. You have done so much
for me--so much more than you can ever know! You have brought back to my
old heart more of its youth and freshness than it had felt for years. I
thank God for it. I thank you, my dear boy."
With these words still ringing in his ear, Frank was taken away by the
thoughtful Mr. Egglestone and compelled to lie down.
"You must not agitate the old man, and you need repose yourself, Frank.
I fear the effects of all this excitement, together with that wound, on
your slender constitution."
"O, my wound is nothing!" Frank declared. "See that he and Atwater have
every thing done for them--won't you, Mr. Egglestone?"
The minister promised, and Frank endeavored to settle his mind to rest.
But he could not sleep. Every five minutes he started up to inquire after
his friends. Hour after hour passed, and he still remained wakeful as a
spirit doomed never to sleep again. His wounded arm pained him; and he
had so many things to think of,--his suffering comrades, old Buckley
shot out of the tree, his rebel brother, his folks at home, and all the
whirling incidents and horrors of that dread day.
So he thought, and thought; and prayed silently for the old drummer
groaning on his bed of pain; and pleaded for Atwater lying there, still,
with the death-shadow he had foreseen darkening the portal of his body.
And Frank longed for his mother, as he grew weary and weak, until at last
sleep came in mercy, and dropped her soft, vapory veil over his soul.
* * * *
The thrilling news of the victory came north by telegraph. Then followed
letters from correspondents, giving details of the battle, when, one
morning, Helen Manly ran home in a glow of excitement, bringing a damp
and crumpled newspaper.
"News from Frank!" she cried, out of breath.
In a moment the little family was gathered about her, the parents eager
and pale.
"Is he living? Tell me that!" said Mrs. Manly.
"Yes, but he has been wounded, and is in the hospital."
"Wounded!" broke forth Mr. Manly in consternation; but his wife kept her
soul in silence, waiting with compressed white lips to learn more.
"In the arm--not badly. There is a whole half column about him here. For
he has made himself famous--Frank! our dear, dear Frank!" And the quick
tears flooding the girl's eyes fell upon the paper.
Mrs. Manly snatched the sheet and read, how her boy had distinguished
himself; how he had captured a rebel, and fought gallantly in the ranks,
and received a wound without minding it; and how all who had witnessed
his conduct, both officers and men, were praising him; it was all
there--in the newspaper.
"What adds to the romance of this boy's story," said the writer in
conclusion, "is a circumstance which occurred at the capture of the
breastwork. Among the dead and wounded left behind when the enemy took to
flight, was a rebel captain, of northern parentage, who came south a few
years ago, married a southern belle, became a slaveholder, joined the
slaveholders' rebellion in consequence, and lost his life in defence of
Roanoke Island. He lived long enough to recognize in the drummer boy
_his own younger brother_, and died in his arms."
Great was the agitation into which the family was thrown by this
intelligence.
"O that I had the wings of a dove!" said Mrs. Manly. "For I must go, I
must go to my child!"
Pride and joy in his youthful heroism, pain and grief for the other's
tragic end, all was absorbed in the dreadful uncertainty which hung about
the welfare of the favorite son; and she knew that not all the attentions
and praises of men could make up to him, there on his sick bed, for the
absence of his mother.
The family waited, however,--in what anguish of suspense need not to be
told,--until the next mail brought them letters from Mr. Egglestone and
Captain Edney. By these, their worst fears were confirmed. Exposure,
fatigue, excitement, the wound he had received, had done their work with
Frank. He was dangerously ill with a fever.
"O, dear!" groaned Mr. Manly, "this wicked, this wicked rebellion! George
is killed, and now Frank! What can we do? what can we do, mother?" he
asked, helplessly.
While he was groaning, his wife rose up with that energy which so often
atoned for the lack of it in him.
"I am going to Roanoke Island! I am going to my child in the hospital!"
That very day she set out. Alone she went, but she was not long without a
companion. On the boat to Fortress Monroe she saw a solitary and
disconsolate young woman, whose face she was confident of having seen
somewhere before. She accosted her, found her going the same journey with
herself, and on a similar errand, and learned her history.
"My husband, that I was married to at the cars just as his regiment was
leaving Boston, has been shot at Roanoke Island, and whether he is alive
or dead I do not know."
"Your husband," said Mrs. Manly,--"my son knows him well. They were close
friends!"
And from that moment the mother of Frank and the wife of Atwater were
close friends also, supporting and consoling each other on the journey.
XXXIII.
A FRIEND IN NEED.
At Roanoke Island, a certain tall, lank, athletic private had been
detailed for fatigue duty at the landing, when the steamer from the inlet
arrived.
Being at leisure, he was watching with an expression of drollery and
inquisitiveness for somebody to tell him the news, when he saw two
bewildered, anxious women come ashore, and look about them, as if waiting
for assistance.
Prompted by his naturally accommodating disposition, and no less by
honest curiosity, the soldier stepped up to them.
"Ye don't seem over'n above familiar in these parts, ladies," he said,
with his politest grin.
"We are looking for an officer who promised to aid us in finding our
friends in the hospital--or at least in getting news from them," said the
elder of the two,--a fine-looking, though distressed and careworn woman
of forty.
"Sho! wal. I s'pose he's got other things to look after, like as not!"
And the soldier, in his sympathy, cast his eyes around in search of the
officer. "Got friends in the hospital, hev ye?" Then peering curiously
under the bonnet of the young female, "Ain't you the gal that merried
Atwater?"
"O! do you know him? Is he--is he alive?" By which eager interrogatives
he perceived that she was "the gal."
The droll countenance grew solemn. "I ain't edzac'ly prepared to answer
that last question, Miss--Miss Atwater!" he said, with some embarrassment.
"But the fust I can respond to with right good will. Did I know
him!"--Tears came into his eyes as he added, "Abe Atwater, ma'am, was my
friend; and a braver soldier or a better man don't at this moment exist!"
"Then you must know my boy, too!" cried the elder female,--"Frank Manly,
drummer."
The soldier brightened at once.
"Frank Manly! 'Whom not to know argues one's self unknown.' Your most
obedient, ma'am,"--bowing and scraping. "Your son has attracted the
attention of the officers, and made himself pop'lar with every body.
Mabby ye haven't heerd----"
"I've heard," interrupted the anxious mother. "But how is he? Tell me
that!"
"Wal, he was a little grain more chirk last night, I was told. He has had
a fever, and been delirious, and all that--perty nigh losing his chance
o' bein' promoted, he was, one spell! But now I guess his life's about as
sure's his commission, which Cap'n Edney says there ain't no doubt
about."
"So young!" said Mrs. Manly, trembling with interest.
"He's young, but he's got what we want in officers--that is, sperit; he's
chock full of that. I take some little pride in him myself," added the
private. "We was almost like brothers, me and Frank was! 'In the desert,
in the battle, in the ocean-tempest's wrath, we stood together, side by
side; one hope was ours, one path!'"
"This, then, is Seth Tucket!" exclaimed Mrs. Manly, who knew him by his
poetry.
"That's my name, ma'am, at your service!" And Seth made another
tremendous bow. "But I see," he said, "you're anxious; ye want to git to
the hospital. I tell ye, Frank'll be glad to see ye; he used to rave
about you in his delirium; he would call '_mother! mother!_' sometimes
half the night."
"Poor child! poor, dear child!" said Mrs. Manly. "I can't wait! help me,
sir,--show me the way to him, if nothing more!"
"Hello!" shouted Seth. "Whose cart is this? Where's the driver of this
cart? It's been standin' here this hour, and nobody owns it." He jumped
into it. "Who claims this vehicle? 'Who so base as would not help a
woman? If any, speak! for him have I offended!' Nobody? Then I take the
responsibility--and the cart too! Hop in, ladies. Here's a board for you
to set on. I'll drive ye to the hospital, and bring back the kerridge
before Uncle Sam misses it."
The women were only too glad to accept the invitation, and they were soon
seated on the board. Seth adjusted his anatomy to the edge of the
cart-box, and drove off. But he soon stood up, declaring that a hungry
fellow like him couldn't stand that board,--he was too sharp set.
Mrs. Manly did not venture to ask again about Atwater,--what he had
already said of him having gone so heavily to the poor wife's heart. But
she could inquire about the old drum-major, who, she had heard, was
wounded.
"Old Sinjin? Wal! I'm in jest the same dilemmy consarning him as Atwater.
They've both been sick and at the pint of death ever sence the fight. Now
one of 'em's dead, and t'other's alive. A chap that was at the hospital
told me this morning, 'One of them sickest fellers in your regiment died
last night," says he; 'I don't know which of 'em,' says he. And I haven't
had a chance yet to find out."
"O, haste then!" cried the young wife. "May be my husband is living
still!"
"Shouldn't wonder the least might if he is," said Seth, willing to
encourage her. "For he has hung on to life wonderfully; he said he
believed you was coming, and he couldn't bear the idee of dying before he
could see you once more. Old Buckley's bullet has been found, you'll be
pleased to know."
"Old Buckley? Who is old Buckley?"
"The Maryland secessionist that shot your husband, and that I brought
down from the tree to pay for it. He never'll git into another tree,
without his soul goes into a gobble-turkey, as I should think it might,
and flies up in one to roost!"
"And the bullet!----"
"As I was going to tell ye, it's been found. It went through the Bible
that you gave him (and that Frank's preserving for you now, I believe),
and lodged in his body, the doctor couldn't tell where. But one night Mr.
Egglestone,--the fighting minister, you know, that merried you,--he was
bathing Abe's back, and what did he find but a bunch, that Abe said was
sore. 'Doctor!' says he, 'I've found the bullet!' And, sure enough! the
doctor come and cut out the lead. It had gone clean through the poor
feller,--into his breast, and out under his side!--Hello!" said Seth, "I
shall hev to turn out and wait for that company to march by. I swan to
man ef 'tain't my company,--or a part on't, at least! They're drumming
out a coward, to the tune of the _Rogue's March_!"
The women were all impatience to get on; and Mrs. Manly felt but the
faintest gleam of interest in the procession, until, as it drew near, in
a wretched figure, wearing, in place of the regimental uniform, a suit of
rags that might have been taken from some contraband, with drummers
before and fixed bayonets behind, she recognized--Jack Winch!
"Wal!" said Seth, "I'd ruther go into a fight and be shot dead than go
out of camp in that style! See that label, 'COWARD,' on his back? But he
deserves it, ef ever a chap did!"
And Seth, as he drove on, related the story of Jack's miserable boasting
and poltroonery. Much as she pitied the wretch, Mrs. Manly could not help
remembering his treachery towards her son, and feeling that Frank was now
amply avenged.
XXXIV.
THE HOSPITAL.