The Drummer Boy

J >> John Trowbridge >> The Drummer Boy

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

But here he was now--not away there in the room at home, but here, among
soldiers, on shipboard. And the pure, innocent Frank of that night lived
no more. And all those promises had been broken, one by one. And he knew
not what to do, he was so miserable.

Yet--the sudden thought warmed and thrilled his breast--he might be pure
as then, he might be innocent as then, and all the stronger for having
known what temptation was, and fallen, and risen again. And he might keep
those promises in a higher and nobler sense than he dreamed of when he
made them; and his mother's prayer might, after all, be answered.

"Frank," said the voice of Captain Edney. He had come to visit the
quarters of his company, and, seeing the boy sitting there so absorbed,
his young face charged with thought and grief, had stopped some moments
to regard him, without speaking.

Frank started, almost like a guilty person, and gave the military salute
rather awkwardly as he got upon his feet. He had been secretly dreading
Captain Edney's displeasure, and now he thought he was to be called to an
account.

"I have something for you in my room," said the officer, with a look of
serious reserve, unlike the cheerful, open, brotherly glance with which
he formerly regarded the drummer boy.

Frank accompanied him, wondering what that something was. A reproof for
his drunkenness, or for gambling away the watch, he expected more than
any thing else; and his heart was heavy by the way.

"Did you know a mail came on board to-day?" said the captain, as they
entered his stateroom.

Frank remembered hearing Atwater say he had that day got a letter from
his wife. But his mind had been too much agitated by other things to
consider the subject then.

"No, sir, I didn't know it."

"How happens that? You are generally one of the most eager to receive
letters."

Frank hung his head. What answer could he make? That he was intoxicated
in his berth when the mail arrived? A sweat of shame covered him. He was
silent.

"Well, well, my boy!"--Captain Edney patted him gently on the
shoulder,--"you are forgiven this time. I am sure you did not mean to
get drunk."

"O, sir!" began Frank, but stopped there, over whelmed by the captain's
kindness.

"I know all about it," said Captain Edney. "Tucket assures me that he and
the rest were more to blame than you. But, for the sake of your friends,
Frank, take warning by this experience, and never be betrayed into any
thing of the kind again. I trust you. And here, my boy, are your
letters."

He put half a dozen into Frank's hands. And Frank, as he took them, felt
his very heart melt within him with gratitude and contrition. He was not
thinking so much of the letters as of Captain Edney and his watch.

"Forgive me; forgive me!" he humbly entreated.

"I do, freely, as I told you," said the captain.

"But--the watch you gave me!"

"Dear boy!"--the captain put his arm kindly about him,--"haven't I always
told you I knew nothing about the watch? I did not give it to you, nor do
I know what generous friend did."

"It is true, then?" Frank looked up with a half-glad, half-disappointed
expression. He was disappointed to know that so good a friend was not
the donor of the watch, and yet glad that he had not wronged _him_ by
gambling it away. "Then, Captain Edney, I wish you would tell me what to
do. I have done the worst and meanest thing. I have lost the watch."

And he went on to relate how he had lost it. Captain Edney heard him with
deep concern. He had all along felt a sense of responsibility for the boy
Mrs. Manly had intrusted to him, as well as a genuine affection for him;
he had therefore double cause to be pained by this unexpected
development.

"Frank," said he, "I am glad I did not first hear this story from any
body else; and I am glad that the proof of your thorough repentance
accompanies the confession. That breaks the pain of it. To-morrow I will
see what can be done about the watch. Perhaps we shall get it again.
To-night I have only one piece of advice to give. Don't think of winning
it back with cards."

"Then how shall I ever get it?" asked Frank, in despair. For he did not
wish his mother to know of the circumstances; and to buy the watch back
when he was paid off again, would be to withhold money which he felt
belonged to her.

Captain Edney could not solve the difficulty; and with that burden upon
his mind, Frank returned to his bunk with his letters.

He bent over them with doubt and foreboding. The first he selected was
from his mother. As he opened it, his eye caught these words:--

"... He says that you beat some of the worst men in the regiment at
their own vices. He says you are generally smoking, except when you
take out your pipe to swear. According to his account, you are one of
the profanest of the profane. And he tells of your going with others
to steal turkeys of a secessionist in Maryland, and how you got out
of the scrape by the most downright lying. He gives the story so
circumstantially that I cannot think he invented it, but am compelled
to believe there is something in it. O, my child, is it possible? Ill
as your sister is, to hear these things of you is a greater trial
than the thought of parting with her so soon. Have you forgotten your
promises to me? Have you forgotten----"

Frank could read no more. He gnashed his teeth together, and held them
tight, like a person struggling against some insupportable pain. His
sister so ill? That was Hattie. He saw the name written farther back. "He
says,"--"according to his account,"--who was it sending home such stories
about him? He glanced up the page, until his eye fell upon the name.

"_John Winch_----"

O, but this was too much! To be accused of swearing by _him_! To be
charged with stealing by one who went with him to steal, and did not,
only because he was a coward! Frank felt an impulse to fall instantly
upon that wretched youth, and choke the unmanly life out of him. John
was at that moment writing a letter under the lantern, probably filling
it with more tales about him;--and couldn't he tell some great ones
now!--grinning, too, as he wrote; quite unaware what a tiger was
watching him, athirst for his blood.

Yes. Winch had got letters to-day, and, learning what a lively sensation
his stories of Frank created, had set to work to furnish the sequel to
them; giving interesting particulars up to latest dates.

N. B. He was writing on the head of Frank's drum, which he had borrowed
for the purpose. He had written his previous letters on the same. It was
a good joke, he thought, to get the boy he was abusing to contribute some
needful assistance towards the work; it added a flavor to treachery. But
Frank did not so much enjoy the pleasantry. He was wild to be beating the
tattoo, not on the said drum, but on the head of the rogue who was
writing on the drum, and with his fist for drumsticks.

But he reflected, "I shall only be getting deeper into trouble, if I
pitch into him. Besides, he is a good deal bigger than I,"--a powerful
argument in favor of forbearance. "I'll wait; but I'll be revenged on him
some way."

Little did he know--and as little did Winch surmise--how that revenge was
to be accomplished. But it was to be, and soon.

For the present, Frank had other things to think of. He read of Hattie's
fading away; of her love for him; and the tender messages she
sent,--perhaps the last she would ever send to him. And he remembered his
wonderful vision of her that evening. And tears came to cool and soften
his heart.

And so we quit him for the night, leaving him alone with his letters, his
grief, and his remorse.

XIX.

SETH GETS "RILED."

There is in the life of nearly every young person a turning-point of
destiny. It may be some choice which he makes for himself, or which
others make for him, whether of occupation, or companion, or rule of
life. It may be some deep thought which comes to him in solitary
hours,--some seed of wisdom dropped from the lips of teacher, parent, or
friend, sinking silently as starlight into the soul, and taking immortal
root there, unconsciously, perhaps, even to himself. Now it is the
quickening of the spirit at the sight of God's beautiful universe--a
rapture of love awakened by a morning in spring, by the blue infinity of
the sky, by the eternal loneliness and sublimity of the sea. Or, in some
moment of susceptibility, the smiles of dear home faces, the tender trill
of a voice, a surge of solemn music, may have power over the young heart
to change its entire future. And again, it is some vivid experience of
temptation and suffering that shapes the great hereafter. For the
Divinity that maketh and loveth us is forever showering hints of beauty
and blessedness to win back our wandering affections,--dropping cords of
gentlest influences to draw home again all hearts that will come.

Then the spirit of the youth rises up within him, and says,--

"Whereas I was blind, now I am beginning to see. And whereas I was weak,
now, with God's help, I will strive for better things. Long enough have I
been the companion of folly, and all the days of my life have I been a
child. But now I perceive that I am to become a man, and I will
henceforth think the thoughts and do the deeds of a man."

Such an experience had come to Frank; and thus, on the new morning, as he
beheld it rise out of the sea, his spirit spake unto him.

He answered his mother's letter, confessing that his conduct had afforded
only too good a foundation for Jack's stories.

"The trouble, I think, is," said he, "that I wrote my promises first
with _a pencil_. They did get a little _rubbed out_ I own. I have since
taken _a pen_, and written them all over again, word by word, and letter
by letter, _with ink_. So you may depend upon it, dear mother, that not
another syllable of my pledge will _get blurred_ or _dimmed_, either on
the _leaf of my Testament_; or on the _page of my heart_. Only _believe
this_, and then you may believe as much as you please of what J. W.
writes."

Not a word to the same _J. W._ did Frank say of the base thing he had
done; and as for the revenge he had vowed, the impulse to wreak it in
tigerish fashion had passed like a night-fog before the breezy purity of
the new life that had dawned.

In a couple of days Frank had mostly recovered his equanimity. The loss
of the watch was still a source of anxious grief to him, however; less on
his own account, let me say, than for the sake of the unknown giver. Nor
had he, as yet, found any opportunity to atone for his rudeness to the
old drum-major, who had lately, for some cause, gone over to the other
wing of the regiment on board the steamer, so that Frank yearned in vain
to go to him and humbly beg forgiveness for his fault.

"What has taken Mr. Sinjin away?" he asked of his friend, the young
corporal.

Gray shrugged his shoulders, and looked at Frank as if he had a good mind
to tell a secret.

"How should I know? He's such a crotchety old boy. I don't think he could
account for his conduct himself. He asked permission to remove his
quarters to the steamer, and got it; pretending, I believe, that he could
have better accommodations there."

"And _I_ believe," said Frank, "that you know more about it than you
will own."

"Well, I have my suspicions. Shall I be candid with you, Frank? and
you'll forgive me if I hurt your feelings?"

"Yes," said Frank, anxiously.

"Well, then," said Gray. "I suppose you know Sinjin had taken a great
fancy to you."

"I thought at one time he liked me."

"At one time? I'll wager my head he was liking you the most when he
appeared to the least--he's such a queer old cove! I've heard he was
disappointed in love once, and that some friend of his proved traitor to
him; and that's what has made him so shy of showing any thing like
affection for any body. Well, he heard of your gambling, and went to talk
with you about it, and you said something to him that wounded him so I
think he couldn't bear the sight of you afterwards."

The boy's heart was wrung by this revelation. What reason, he demanded to
know, had Gray for thinking thus?

"Because I know the man, and because I know something which I think you
ought to know." Gray drew Frank confidentially aside. "He may
anathematize me for betraying his secret; but I think it is time to do
him justice, even against his will. Frank, it was Old Sinjin who gave you
the watch."

Frank's heart leaped up, but fell again instantly, convulsed with pain
and regret.

"Are you sure, Gray?"

"Sure as this: I was with him when he bought the watch in Annapolis. I
helped him to do it up in the wrappers. And it was I that pitched it into
the tent at you Thanksgiving-day evening. That is being pretty
sure--isn't it?"

"And he knows that I lost it?" said Frank.

"He had just heard so when he went to speak with you about gambling."

"And I told him it was none of his business," said Frank, remorsefully.
"O, he will never forgive me now; and who can blame him? Good old man!
dear, good old man! My mother told me to be always very kind to him--and
how have I repaid his goodness to me!"

It seemed now that the boy could not control his impatience until once
more he had seen his benefactor, confessed all to him, and heard him say
he was forgiven for his unkindness and ingratitude.

But the old drummer still remained on board the steamer. And Frank had
only this faith to comfort him--that if his repentance was sincere, and
he henceforth did only what was right, all would yet be well.

The next morning he was viewing the sunrise from the deck, when Seth
Tucket came to his side.

"'Once more upon the waters! yet once more! and the waves bound beneath
me as the steed that knows his rider--welcome to their roar!' Only they
don't bound much, and they don't roar to-day," said Seth. "The boys have
found out it's Sunday; and as we're to have a battle 'fore the week's
out, they seem to think it's about as well to remember there's a
difference in days. How are you, Manly?"

"Better," said Frank, with a smile.

"Happy?"--with a grimace meant to be sympathizing, but which was droll
enough to be laughable.

"Happier than I was," said the drummer boy. "Happier than I've been for a
long time."

"What! not happier, now you've lost every thing, than when you was hevin'
such luck at play?"

"I wasn't happy then. I thought I was. But I was only excited. I am
happier now that I've lost every thing; it's true, Tucket."

"Well, I swan to man! I thought you was mourning over your luck, and I
was bringing ye sunthin' to kind o' cheer ye up. Glad to hear you've no
need. Fine day, but rather windy. Wonder what's the time!"

So saying, Seth drew out the watch, and regarded it with provoking
coolness.

"I'm plagued ef the darned thing hain't run down! Say, Frank, ye couldn't
think of throwin' in the key, too--could ye? I can't wind her up without
a key."

Frank choked a little, but his look was cheerful, as he put his hand in
his pocket, and, without a word, delivered over to the new owner of the
watch the key also.

"Thank ye; much obleeged;" and Seth "wound her up" with extraordinary
parade. Then he shook it, and held it to his ear. Then he said, "All
right! she's a puttin' in again, lickety-switch! Good watch, that." Then
he set it "by guess." Then he was returning it to his pocket, when a new
thought seemed to strike him.

"What do ye do for a watch-pocket, Frank? Gov'ment don't provide
watch-pockets, seems."

"I made one for myself," said Frank.

"Sho now! ye didn't, though--did ye? What with?"

"With a needle and thread I brought from home, and with another old
pocket," said Frank.

"Well, you air the cutest! Say, what'll ye tax to make me one? I don't
care to hev it very large; a small watch, so."

A dry proposal, that. It was not enough to furnish watch and watch-key;
but Frank was required also to provide a watch-pocket.

"What do ye say?" asked Seth, with a shrewd squint.

"I'll make you one for nothing," said Frank.

"Come, by darn!" exclaimed Seth; "none o' that, now!"

"None of what?"

"You're a-trying my disposition!"--And, indeed, Tucket was visibly moved;
there was a tear in his eye--a bona fide tear. "I've a good disposition,
nat'rally; but I shall git riled ef you say much more. I've got your
watch, and that's all right. I've got the key, and that's all right, too.
But when you talk of makin' a watch-pocket for nothin', I tell ye a saint
couldn't stand that."

Frank, who thought he had learned to know pretty well the man's oddities,
was puzzled this time.

"I didn't mean to offend you, Tucket."

"No, you didn't. And now see here, Manly. We'll jest compromise this
matter, ef you've no 'bjection. I've no watch-pocket, and you've no
watch. So, s'posin' you carry the watch for me, and tell me what time it
is when I ax ye? That won't be too much trouble--will it?"

"Are you in earnest?" asked Frank.

"Yes, I be, clean up to the hub. The truth is, I can't carry that watch
with any kind o' comfort, and I'm bent on gitt'n' it off my hands, ef I
hef to throw it overboard. Here! It's yours; take it, and be darned!"
said Seth.

"I was going to propose to you,"--stammered Frank from his too full
heart,--"to take the watch, and pay you for it when I can."

"Ez for that the pay's no consequence. I was more to blame than you; and
the loss ought to be mine."

"But----" insisted Frank.

"No buts! Besides, I never make bargains Sundays." And Seth turned away,
abruptly, leaving the watch in Frank's hand.

The boy would have called him back, but a rush of emotions--joy,
gratitude, contrition--choked his voice. A dash of tears fell upon the
watch as he gazed on it, and pressed it, and would have kissed it, had he
been alone. It was his again; and that, after all, was an unalloyed
satisfaction. He could lie awake nights and study days to devise means to
reward Seth's generosity. And he would do it, he resolved. And Mr. Sinjin
should know that he had recovered the prize, and that he held it all the
more precious since he had found out the giver.

XX.

SUNDAY BEFORE THE BATTLE.

Frank was leaning over the rail of the schooner gazing down at the
beautiful flashing water, and thinking of home. It was Sunday there, too,
he remembered; and he could almost hear the sweet-toned bells solemnly
chiming, and see the atmosphere of Sabbath peace brooding over field and
village, and feel the serious gladness of the time. The folks were
getting ready for church. There was his father, shaved and clean, in his
black stock and somewhat threadbare, but still respectable, best coat.
And there was Helen, bright and blooming, with her bonnet on, and with
her Bible and question-book in her hand, setting out for the morning
Sunday-school. His mother was not going to meeting; she was to stay at
home with Hattie, and read to her, or, what was better, comfort her with
affectionate, gentle, confiding words. But Willie was going with Helen,
as he seemed anxious, by strut, and hurry, and loud, impatient talk, to
let every body know. And Frank wished from his heart that he could be
with them that day; and he wondered, did they miss him, and were they
thinking of him, far off here in Carolina waters, alone in the midst of
such crowds of men?

"Wouldn't I like to be in that boat, boys!" said Ellis. "Don't she come
dancing on the waves!"

"She's pulling towards us," said Atwater. "I believe they're coming
aboard."

"O, Atwater!" cried Frank, as the boat drew near. "There's a face there I
know! One you know, too!" And he clapped his hands with joy; for it was a
face he had seen in Boston, and he felt that it came with news from home.

The rare brightness kindled in Atwater's eyes as he gazed, and remembered.
The boat came alongside, and hailed the schooner. And a man in the bow,
as it rose upon a wave, seizing hold of the ladder of tarred rope,
stepped quickly upon it, and came on board, cordially received by Captain
Edney, who appeared to have been expecting him.

"It's the minister that married Atwater!" the rumor ran round among the
troops. "What's his name, Frank?"

"His name's Egglestone," said Frank, his heart swelling with anxiety to
speak with him.

The minister had come on a mission of Christian love to the soldiers of
the expedition; and having, the day before, sent word to Captain Edney of
his arrival, he had in return received an invitation to visit the
schooner and preach to the men this Sunday morning.

A previous announcement that religious services would probably be held on
board, had excited little interest; the troops surmising that the
chaplain of the regiment, who had never been with them enough to win
their hearts or awaken their attention, was to rejoin them, and preach
one of his formal discourses.

But far different was the feeling when it was known that the "man that
married Atwater" was to conduct the exercises. Then the soldiers
remembered that they were New Englanders; and that here also God's
Sabbath shed its silent influence, far though they were from the rude
hills and rocky shores of home.

'Tis curious how a little leaven of memory will sometimes work in the
heart. Here was half a regiment of men, who had come to fight the battles
of their country. As with one accord they had left the amenities of
peaceful life behind them, and assumed the rugged manners of war. Of late
they had seemed almost oblivious of the fact that God, and Christian
worship, and Christian rules of life were still in existence. But to-day
they were reminded. To-day the child was awakened--the child that had
known the wholesome New England nurture, that had sat on mother's knee,
and had its earliest thought tuned to the music of Sunday bells; the
child that lay hidden in the deep heart of every man of them, the same
lived again, and looked forth from the eyes, and smiled once more in the
softened visage of the man. And the man was carried back, far from these
strange scenes, far from the relentless iron front of war, across alien
lands, and over stormy seas,--carried back by the child yearning
within,--to the old door yard, the village trees, the family fireside,
the family pew, and the hushed congregation.

It was Mr. Egglestone's aim, in the beginning of the sermon he preached
that morning, to remind the soldiers of their childhood. "It is a
thought," he said, "which almost moves me to tears,--that all these hardy
frames around me were but the soft, warm, dimpled forms of so many
infants once. And nearly every one of you was, I suppose, watched over by
tender parents, who beheld, with mutual joy, the development of each
beautiful faculty. The first step taken by the babe's unassisted feet,
the first articulate word spoken by the little lisping lips,--what
delight they gave, and how long were they remembered! And what thoughts
of the child's future came day and night to those parents' breasts! and
of what earnest prayers was it the subject! And of all the parents of all
those children who are here as men to-day, not one foresaw a scene like
this; none dreamed that they were raising up patriots to fight for
freedom's second birth on this continent, in the most stupendous of civil
wars.

"But Providence leads us by strange ways, and by hidden paths we come
upon brinks of destiny which no prophet foresaw. Now the days of peace
are over. Many of you who were children are now the fathers of children.
But your place is not at home to watch over them as you were watched
over, but to strive by some means to work out a harder problem than any
ever ciphered on slates at school."

Then he explained to his audience the origin of the war; for he believed
it best that every soldier should understand well the cause he was
fighting for. He spoke of the compact of States, which could not be
rightfully broken. He spoke of the serpent that had been nursed in the
bosom of those States. He related how slavery, from being at first a
merely tolerated evil, which all good men hoped soon to see abolished,
had grown arrogant, aggressive, monstrous; until, angered by resistance
to its claims, it had deluged the land with blood. Such was the nature of
an institution based upon selfishness and wrong. And such was the bitter
result of building a LIE into the foundations of our national structure.
Proclaiming to the world, as the first principle of our republican form
of government, that "all men are created free and equal," we had at the
same time held a race in bondage.

"Neither nation nor individual," said he, "can in any noble sense
succeed, with such rotten inconsistency woven into its life. It was this
shoddy in the garment of our Goddess of Liberty, which has occasioned the
rent which those needles there"--pointing to some bayonets--"must mend.
And it is this shoddy of contradiction and infidelity which makes many a
man's prosperity, seemingly substantial at first, promising warmth and
wear, fall suddenly to pieces, and leave his soul naked to the winds of
heaven."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16