The Drummer Boy

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As fast as the boats were filled, they pushed from the stairs to make
room for others, and lay upon their oars watching for the signals. These
were telegraphed from the flag-ship of each brigade. At the instant, the
boats swarmed the water in miniature fleets, with oars flashing, flags
flying, and arms gleaming in the sun. Rowing to the flag-ship, or steamer
detailed for the purpose, they attached themselves under her stern in two
lines as they arrived, each boat taking the painter of the one behind it
Then, at a signal whistle, the steamers started for the shore, each
towing its double string of boats.

In the mean time the fight between the fleet and the battery was
continued,--rather languidly, however, on the part of the battery; and a
couple of light draught gunboats, running in close to the shore,
continued shelling the woods about Ashby's Harbor, to cover the landing
of the troops.

When the steamers towing in the boats had arrived as near as the depth of
water would permit, the signal whistles were sounded, the painters were
cast off, the lines of boats broke simultaneously, the rowers took to
their oars and pulled with all speed for the shore. As soon as the prows
struck, the men jumped out, dashing through mud and water to the land.
Many did not wait for the boats to get in, but, in their eagerness to
follow their comrades, leaped overboard where the water was up to their
waists. Some got stuck in the mire, and were helped out by those who came
after them. Six thousand men were thus thrown upon the island at the
first disembarkation; while the remainder of the troops on the transports
watched the brilliant scene, and cheered lustily when they saw the flag
of the Union waving on the shore.

Frank's regiment was not yet disembarked. The boys were still in the
rigging, following with eager eyes the movements of the boats. An
exciting incident added interest to the scene. Before the boats landed, a
body of rebels in ambush, waiting to receive them, were betrayed by the
gleam of their muskets. A shell dropped discreetly into their
hiding-place, by one of the gunboats, sent them scampering, and the
troops landed without opposition.

"It's our turn now, boys!" cried Tucket. And they slipped from the
rigging, impatient to leap into the boats, and be put ashore. "I tell ye,
won't it feel good to straighten out a fellow's legs once, on dry land!"

The men were generally of Seth's opinion; their long confinement on
shipboard having become exceedingly monotonous and tiresome.

Frank was with his company. They loaded the boats to the gunwales. The
water was still smooth, save where it was broken into waves and whirling
eddies by the sweep of oars. The men shouted joyously, and waved their
caps. Frank stood in the bow, and swung his cap with the rest. But
looking back across the shining wakes at the forsaken schooner, a feeling
of sadness came over him--a feeling of regretful memory, as of one
leaving home.

There she lay, motionless; hull and spars painted dark against the sunset
sky; her rigging, to the finest cordage, traced in exquisitely distinct
lines upon that shining background--a picture of exceeding loveliness and
peace.

As the boats swept down towards the shore, and the schooner seemed to
recede into the flaming west, the network of cordage became black cobwebs
on the sky, then melted away and vanished altogether. At the same time,
the water, which the boats had troubled, grew smooth again, reflecting
the sunset glow, with the sombre hull and ebon spars painted upon it,
until Frank saw the spectre of a double ship suspended in a double
heaven.

And as the last view of the schooner was all beautiful, so his last
thoughts of her were all tender. He remembered no more against her the
hardships of the voyage, the seasickness, the two gills of water a day.
But that she had borne them faithfully through storms, that whether they
slept or waked she had not failed them,--this he remembered. And his
sister's death, and all his sufferings and errors, and the peace of soul
which had come to him at last, were associated now and henceforth, with
his memory of the ship swimming there in the illumined horizon. Only for
a brief interval, like a wind that comes we know not whence, and goes
again we know not whither, touching us with invisible perfumed wings,
these thoughts swept over the boy, and passed as quickly. And he turned
from gazing after the schooner to face the scenes before him. Nearer and
nearer drew the boats to the island. Its woods and shores lay cool and
tranquil in the evening light, and the troops there, half-hidden by the
tall grass and the trees, were tinted with a gleam of romance.

It was now fast growing dark. Clouds were gathering in the sky. From
their edges the last hues of the sunset faded, the moon was hid, and a
portentous gloom fell upon the waves. The cannon were still thundering at
intervals. The shells flew screaming through the air, and fell bursting
on the fort or in the woods. It was now so dark that the flash of the
guns had become lurid and sharp, and the meteoric course of the
projectiles could be traced by their fiery wake.

Amid this scene the boats entered the cove, and as the prows struck, or
before, the excited soldiers leaped out, regardless of mud and water.

"Shouldn't wonder if somebody got a wet foot," said Tucket, in the midst
of the plunging and plashing--himself in up to his hips. "'A horse! a
horse! my kingdom for a horse!' Here, Manly, take a grip of my coat tail.
I'm longer legged than you."

"I'm all right," said Frank. "I've no gun to carry, and I can get along."
And he floundered on as fast as the deep, clinging ooze would permit.

"This is what they call the sacred soil!" observed Harris. "Just the
thing, I should say, to breed rattle-snakes and rebels."

"I swan to man!" chimed in Tucket's voice from a distance,--for his long
legs had given him an advantage in the general race,--"there ain't no
shore after ye get to't. It's nothin' but salt ma'sh, all trod to pudd'n'
by the fellers that have been in ahead of us. I thought we was to be
_landed_; 'stead of that, we're swamped!"

The men pushed on, through marsh and swamp, sometimes in mire and water
knee-deep, and now in tall, rank grass up to their eyes; the darkness
adding to their dismal prospect.

"By Grimes!" mutters Jack Winch, "I don't think an island of this kind is
worth taking. It's jest fit for secesh and niggers, and nobody else."

"We must have the island, because it's a key to the coast," says Frank.

"I wouldn't talk war, if I couldn't carry a gun," retorts Jack, made
cross by the cold and wet.

"Perhaps before we get through you'll be glad to lend me yours," is
Frank's pleasant response, as he hastens forward through grass which
waves about his ears or lies trodden and tangled under foot.

"The gunboats have stopped firing," observes Atwater.

In fact, both gunboats and battery were now silent, the former having
drawn off for the night.

XXIV.

THE BIVOUAC.

"There's a good time coming, and near, boys! there's a good time coming,
and near!" sings out Tucket, holding his head high as he strides along,
for he has caught a sight of fires beyond, and the company are now
emerging upon a tract of sandy barrens, thinly covered with pines.

A road runs through the island. The advance of the column has already
taken possession of it. Skirmishers have been thrown forward into the
woods, and pickets are posted on the flanks.

The troops prepare to bivouac for the night. Fires are kindled, and soon
the generous flames blaze up, illumining picturesque groups of men, and
casting a wild glare far into the depths of the great, black, silent
woods. The trees seem to stand out like startled giants, gazing at the
unusual scene; and all above and around the frightened shadows lurk, in
ghostly boughs, behind dark trunks, among the deep grasses, and in
hollows of the black morass. And the darkness of the night overhangs the
army like a vast tent, sombrely flickering.

A dry fence of cypress and pine rails is, without hesitation,
appropriated to feed the fires of the bivouac; and the chilled, soaked
soldiers gather around them to get warm and dry.

"My brave fellows," says Captain Edney, passing among them, "do the best
you can for yourselves for the night. Try to keep warm, and get what rest
and sleep you can. You will need all your strength to-morrow."

"To-morrow," observes Winch, with a swaggering, braggart air, "we're
going to give the rebels the almightiest thrashing they've had yet! To
wade in their blood as deep as I've waded to-night in this mud and water,
that's what'll just suit me!"

"The less blood the better, boys," says Captain Edney. "But we must be
prepared to shed our own to the last drop, if need be, for we're bound to
sweep this island of every traitor to his country, before we leave it.
Make up your minds to that, boys!"

There is that in his tone which promises something besides child's play
on the morrow. He is calm, serious, spirited, resolute; and the hearts of
his men are fired by his words.

The troops are full of jest and merriment as they kick off their shoes,
and empty the water out of them, squeeze their dripping trousers, and,
lying on the ground, toast their steaming legs by the fires.

"I say, le's have a gallus old time to-night, to pay for our ducking,"
suggests Jack Winch. "I don't want to sleep."

"You ought to be off in the swamps, on picket duty, then," says Harris.
"Let them sleep that have a chance. For my part, I'm going to take the
captain's advice. There's no knowing what sounds will wake us up, or how
early."

"The sounds of muskets, I hope; and the earlier the better," says the
valiant Jack. "Dang that shoe! I believe I've roasted it! Bah! look at
Abe there, diving into his Testament, sure's you live."

And Winch, perceiving that Atwater paid no attention to the sneer, flung
his shoe at him. The soldier was reading by the light of the flames, when
the missile came, striking the book from his hands.

"Shame, shame!" cried Frank, indignantly. "Jack Winch, that is too mean."

"O, you go to"----France,--only Jack used a worse word,--"with that red
rag on your arm! I don't have any thing to say to non-combatants."

Frank might not have been able to stifle his indignation but for the
grave example of Atwater, who gave no more heed to Jack's shoe than he
had given to his base taunt, but, silently gathering up his book again,
brushed the sand from it, found his place, and resumed his reading, as
composedly as if nothing had happened. Neither did Frank say any thing.
But Ellis, near whom the shoe had fallen, tossed it back with a threat to
consign it to the fire if it came that way again.

"Wonder if my pocket-book got wet any," said Harris, taking out his money
and examining it.

"O, you feel mighty proud of your winnings!" said Jack, who seemed bent
on picking a quarrel with some one.

"Yes, I do," said Harris. "I'm just so proud of it as this,"--reaching
something towards the drummer boy. "Here, Frank, is all the money, I
believe, that I've won off you. We're going into a fight to-morrow, and
nobody knows how we shall come out of it. I want to stand right with
every body, if I can."

Frank was too much astonished to accept the money. He seemed to think
there was some joke in it.

"I'm in earnest," insisted Harris. "The truth is, I've been ashamed of
winning your money, ever since. You didn't mean it, but you've acted in a
way to _make_ me ashamed."

"I have! How?" Frank was more amazed than ever.

"Because you gave over play, though you had a chance to try again, and
acted as if you had got above such foolish things. It's time we all got
above them. You're a good-hearted fellow, Frank,--you've shown that,--and
nobody shall say I've robbed you."

Frank took the money with a heart too full for thanks. He thought Harris
a fellow of unexampled generosity, never considering how much his own
example had had to do with bringing about this most gratifying result.

Atwater stopped reading, and looked over his book at Harris with a smile
of pleasure and approval clear as daybreak. But the silent man did not
speak.

"Well! the idea of a battle makes some folks awful pious all at once!"
was Winch's comment.

Nobody heeded him. As for Frank, with triumph in his heart and money in
his fist, he ran barefoot to where Seth Tucket lay sprawled before the
blazing rails, feeling of his stockings, to see if they were dry enough
to put on.

"Hello, young chap! how goes it? 'Stranger what dost thou require? Rest,
and a guide, and food and fire.' Get down here and have a toasting. It
comes cheap."

Frank sat down, and began counting the money.

"What's all that?" demanded Seth.

"All I owe you, and a little to spare!" cried Frank, elated.

"Sho, ye don't say! See here, Frank! I never meant you should trouble
yourself about that. I'm all right, money or no money. I'm an independent
sort of nabob--don't need the vile stuff. 'Kings may be great, but Seth
is glorious, o'er all the ills of life victorious!' So put it away, and
keep it, Frank."

But when the drummer boy told him how he had come by the money, and that
it was his wish to settle his accounts before the battle, Tucket screwed
up his face with a resigned expression, and received back the loan.

A great weight was now lifted from Frank's mind. The vexing problem, how
he was to retain the watch and yet satisfy Seth's rightful claims, was
thus happily solved. He could have danced for joy, barefooted, in the
grassy sand. And he yearned more than ever now to see Mr. Sinjin, and
make up with him.

A few rods off, in the rear of the soldiers' bivouacs, the old drummer
could be seen, sitting with a group of officers around a fire of their
own. His stockings were hung upon the end of a rail, and he was busy
roasting a piece of pork on the end of a stick, held out at arm's length
to the fire. Frank saw that it was no time to speak with him then; so he
returned to his place, and sat down to put on his shoes and join those
who had not yet been to supper, over their rations.

XXV.

ATWATER.

As the evening wore on, Atwater was observed sitting apart from the rest,
unusually silent and grave even for him; gazing at the fire, with the
book he had been reading closed and folded thoughtfully between his
hands.

Now Frank, following his example, had lately formed the resolution to
read a little in the Testament every night,--"if only for his mother's
sake." But to-night his Testament was in his knapsack, and his knapsack
was on board the schooner.

"I'll borrow Atwater's," he thought; and with this purpose he approached
the tall private.

"Sit down here, Frank," said Atwater, with a serious smile. "I want to
talk with you."

It was so extraordinary for the phlegmatic Abe to express a wish to talk
with any body, that Frank almost felt awed by the summons. Something
within him said that a communication of no trivial import was coming. So
he sat down. And the tongue of the taciturn was that night, for once in
his life, strangely loosened.

"I can't say it to the rest, Frank; I don't know why. But I feel as if I
could say it to you."

"Do," said Frank, thrilling with sympathy to the soldier's mysterious
emotion. "What is it, Abe?"

For a minute Atwater sat gazing, gazing--not at the fire. Then he lifted
from the book, which he held so tenderly, his right hand, and laid it
upon Frank's. And he turned to the boy with a smile.

"I've liked you from the first, Frank. Did you know it?"

"If you have, I don't know why," said Frank, deeply touched.

"Nor do I," said the private. "Some we like, and some we don't, without
the reason for it appearing altogether clear. I liked you even when you
didn't please me very well."

"You mean when----" began Frank, stammeringly.

"Yes, you know when. It used to hurt me to see and hear you--but that is
past."

"I hope so," said Frank, from his heart.

"Yes. And I like you better than ever now. And do you know, Frank, I
don't think I could say to you what I am going to, if you hadn't been in
trouble yourself, lately? That makes me feel I can come near you."

"O! are you in trouble, Abe?"

"Yes,"--with another mild, serious smile. "Not just such trouble as you
were in, though. It is nothing on my own account. It is on _hers_." And
the soldier's voice sunk, as it always did, when he alluded to his wife.

"You have heard from her?" asked Frank, with sympathizing interest.

"Nothing but good news; nothing but good news," said Atwater, pressing
the pocket where his letters were. "I wish you could know that girl's
heart. I am just beginning to know it. She has blessed me! She is a
simple creature--not so smart as some; but she has, what is better than
all that, a heart, Frank!"

Frank, not knowing what else to say, answered earnestly, that he was sure
of it.

"She has brought me to know this book," the soldier continued, his
features tremblingly alive with emotion. "I never looked into it much
before. I never thought much about it--whether it was true or not. But
whether it is true or not, there is something in it that reaches me
here,"--laying his hand on his heart,--"something that sinks into me. I
can't tell how. It gives me comfort."

Frank, still not knowing how to reply, murmured that he was glad to hear
it.

"Now, this is what I have been wanting to say to somebody," Abram went
on, in a calm but suppressed voice. "I am going into battle to-morrow.
Don't think I am afraid. I have no fear. But of one thing I am tolerably
certain. I shall not come out of that fight unhurt."

The smile which accompanied these words, quite as much as the words
themselves, alarmed Frank.

"Don't say that!" he entreated. "You are a little low-spirited, Abe;
that's it."

"O, no! I am not low-spirited in the least. My country demands
sacrifices. I, for one, am willing to die." This was said with singular
calmness and cheerfulness. But the soldier's voice failed him, as he
added, "It is only when I think of her----"

Frank, powerfully wrought upon, endeavored in vain to dissuade his friend
from indulging in such sad presentiments.

"Well, we will hope that they are false," said Atwater, but with a look
that betrayed how thoroughly he was convinced of their truth. "If I go
through safely, then we can laugh at them afterwards. But much may happen
in these coming twenty-four hours. Now, I am sitting here with you,
talking by these fires that light up the woods so. To-morrow night, this
which you call me,"--the soldier smilingly designated his body,--"may be
stretched upon this same earth, and you may talk in vain--it cannot
answer you."

"We don't know,--that's true," Frank agreed. "But I hope for the best."

"And that may be the best--for me. God knows. And for her, too,--though I
dread the stroke for her! This is what I want you to do for me, Frank. If
I fall,--_if_ I fall, you know,--you will write to her. Send back to her
my last words, with the book she gave me, and her letters. You will find
them all in this pocket, here. Will you?"

Frank could not refrain from tears, as he made the promise.

"That is all," said Atwater, cheerfully. "Now, my mind is easier. Now,
whatever comes, I am ready. Stay with me, if you like, and we will talk
of something else. Or shall we read a little together?"

"I'd like to read a little," said Frank.

And he opened the book to these words:--

"'Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the
soul.... Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall
not fall to the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your
head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; ye are of more value than
many sparrows.'"

"How came you to read there?" said Atwater with a smile.

"I don't know," said Frank. "But it seems meant for you--don't it?"

"Yes, and it somehow makes me happy. Go on."

And Frank read,--

"'Think not I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace,
but a sword.'"

"That is for both of us, for all of us, for all our people to-day," said
Atwater. "I believe it is the struggle of Satan against Christ that has
brought on this war. To attempt to build up a nation on human
slavery--that is Satan. And I believe, wicked as we are at the north too,
that the principle of freedom we are fighting for is the opposite of
Satan. And whoever brings that into the world, brings a war that will
never cease until the right triumphs, and the wrong ceases forever."

Frank was astonished. He had never suspected that in this stiff, reserved
soldier there dwelt the spirit which, when their tongues are loosed,
makes men eloquent.

Atwater had roused up, and spoken with earnestness. But his glow passed,
and he said quietly,--

"Go on."

"'A man's foes shall be they of his own household.'"

There Frank stopped again, this time of his own accord. The words struck
him with peculiar force.

"That is true too," said Abram; "of the nation, for a nation is a
household; and of many, many families."

Frank studied the words a moment, and, after a struggle with his
feelings, said in a hushed voice,--

"Did you know, Abe, I've a brother in the rebel army?"

"I did not know. I have heard you have one somewhere in the south."

"Yes, you have heard Jack twit me about my secesh brother. And I have
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.

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