The Drummer Boy
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John Trowbridge >> The Drummer Boy
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The veteran Sinjin beat the drummer's call. Frank seized his drum and
hurried to join his friend,--beating with him the last reveille which was
to rouse up the regiment in the Old Bay State.
After roll-call, breakfast; then the troops were drawn up under arms,
preparatory to their departure. A long train of a dozen cars was at the
depot, in readiness to receive the regiment, which now marched out of the
old camping-ground to the gay music of a band from a neighboring city.
After waiting an hour on the train, they heard the welcome whistle of the
engine, and the still more welcome clang of the starting cars, and off
they went amid loud cheers and silent tears.
Frank had no relatives or near friends in the crowd left behind, as many
of his comrades had, but his heart beat fast with the thought that there
were loved ones whom he should meet soon.
But the regiment reached Boston, and marched through the streets, and
paraded on the Common; and all the while his longing eyes looked in vain
for his friends, who never appeared. It seemed to him that nearly every
other fellow in his company saw friends either on the march or at the
halt, while he alone was left unnoticed and uncomforted. And so his
anticipated hour of enjoyment was changed to one of bitterness.
Why was it? His last letter must have had time to reach his family.
Besides, they might have seen by the newspapers that the regiment was
coming. Why then did they fail to meet him? His heart swelled with grief
as he thought of it,--he was there, so near home, for perhaps the last
time, and nobody that he loved was with him during those precious,
wasting moments.
But, suddenly, as he was casting his eyes for the twentieth time along
the lines of spectators, searching for some familiar face, he heard a
voice--not father's or mother's, or sister's, but one scarcely less dear
than the dearest.
"My bwother Fwank! me want my bwother Fwank!"
And turning, he saw little Willie running towards him, almost between the
legs of the policemen stationed to keep back the crowd.
VII.
THROUGH BOSTON.
If ever "bwother Fwank" felt a thrill of joy, it was then. Willie ran
straight to his arms, in spite of the long-legged officer striding to
catch him, and pulling down his neck, hugged him, and kissed him, and
hugged and kissed him again, with such ardor that the delighted
bystanders cheered, and the pursuing policeman stepped back with a laugh
of melting human kindness.
"He's too much for me, that little midget is," he said, returning to his
place. "Does he belong to you, ma'am?" addressing a lady whose humid eyes
betrayed something more than a stranger's interest in the scene.
"They are my children," said the lady. "Will you be so good, sir, as to
tell the drummer boy to step this way?"
But already Frank was coming. How thankful he then felt that he was not a
private, confined to the ranks! In a minute his mother's arm was about
him, and her kiss was on his cheek, and Helen was squeezing one hand, and
his father the other, while Willie was playing with his drumsticks.
"I am all the more glad," he said, his face shining with gratitude and
pleasure, "because I was just giving you up--thinking you wouldn't come
at all."
"Only think," said Helen, "because you wrote on your letter, _In haste_,
the postmaster gave it to Maggie Simpson yesterday to deliver, for she
was going right by our house; but Dan Alford came along and asked her to
ride, and she forgot all about the letter, and would never have thought
of it again, I suppose, if I hadn't seen the postmaster and set off on
the track of it this morning. She had gone over to her aunt's, and I had
to follow her there; and then she had to go home again, to get the letter
out of her other dress pocket; but her sister Jane had by this time got
on the dress, in place of her own, which was being washed, and worn it to
school; and so we had to go on a wild-goose chase after Jane."
"Well, I hope you had trouble enough for one letter!" said Frank.
"But you haven't heard all yet," said Helen, laughing, "for when we found
Jane, she had not the letter, she had taken it out of the pocket, when
she put the dress on, and left it on the bureau at home. So off again we
started, Maggie and I, but before we got to her house, the letter had
gone again--her mother had found it in the mean time, and sent it to us
by the butcher boy. Well, I ran home, but no butcher boy had made his
appearance; and, do you think, when I got to the meat shop, I found him
deliberately sawing off a bone for his dog, with your letter in his
greasy pocket."
"He had forgotten it too!" said Frank.
"Not he! but he didn't think it of very much importance, and he intended
to bring it to us some time during the day--after he had fed his dog! By
this time father had got news that the regiment was in town; and such a
rush as we made for the horse-cars you never did see!"
"But Hattie! where is she?" Frank asked, anxiously.
Helen's vivacious face saddened a little.
"O, we came away in such a hurry we couldn't bring her, even if she had
been well enough."
"In she worse?"
"She gets no better," said Mrs. Manly, "and she herself thought she ought
not to try to come. Maggie Simpson offered to stay with her."
"I am so sorry! I wanted to see _her_. Did she send any message to me?"
"Yes," said his mother. "She said, 'Give my love to dear brother, and
tell him to think of me sometimes.'"
"Think of her sometimes!" said Frank. "Tell her I shall always think of
her and love her."
By this time Captain Edney, seeing Frank with his friends, came towards
them. Frank hastened to hide his emotion; and, saluting the officer
respectfully, said to him, with a glow of pleasure:--
"Captain Edney, this is my mother."
Captain Edney lifted his cap, with a bright smile.
"Well," he said, "this is a meeting I rather think neither of us ever
looked forward to, when we used to spend those long summer days in the
old schoolhouse, which I hope you remember."
"I remember it well--and one bright-faced boy in particular," said Mrs.
Manly, pressing his hand cordially.
"A rather mischievous boy, I am afraid I was; a little rebel myself, in
those days," said the captain.
"Yet a boy that I always hoped much good of," said Mrs. Manly. "I cannot
tell you how gratified I am to feel that my son is entrusted in your
hands."
"You may be sure I will do what I can for him," said the captain, "if
only to repay your early care of me."
He then conversed a few moments with Mr. Manly, who was always well
satisfied to stand a little in the background, and let his wife have her
say first.
"And this, I suppose, is Frank's sister," turning to Helen. "I should
have known her, I think, for she looks so much as you used to, Mrs.
Manly, that I can almost fancy myself stepping up to her with my slate,
and saying, 'Please, ma'am, show me about this sum?'"
Frank, in the mean time, was occupied in exhibiting to Willie his drum,
and in preventing him, partly by moral suasion, but chiefly by main
force, from gratifying his ardent desire to pound upon it.
"And here is our little brother," said the captain, lifting Willie,
notwithstanding his struggles and kicks, and kissing his shy, pouting
cheeks. "He'll make a nice drummer boy too, one of these days."
This royal flattery won the child over to his new friend immediately.
"Me go to war with my bwother Fwank! dwum, and scare webels!" panting
earnestly over his important little story, which the captain was obliged
to cut short.
"Well, Frank, I suppose you would like to spend the rest of the time with
your friends. Be at the Old Colony depot at five o'clock.
Meanwhile,"--touching his cap,--"a pleasant time to all of you."
So saying, be left them, and Frank departed with his friends, carrying
his drum with him, to the great delight of little Willie, whose heart
would have been broken if all hope of being allowed to drum upon it had
been cut off by leaving it behind.
"Mrs. Gillett has invited us to bring you to her house," said Mrs. Manly.
"I want to have a long talk with you there; and I want Mrs. Gillett's
brother, the minister, to see you."
Frank was not passionately fond of ministers; and immediately an
unpleasant image rose in his mind, of a solemn, black-coated individual,
who took a mournful satisfaction in damping the spirits of young people
by his long and serious conversations.
"You needn't strut so, Frank, if you _have_ got soldier clothes on,"
laughed Helen. "I'll tell folks you are smart, if you are so particular
to have them know it."
"Do, if you please," said Frank. "And I'll tell 'em you're handsome, if
you'll put your veil down so they won't know but that I am telling the
truth."
"There, Helen," said Mrs. Manly, "you've got your joke back with
interest. Now I'd hold my tongue, if I was you."
"Frank and I wouldn't know each other if we didn't have a little fun
together," said Helen. "Besides, we'll all feel serious enough by and by,
I guess." For she loved her brother devotedly, much as she delighted to
tease him; and she would have been glad to drown in merry jests the
thought of the final parting, which was now so near at hand.
They were cordially received at Mrs. Gillett's house; and there Mrs.
Manly enjoyed the wished-for opportunity of talking with her son, and
Willie had a chance to beat the drum in the attic, and Mrs. Gillett
secretly emptied Frank's haversack of its rations of pork and hard tack,
and filled it again with excellent bread and butter, slices of cold lamb,
and sponge cake. Moreover, a delightful repast was prepared for the
visitors, at which Frank laughed at his own awkwardness, declaring that
he had eaten from a tin plate so long, with his drumhead for a table,
that he had almost forgotten the use of china and napkins.
"If Hattie was only here now!" he said, again and again. For it needed
only his invalid sister's presence, during these few hours, to make him
perfectly happy.
"Eat generously," said the minister, "for it may be long before you sit
at a table again."
"Perhaps I never shall," thought Frank, but he did not say so lest he
might hurt his mother's feelings.
The minister was not at all such a person as he had expected to see, but
only a very pleasant gentleman, not at all stiffened with the idea that
he had the dignity of the profession to sustain. He was natural,
friendly, and quite free from that solemn affectation which now and then
becomes second nature in ministers some of us know, but which never fails
to repel the sympathies of the young.
Mr. Egglestone was expecting soon to go out on a mission to the troops,
and it was for this reason Mrs. Manly wished them to become acquainted.
"I wish you were going with our regiment," said Frank. "We have got a
chaplain, I believe, but I have never seen him yet, or seen any body who
has seen him."
"Well, I hope at least I shall meet you, if we both reach the seat of
war," said the minister, drawing him aside. "But whether I do or not, I
am sure that, with such a good mother as you have, and such dear sisters
as you leave behind, you will never need a chaplain to remind you that
you have something to preserve more precious than this mortal life of
ours,--the purity and rectitude of your heart."
This was spoken so sincerely and affectionately that Frank felt those few
words sink deeper into his soul than the most labored sermon could have
done. Mr. Egglestone said no more, but putting his arm confidingly over
the boy's shoulder, led him back to his mother.
And now the hour of parting had come. Frank's friends, including the
minister, went with him to the cars. Arrived at the depot, they found it
thronged with soldiers, and surrounded by crowds of citizens.
"O, mother!" said Frank, "you _must_ see our drum-major, old Mr.
Sinjin--my teacher, you know. There he is; I'll run and fetch him!"
He returned immediately, dragging after him the grizzled veteran, who
seemed reluctant, and looked unusually stern.
"It's my mother and father, you know," said Frank. "They want to shake
hands with you."
"What do they care for me?" said the old man, frowning.
Frank persisted, and introduced his father. The veteran returned Mr.
Manly's salute with rigid military courtesy, without relaxing a muscle of
his austere countenance.
"And this is my mother," said Frank.
With still more formal and lofty politeness, the old man bent his martial
figure, and quite raised his cap from his old gray head.
"Madam, your very humble servant!"
"Mr. St. John!" exclaimed Mrs. Manly, in astonishment. "Is it possible
that this is my old friend St. John?"
"Madam," said the veteran, with difficulty keeping up his cold, formal
exterior, "I hardly expected you would do me the honor to remember one so
unworthy;" bending lower than before, and raising his hat again, while
his lips twitched nervously under his thick mustache.
"Why, where did you ever see him, mother?" cried Frank, with eager
interest.
"Mr. St. John was an old friend of your grandfather's, Frank. Surely,
sir, you have not forgotten the little girl you used to take on your
knee and feed with candy?"--for the old man was still looking severe
and distant.
"I have not forgotten many pleasant things--and some not so pleasant,
which I would have forgotten by every body." And the old drummer gave
his mustache a vindictive pull.
"Be sure," said Mrs. Manly, "I remember nothing of you that was not kind
and honorable. I think you must have known who my son was, you have been
so good to him. But why did you not inform him, or me through him, who
_you_ were? I would have been so glad to know about you."
"I hardly imagined that."--The old cynical smile curled the heavy
mustache.--"And if I could be of any service to your son, it was needless
for you to know of it. I was Mr. St. John when you knew me; but I am
nobody but Old Sinjin now. Madam, I wish you a very good-day, and much
happiness. Your servant, sir!"
And shaking hands stiffly, first with Mrs. Manly, then with her husband,
the strange old man stalked away.
"Who is he? what is it about him?" asked Frank, stung with curiosity.
"Never did _I_ think _you_ knew _Old Sinjin_."
"Your father knows about him, and I will tell _you_ some time," said
Mrs. Manly, her eyes following the retreating figure with looks of deep
compassion. "In the mean time, be very kind to him, very gentle and
respectful, my son."
"I will," said Frank, "but it is all so strange! I can't understand it."
"Well, never mind now. Here is Captain Edney talking with Helen and Mr.
Egglestone, and Willie is playing with his scabbard. Pretty well
acquainted this young gentleman is getting!" said Mrs. Manly, hastening
to take the child away from the sword.
"Pitty thord! pitty man!" lisped Willie, who had fallen violently in love
with the captain and his accoutrements. "Me and Helen, we like pitty man!
We go with pitty man!"
Helen blushed; while the captain, laughing, took a piece of money from
his pocket and gave it to Willie for the compliment.
Frank, who had been absent a moment, now joined the group, evidently much
pleased at something.
"The funniest thing has happened! A fellow in our company,--and one of
the best fellows he is too! but I can't help laughing!--he met his girl
to-day, and they suddenly took it into their heads to get married; so
they sent two of their friends to get their licenses for them, one, one
way, and the other another way, for they live in different places. And
the fellow's license has come, and the girl's hasn't, and they wouldn't
have time to go to a minister's now if it had. It is too bad! but isn't
it funny? The fellow is one of my very best friends. I wrote to you about
him; Abe Atwater. There he is, with his girl!"
And Frank pointed out the tall young soldier, standing stately and
taciturn, but with a strong emotion in that usually mild, grave face of
his, perceptible enough to those who knew him. His girl was at his side,
crying.
"How I pity her!" said Helen. "But he takes it coolly enough, I should
think."
"He takes every thing that way," said Frank; "but you can't tell much by
his face how he feels, though I can see he is biting hard to keep his
heart down now, straight as he stands."
"I'll speak to her," said Helen; and while Frank accosted Atwater, she
made acquaintance with the girl.
"Yes," said the soldier, "it would be better to know I was leaving a wife
behind, to think of me and look for my coming back. But I never knew she
cared so much for me; and now it's too late."
"To think," said the girl to Helen, "he has loved me all along, but never
told me, because he thought I wouldn't have him! And now he is going, and
may be I shall never see him again! And we want to be married, and my
license hasn't come!" And she poured out her sorrows into the bosom of
the sympathizing Helen, with whom suffering and sympathy made her at once
acquainted.
Just then the signal sounded for the train to be in readiness to start.
And there were hurried partings, and tears in many a soldier's eye. And
Frank's mother breathed into his ear her good-by counsel and blessing.
And Atwater was bidding his girl farewell, when a man came bounding along
the platform with a paper in his hand--the marriage license.
"Too late now!" said Atwater, with a glistening smile. "We are off!"
"But here is a minister!" cried Helen,--"Mr. Eggleston!--O, Captain
Edney! have the train wait until this couple can be married. It won't
take a minute!"
The case of the lovers was by this time well understood, not only by
Captain Edney and Mr. Egglestone, but also by the conductor of the train
and scores of soldiers and citizens. An interested throng crowded to
witness the ceremony. The licenses were in the hands of the minister, and
with his musket at _order arms_ by his right side, and his girl at his
left, Atwater stood up to be married, as erect and attentive as if he had
been going through the company drill. And in a few words Mr. Egglestone
married them, Frank holding Atwater's musket while he joined hands with
his bride.
In the midst of the laughter and applause which followed, the soldier,
with unchanging features, fumbled in his pocket for the marriage fee. He
gave it to Mr. Egglestone, who politely handed it to the bride. But she
returned it to her husband.
"You will need it more than I shall, Abram!"--forcing it, in spite of
him, back into his pocket. "Good-by!" she sobbed, kissing him. "Good-by,
my husband!"
This pleasing incident had served to lighten the pain of Frank's parting
with his friends. When sorrowful farewells are to be said, no matter how
quickly they are over. And they were over now; and Frank was on the
departing train, waving his cap for the last time to the friends he could
not see for the tears that dimmed his eyes.
And the cars rolled slowly away, amid cheers which drowned the sound of
weeping. And the bride who had had her husband for a moment only, and
lost him--perhaps forever,--and the mother who had given her son to her
country,--perhaps never to receive him back,--and other wives, and
mothers, and fathers, and sisters, were left behind, with all the untold
pangs of grief and anxious love in their hearts, gazing after the long
swift train that bore their loved ones away to the war.
VIII.
ANNAPOLIS.
And the train sped on; and the daylight faded fast; and darkness shut
down upon the world. And still the train sped on.
When it was too dark to see any thing out of the car windows, and Frank
was tired of the loud talking around him, he thought he would amuse
himself by nibbling a little "hard tack." So he opened his haversack, and
discovered the cake, and bread and butter, and cold lamb, with which some
one who loved him had stored it. He was so moved by this evidence of
thoughtful kindness that it was some time before be could make up his
mind to break in upon the little stock of provisions, which there was
really more satisfaction in contemplating than in eating any ordinary
supper. But the sight of some of his comrades resorting for solace to
their rations decided him, and he shared with them the contents of his
haversack.
The train reached Fall River at nine o'clock, and the passengers were
transferred to the steamer "Metropolis." The boat was soon swarming with
soldiers, stacking their arms, and hurrying this way and that in the
lamp-light. Then the clanking of the engine, the trembling of the
steamer, and the sound of rushing water, announced that they were once
more in motion.
Frank had never been on salt water before, and he was sorry this was in
the night; but he was destined before long to have experience enough of
the sea, both by night and by day.
When he went upon deck the next morning, the steamer was cutting her way
gayly through the waters of New York harbor,--a wonderful scene to the
untravelled drummer boy, who had never before witnessed such an animated
picture of dancing waters, ships under full sail, and steamboats trailing
long dragon-tails of smoke in the morning air.
Then there was the city, with its forests of masts, its spires rising
dimly in the soft, smoky atmosphere that shrouded it, and the far, faint
sound of its bells musically ringing.
Then came the excitement of landing; the troops forming, and, after a
patriotic reception by the "Sons of Massachusetts," marching through the
city to the barracks; then dinner; and a whole afternoon of sight-seeing
afterwards.
The next day the regiment was off again, crossing the ferry, and taking
the cars for Philadelphia. From Philadelphia it kept on into the night
again, until it reached a steamer, in waiting to receive it, on
Chesapeake Bay.
The next morning was rainy; and the rain continued all day, pouring
dismally; and it was raining still when, at midnight, the boat arrived at
Annapolis. In the darkness and storm the troops landed, and took up their
temporary quarters in the Naval Academy. In one of the recitation halls,
Frank and his comrades spread their blankets on the floor, put their
knapsacks under their heads, and slept as soundly after their wearisome
journey as they ever did in their beds at home. Indeed, they seemed to
fall asleep as promptly as if by word of command, and to snore by
platoons.
The next morning the rain was over. At seven o'clock, breakfast; after
which the regiment was reviewed on the Academy parade. Then Frank and a
squad of jovial companions set out to see the town,--taking care to have
with them an intelligent young corporal, named Gray, who had been there
before, and knew the sights.
"Boys," said young Gray, as they sallied forth, "we are now in Queen
Anne's city,--for that, I suppose you know, is what the word Annapolis
means. It was the busiest city in Maryland once; but, by degrees, all its
trade and fashion went over to Baltimore, and left the old town to go to
sleep,--though it has woke up and rubbed its eyes a little since the
rebellion broke out."
"When was you here, Gray?" asked Jack Winch.
Gray smiled at his ignorance, while Frank said,--
"What! didn't you know, Jack, he was here with the Eighth Massachusetts,
last April, when they saved Washington and the Union?"
"The Union ain't saved yet!" said Jack.
"But we saved Washington; that's every where admitted," said Gray,
proudly. "On the 19th of April the mob attacked the Sixth Massachusetts
in Baltimore, took possession of the city, and destroyed the
communication with Washington. You remember that, for it was the first
blood shed in this war; and April 19, 1861, takes its place with April
19, 1775, when the first blood was shed at Lexington, in the Revolution."
"Of course I know all that!" said Jack, who never liked to be thought
ignorant of any thing.
"Well, there was the government at Washington in danger, the Eighth
Massachusetts on its way to save it, and Baltimore in the hands of the
rebels. I tell you, every man of us was furious to cut our way through,
and avenge the murders of the 19th. But General Butler hit upon a wiser
plan, and instead of keeping on to Baltimore, we switched off, seized a
ferry-boat on the Chesapeake, just as she was about to be taken by the
secessionists, ran down here to Annapolis, saved the city, saved the old
frigate 'Constitution,' and, with the New York Seventh, went to work to
open a new route to Washington.
"Our boys repaired the railroad track, which the traitors had torn up,
and put in shape again the engine they had disabled. We had men that
could do anything; and that very engine was one they had made,--for the
South never did its own engine-building, but sent to Massachusetts to
have it done. Charley Homans knew every joint and pin in that old
machine, and soon had her running over the road again."
"How far is it to Washington?" asked Frank.
"About forty miles; but then we thought it a hundred, we were so
impatient to get there! What a march we had! all day and all night, the
engine helping us a little, and we helping the engine by hunting up and
replacing now and then a stray rail which the traitors had torn from the
track. A good many got used up, and Charley Homans took 'em aboard the
train. It was on that march I fell in with one of the pleasantest fellows
I ever saw; always full of wit and good-humor, with a cheery word for
every body. He belonged to the New York Seventh. He told me his name was
Winthrop. But I did not know till afterwards that he was Theodore
Winthrop, the author; afterwards Major Winthrop, who fell last June--only
two months after--at Big Bethel."
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