Produced by David Edwards and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was made from images produced by the North Carolina History and Fiction Digital Library.) THE DRUMMER BOY by J. T. TROWBRIDGE NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS J. T. TROWBRIDGE SERIES UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME By J. T. TROWBRIDGE Coupon Bonds. Cudjo's Cave. Drummer Boy, The. Martin Merryvale, His X Mark. Lucy Arlyn. Father Bright Hopes. Neighbor Jackwood. Three Scouts, The. _Price, postpaid, 50¢. each, or any three books for $1.25_ HURST & COMPANY Publishers, New York CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. Frank at Home 5 II. Off to the War 12 III. Under Canvas 21 IV. The old Drummer and the new Drum 32 V. Fun in Camp 41 VI. Breaking Camp 51 VII. Through Boston 59 VIII. Annapolis 71 IX. Thanksgiving in Camp 81 X. Frank's Progress 89 XI. A Christmas Frolic 93 XII. The Secessionist's Turkeys 105 XIII. The Expedition Moves 118 XIV. The Voyage and the Storm 125 XV. Hatterns Inlet 134 XVI. How Frank lost his Watch 143 XVII. In which Frank sees strange Things 151 XVIII. Bitter Things 161 XIX. Seth gets "Riled" 170 XX. Sunday before the Battle 178 XXI. Up the Sound 187 XXII. The Attack of the Gunboats 194 XXIII. The Troops disembark.--The Island 201 XXIV. The Bivouac 206 XXV. Atwater 212 XXVI. Old Sinjin 219 XXVII. The Skirmish 225 XXVII. Jack Winch's Catastrophe 231 XXIX. How Frank got News of his Brother 238 XXX. The Boys meet an old Acquaintance 248 XXXI. "Victory or Death!" 255 XXXII. After the Battle 261 XXXIII. A Friend in need 268 XXXIV. The Hospital 273 XXXV. Conclusion 279 FRANK MANLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. I. FRANK AT HOME. One evening, in the month of October, 1861, the Manly family were gathered together in their little sitting-room, discussing a question of the most serious importance to all of them, and to Frank in particular. Mrs. Manly sat by the table, pretending to sew; but now and then the tears rushed into her eyes, and dropped upon her work, in spite of all she could do to keep them back. Frank watched her with a swelling breast, sorry to see his mother so grieved, and yet glad in one little corner of his heart; for, although she had declared that she could not think of granting his request, he knew well, by those tears of hers, that she was already thinking of granting it. "A pretty soldier you'll make, Frank!" said Helen, his elder sister, laughing at his ambition. "You never fired a gun in your life; and if you should see a rebel, you wouldn't know which end of the gun to point at him, you'd be so frightened." "Yes, I know it," retorted Frank, stoutly, determined not to be dissuaded from his purpose either by entreaties or ridicule; "and for that reason I am going to enlist as a drummer boy." "Well," exclaimed Helen, "your hands will tremble so, no doubt you can roll the drumsticks admirably." "Yes, to be sure," replied Frank, with a meaning smile; for he thought within himself, "If she really thinks I am such a coward, never mind; she'll learn better some day." "O, don't go to war, dear Frank," pleaded, in a low, sweet voice, his younger sister, little Hattie, the invalid, who lay upon the lounge, listening with painful interest to the conversation; "do, brother, stay at home with me." That affectionate appeal touched the boy's heart more deeply than his mother's tears, his elder sister's ridicule, and his father's opposition, all combined. He knelt down by little Hattie's side, put his arms about her neck, and kissed her. "But somebody must go and fight, little sister," he said, as soon as he could choke back his tears. "The rebels are trying to overthrow the government; and you wouldn't keep me at home--would you?--when it needs the services of every true patriot?" "Which of the newspapers did you get that speech out of?" asked Helen. "If Jeff Davis could hear you, I think he'd give up the Confederacy at once. He would say, 'It's no use, since Young America has spoken.'" "Yes; like the coon in the tree, when he saw Colonel Crockett taking aim at him," added Frank: "says the coon, 'Don't shoot! If it's you, colonel, I'll come down!' And I tell ye," cried the boy, enthusiastically, "there's something besides a joke in it. Jeff'll be glad to come down out of his tree, before we hang him on it." "But if you go to war, Frank," exclaimed the little invalid, from her pillow, "you will be shot." "I expect to be shot at a few times," he replied; "but every man that's shot at isn't shot, sissy; and every man that's shot isn't killed; and every man that's killed isn't dead--if what the Bible says is true." "O my son," said Mrs. Manly, regarding him with affectionate earnestness, "do you know what you say? have you considered it well?" "Yes," said Frank, "I've thought it all over. It hasn't been out of my thoughts, day or night, this ever so long; though I was determined not to open my lips about it to any one, till my mind was made up. I know five or six that have enlisted, and I'm just as well able to serve my country as any of them. I believe I can go through all the hardships any of them can. And though Helen laughs at me now for a coward, before I've been in a fight, she won't laugh at me afterwards." But here the lad's voice broke, and he dashed a tear from his eye. "No, no, Frank," said Helen, remorsefully, thinking suddenly of those whose brothers have gone forth bravely to battle, and never come home again. And she saw in imagination her own dear, brave, loving brother carried bleeding from the field, his bright, handsome face deathly pale, the eyes that now beamed so hopefully and tenderly, closing--perhaps forever. "Forgive my jokes, Frank; but you are too young to go to war. We have lost one brother by secession, and we can't afford to lose another." She alluded to George, the oldest of the children, who had been several years in the Carolinas; who had married a wife there, and become a slave-owner; and who, when the war broke out, forgot his native north, and the free institutions under which he had been bred, to side with the south and slavery. This had proved a source of deep grief to his parents; not because the pecuniary support they had derived from him, up to the fall of Fort Sumter, was now cut off, greatly to their distress,--for they were poor,--but because, when he saw the Union flag fall at Charleston, he had written home that it was a glorious sight; and they knew that the love of his wife, and the love of his property, had made him a traitor to his country. "If I've a brother enlisted on the wrong side," said Frank, "so much the more reason that I should enlist on the right side. And I am not so young but that I can be doing something for my country, and something for you here at home, at the same time. If I volunteer, you will be allowed state aid, and I mean to send home all my pay, to the last dollar. I wish you would tell me, father, that I can have your consent." Mr. Manly sat in his easy-chair, with his legs crossed, his hands pressed together, and his head sunk upon his breast. For a long time he had not spoken. He was a feeble man, who had not succeeded well in the business of life; his great fault being that he always relied too much upon others, and not enough upon himself. The result was, that his wife had become more the head of the family than he was, and every important question of this kind, as Frank well knew, was referred to her for decision. "O, I don't know, I don't know, my son," Mr. Manly groaned; and, uncrossing his legs, he crossed them again in another posture. "I have said all I can; now you must talk with your mother." "There, mother," said Frank, who had got the answer he expected, and now proceeded to make good use of it; "father is willing, you see. All I want now is for you to say yes. I must go and enlist to-morrow, if I mean to get into the same company with the other boys; and I'm sure you'd rather I'd go with the fellows I know, than with strangers. We are going to befriend each other, and stand by each other to the last." "Some of them, I am afraid, are not such persons as I would wish to have you on very intimate terms with, any where, my child," answered Mrs. Manly; "for there is one danger I should dread for you worse than the chances of the battle-field." "What's that?" "That you might be led away by bad company. To have you become corrupted by their evil influences--to know that my boy was no longer the pure, truthful child he was; that he would blush to have his sisters know his habits and companions; to see him come home, if he ever does, reckless and dissipated--O, I could endure any thing, even his death, better than that." "Well," exclaimed Frank, filled with pain, almost with indignation, at the thought of any one, especially his mother, suspecting him of such baseness, "there's one thing--you shall hear of my death, before you hear of my drinking, or gambling, or swearing, or any thing of that kind. I promise you that." "Where is your Testament, my son?" asked his mother. "Here it is." "Have you a pencil?" "He may take mine," said Hattie. "Now write on this blank leaf what you have just promised." Mrs. Manly spoke with a solemn and tender earnestness which made Frank tremble, as he obeyed; for he felt now that her consent was certain, and that the words he was writing were a sacred pledge. "Now read what you have written, so that we can all hear what you promise, and remember it when you are away." After some bashful hesitation, Frank took courage, and read. A long silence followed. Little Hattie on the lounge was crying. "But you ought to keep this--for I make the promise to you," he said, reflecting that he had used his own Testament to write in. "No, you are to keep it," said his mother, "for I'm afraid we shall remember your promise a great deal better than you will." "No, you won't!" cried Frank, full of resolution. "I shall keep that promise to the letter." Mrs. Manly took the Testament, read over the pledge carefully, and wrote under it a little prayer. "Now," said she, "go to your room, and read there what I have written. Then go to bed, and try to sleep. We all need rest--for to-morrow." "O! and you give your consent?" "My son," said Mrs. Manly, holding his hand, and looking into his face with affectionate, misty eyes, "it is right that you should do something for your family, for we need your help. Your little sister is sick, your father is feeble, and I--my hand may fail any day. And it is right that you should wish to do something for your country; and, but that you are so young, so very young, I should not have opposed you at all. As it is, I shall not oppose you any more. Think of it well, if you have not done so already. Consider the hardships, the dangers--every thing. Then decide for yourself. I intrust you, I give you into the hands of our heavenly Father." She folded him to her heart, kissing him and weeping. Frank then kissed his sisters good-night, his resolution almost failing him, and his heart almost bursting with the thought that this might be the last evening he would ever be with them, or kiss them good-night. II. OFF TO THE WAR. It was a calm, clear October night. The moonlight streamed through the window of Frank's room, an he lay in bed, thinking of the evening that was past, and of the morning that was to come. Little Willie, his younger brother, was sleeping sweetly at his side. He had heard his sisters come up stairs and go to bed in the room next to his; and they were conversing now in low tones,--about him he was sure. Would he ever sleep in that nice warm bed again? Would he ever again fold dear little Willie in his arms, and feel his dewy cheek against his own, as he did now? What was the future that awaited him? Who would fill his mother's place when he was gone from her? He had read over the prayer she wrote for him; it was still fresh in his thoughts, and he repeated it now to himself in the silence of the moonlit chamber. When he opened his eyes, he saw a white shape enter softly and approach his bedside. There it stood in the moonlight, white and still. Was it a ghost? Was it an angel? Frank was not afraid. "Mother!" "Are you awake, my darling?" "O, yes, mother. I haven't slept at all." "I didn't mean to awake you, if you were asleep," she said, kneeling down beside him. "But I could not sleep; and I thought I would come and look at you, and kiss you once more; for perhaps I shall never see you in your bed again." "O, mother, don't talk so. I hope I shall be spared to you a long, long time yet." "I hope you will; but we must think of the worst, and be prepared for it, my son. If it is God's will, I can give you up. And you--you must make up your mind to brave all dangers, even to die, if necessary. It is a great and holy cause you are engaging in. It is no gay and pleasant adventure, as perhaps you think. Are you sure you have thought of it well?" "I have," responded Frank. "I am going; and I am going to do my duty, whatever it is. For a few minutes after I came to bed, thinking of what you had said, and of leaving you, and of"--here he choked--"I was almost sorry I had said a word about going; it looked so dreary and sad to me. But I said my prayers, and now I feel better about it. I don't think any thing can shake my resolution again." "If it is so," replied his mother, "I have nothing more to say." And she kissed him, and gave him plentiful good advice, and finally prayed with him, kneeling by his bedside. "O, don't go, mother," said Frank; "it is such a comfort to have you here! May-be it is the last time." "May-be it is, my son. But I must bid you goodnight. You must sleep. See how soundly Willie is sleeping all this time! He don't know that he is losing a brother." After she was gone, Frank felt more lonesome than ever, the house was so silent, the moonshine in his chamber was so cold. But he hugged his warm little brother close to his heart, and cried very softly, if he cried at all. I do not know how much he slept that night. No doubt his excited thoughts kept him awake until very late, for he was fast asleep the next morning when Helen came to call him. "Hurrah!" he exclaimed, starting up; "fight for the old flag!" for he was dreaming of a battle. "Hallo!" he said, rubbing his eyes open. "That you, Helen?" "A wide-awake drummer boy you are," she replied, with her usual good-natured irony. "You'll have to rouse up earlier than this, I tell you, if you ever beat the reveillé for the soldiers." "So much the more reason why I should have a good nap in the morning, when I can," said Frank. "Well, lie and sleep, if you want to," she added, with a touch of tenderness. "I thought I'd let you know breakfast was ready." But Frank was wide awake enough now. He felt there was something great and grand in the day before him, and he was anxious to meet it. He was up and dressed in a minute. He threw open his window, and looked away towards the city, which lay dim and strange in the beautiful mists of the morning, with the crimson clouds of the sunrise lifting like curtains behind it. And the far-off roar of the rumbling streets reached his ear, inspiring him freshly with hope and action. All the family were at breakfast, except Hattie, the sick one, when Frank came down stairs. Even Willie had crept out of bed before him, wondering what made his brother sleep so long that morning. And now he found the little fellow dividing his attentions between his breakfast and his toy gun, which had acquired a new interest in his eyes since Helen had told him Frank was going to the war. "I'm going with my bwother Fwank," he declared, shouldering arms over his johnny-cake. "And if any body--any webel"--breathing earnestly--"hurt my bwother Fwank, me shoot 'em me will!" "Yes," remarked Helen, "you and Frank will put down the rebellion, I've not the least doubt." This was meant for a sly hit at Frank's youthful patriotism; but Willie took it quite seriously. "Yes," he lisped; "me and Fwank--we put down the webellion. Take aim!"--pointing his toy at his father's nose. "Fire! bang! See, me kill a webel." "How little the child realizes what it is to fight the rebels," said his mother, with a sigh. "I'm afraid," said Helen, "Frank doesn't realize it much more than Willie does. He has just about as correct a notion about putting down the _webellion_." "Very likely," said Frank, who had learned that the beat way to treat a joke of this kind is always to humor it, instead of being offended. For a joke is often like a little barking dog--perfectly harmless, if you pass serenely by without noticing it, or if you just say, "Poor fellow! brave dog!" and pat its neck; but which, if you get angry and raise your stick, will worry you all the more for your trouble, and perhaps be provoked to bite. There was a silence of several minutes--Willie alone manifesting a desire to keep up the conversation on war matters. He stuck his johnny-cake on the end of his gun, and bombarded his mother's coffee-cup with it; and was about to procure more johnny-cake, in order to shell the sugar-bowl, which he called "Fort Sumter," when Helen put an end to his sport by disarming him. "I want father to go to town with me, to the recruiting office," said Frank; "for I don't suppose I will be accepted, unless he does." That sounded like proceeding at once to business, which Mr. Manly never liked to do. He was one of those easily discouraged men, whose rule is always to postpone until to-morrow what they are not absolutely obliged to do to-day. He waited, however, as usual, to hear what his wife would say to the proposition, before expressing himself decidedly against it. Fortunately, Mrs. Manly had energy and self-reliance enough for both. "If you are still firmly resolved to go, then your father will go with you to the recruiting office," she said; and that settled it: for Frank was resolved--his character resembling his mother's in respect to energy and determination. Accordingly, after breakfast, Mr. Manly, with frequent sighs of foreboding and discouragement, made a lather, honed his razor, and shaved himself, preparatory to a visit to town. Frank, in the mean while, made ready for his departure. He put in order the personal effects which he intended to leave at home, and packed into a bundle a few things he purposed to take with him. An hour passed quickly away, with all its busy preparations, consultations, and leave takings; and the last moment arrived. "Say good-by twice to me," said Hattie, the little invalid, rising up on her lounge to give him a farewell kiss. "Why twice to you?" asked Frank. "Because," she answered, with a sad, sweet smile, "If you do come home from the war, perhaps you won't find me here;" for the child had a notion that she was going to die. "O sissy," exclaimed Frank, "don't say so; I shall come back, and I shall find you well." "Yes," replied Hattie, sorry that she had said any thing to make him feel bad; "we will think so, dear brother." And she smiled again; just as angels smile, Frank thought. "Besides, this isn't my good-by for good, you know," said he. "I shall get a furlough, and come home and see you all, before I leave for the seat of war with my regiment." Frank couldn't help feeling a sort of pride in speaking of _his regiment_. "And may-be you will all visit me in camp before I go." "Come," called his father, at the door; "if we are going to catch this car, we must be off." So Frank abbreviated his adieus, and ran. "Wait, wait!" screamed Willie, pulling his cap on "Me go, me go!" "Go where, you little witch?" cried Helen. "Me go to war, along with my bwother Fwank. Put down webellion," pouted the child, shouldering his gun, and trudging out of the door in eager haste, fearing lest he should be left behind. Mrs. Manly was parting from her son on the doorstep, putting back a stray curl from his cheek, smoothing his collar, and whispering, with wet eyes and quivering lips, "My child, remember!" "I will--good-by!" were Frank's last words; and he hastened after his father, just pausing on the next corner to look around at the faces in the door of his home, and wave his hat at them. There was Hattie, leaning on Helen's arm, and waving her handkerchief, which was scarcely whiter than that thin white face of hers; and there was his mother gazing after him with steadfast eyes of affection and blessing, while her hands were fully occupied in restraining that small but fiery patriot, Willie, who, with his cap over his eyes, was vehemently struggling to go with his bwother Fwank. This was the tableau, the final picture of home, which remained imprinted on Frank's memory. For the corner was passed, and the doorway and windows of the dear old house, and the dearer faces there, were lost to sight. He would have delayed, in order to get one more look; but already the tinkling bells gave warning of the near approach of the horse-car, and he and his father had no more than time to reach the Main Street, when it came up, and stopped to take them in. In but little more than an hour's time, by far the most important step in Frank's life had been taken. He had enlisted. "Well," said his father, after Frank, with a firm and steady hand, had written his name, "it is done now. You are a brave boy!"--with a tear of pride, as he regarded his handsome, spirited young volunteer, and thought that not many fathers had such promising sons. While they were at the recruiting office, one of their neighbors came in. "What!" he exclaimed, "you here? on business?" "Patriotic business," replied Mr. Manly, showing his son with a fond father's emotion. "He has volunteered, neighbor Winch." "And you give your consent?" "I do, most certainly, since he feels it his duty to go, and his mother is willing." Neighbor Winch stood speechless for a moment, the muscles of his mouth working. "I have just heard," he said, in an agitated voice, "that my son John has enlisted _without_ my consent; and I have come here to ascertain the fact. Do you know any thing about it, Frank?" "I suppose I do," replied Frank, with some reluctance. "He enlisted three days ago. He wanted me to go with him then; but I----" "You what?" said neighbor Winch. "I couldn't, without first getting permission from my father and mother," explained Frank. "O, if my John had only acted as noble a part!" said the neighbor. "It's a bad beginning for a boy to run away. He has nearly broken his mother's heart." "Well, well, neighbor," observed Mr. Manly, consolingly, "reflect that it's in a good cause. Jack might have done worse, you know." "Yes, yes. He never was a steady boy, as you know. He has set out to learn three different trades, and got sick of them all. I couldn't keep him at school, neither. Of late nothing would do but he must be a soldier. If I thought he'd stick to it, and do his duty, I wouldn't say a word. But he'll get tired of carrying a gun, too, before he has seen hard service. Where is he? Do you know, Frank?" "He is in camp, in the Jackson Blues," mid Frank. "I am going as drummer in the same company." "I'm glad of that," replied Mr. Winch. "For, though he is so much older than you, I think you always have had an influence over him, Frank--a good influence, too." And the neighbor took the young volunteer's hand. Frank's eyes glistened--he felt so touched by this compliment, and so proud that his father had heard it, and could go home and tell it to his mother and sisters. Neighbor Winch went on: "I want you to see John, as soon as you can, Frank, and talk with him, and try to make him feel how wrongly he has acted----" Here the poor man's voice failed him; and Frank, sympathizing with his sorrow, was filled with gratitude to think that he had never been tempted to grieve his parents in the same way. Mr. Manly accompanied his son to the railroad depot, and saw him safely in the cars that were to convey him to camp, and then took leave of him. The young volunteer would have forgotten his manhood, and cried, if the eyes of strangers had not been upon him; even as it was, his voice broke when he said his last good-by, and sent back his love to his mother and sisters and little Willie. III. UNDER CANVAS. The cars were soon off; and the heart of Frank swelled within him as he felt himself now fairly embarked in his new adventure. Soon enough the white tents of the camp rose in sight. The Stars and Stripes floating under the blue sky, the soldiers in their blue uniforms, the sentinels with their glittering bayoneted guns pacing up and down, and above all, the sound of a drum, which he considered now to be a part of his life, made him feel himself already a hero. Several other recruits had come down in the train with him, accompanied by an officer. Frank was a stranger to them all. But he was not long without acquaintances, for he had scarcely alighted at the depot when he saw coming towards him his neighbor and chum, Jack Winch, in soldier clothes--a good-looking young fellow, a head taller and some two years older than himself. "Hello, Jack! how are you?" "Tip-top!" said Jack, looking happy as a prince. The officer who had brought down the recruits went with them to the quartermaster's department, and gave orders for their outfit. When Frank's turn came, his measure was taken, and an astonishing quantity of army clothing issued to him. He had two pairs of drawers, two shirts, two pairs of stockings, a blouse, a dress coat, an overcoat, a cap, a pair of shoes, a pair of pantaloons, and a towel. Besides these he received a knapsack, with two blankets; a haversack, with a tin plate, knife and fork, and spoon; and a tin cup and canteen. He had also been told that he should get his drum and drumsticks; but in this he was disappointed. The department was out of drums. "Never mind!" said Jack, consolingly. "You may consider yourself lucky to draw your clothes so soon. I had to wait for mine till I was examined and sworn in. The surgeons are so lazy, or have so much to do, or something, it may be a week before you'll be examined." Frank was soon surrounded by acquaintances whom he scarcely recognized at first, they looked so changed and strange to him in their uniforms. "How funny it seems," said he, "to be shaking hands with soldiers!" "These are our tents," said Jack. "They all have their names, you see." Which fact Frank had already noticed with no little astonishment. The names were lettered on the canvas of the tents in characters far more grotesque than elegant One was called the "Crystal Palace;" another, the "Mammoth Cave;" a third bore the mystical title of "Owl House;" while a fourth displayed the sign of the "Arab's Home;" etc. "My traps are in the 'Young Volunteer,'" said Jack. "We give it that name, because we are all of us young fellows in there. You can tie up here too,"--entering the tent,--"if you want to." Frank gladly accepted the proposition. "How odd it must seem," he said, "to live and sleep under canvas!" "You'll like it tip-top, when you get used to it," remarked Jack, with an air of old experience. Frank made haste to take off his civil suit and put on his soldier clothes. Jack pronounced the uniform a splendid fit, and declared that his friend looked "stunning." "But you must have your hair cut, Frank. Look here; this is the fighting trim!" and Jack Winch, pulling off his cap, made Frank laugh till the tears came into his eyes, at the ludicrous sight. Jack's hair had been clipped so close to his head that it was no longer than mouse's hair, giving him a peculiarly grim and antique appearance. "You look like Sinbad's Old Man of the Sea!" exclaimed Frank. "I won't have my hair cut that way!"--feeling of his own soft brown curls, which his mother was so fond of, and which he meant to preserve, if only for her sake. "Pshaw! you look like a girl! Come, Frank, there's a fellow in the 'Owl House' that cuts all the hair for our company." But here an end was put to the discussion by some of the boys without crying, "Dinner!" "Dinner!" repeated Jack. "Hurrah! let's go and draw our rations." Three or four young volunteers now came into the tent, and, opening their haversacks, drew forth their tin plates, knives and forks. Frank did the same, and observing that they all took their tin cups, he took his also, and followed them, with quite as much curiosity as appetite, to the cook-shop, where a large piece of bread and a thick slice of boiled beef was dealt out to each, together with a cup of coffee. "How droll it seems to eat rations!" said Frank, on their return, seating himself on his bed,--a tick filled with straw,--and using his lap for a table. The bread was sweet; but the beef was of not quite so fine a quality as Frank had been used to at home and the coffee was not exactly like his mother's. "Here, have some milk," said Jack. "I've an account open with this woman"--a wrinkled old creature, who came into the tent with a little girl, bearing baskets of cakes and fruits, and a can of milk. "No, I thank you," said Frank. "I may as well begin with the fare I shall have to get used to some time, for I mean to send all my pay home to my folks except what I'm actually obliged to use myself." "You'll be a goose if you do!" retorted Jack. "I shan't send home any of mine. I'm my own man now, ye see, and what I earn of Uncle Sam I'm going to have a gallus old time with, you may bet your life on that!" Frank drew a long breath, for he felt that the time had now come to have the talk with his friend which Mr. Winch had requested. "I saw your father, this morning, Jack." "Did ye though? What did the old sinner have to say?" "I don't like to hear you call your father such names," said Frank, seriously. "And if you had seen how bad he felt, when he spoke of your enlisting----" "Pshaw, now, Frank! don't be green! don't get into a pious strain, I beg of ye! You'll be the laughing-stock of all the boys, if ye do." Frank blushed to the eyes, not knowing what reply to make. He had felt no little pride in Mr. Winch's responsible charge to him, and had intended to preach to his more reckless companion a good, sound, moral discourse on this occasion. But to have his overtures received in this manner was discouraging. "Come," continued Jack, taking something from the straw, "we are soldiers now, and must do as soldiers do. Have a drink, Frank?"--presenting a small bottle. "What is it?" Frank asked, and when told, "Brandy," he quickly withdrew the hand he had extended. "No, I thank you, Jack, I am not going to drink any thing of that sort, unless I need it as a medicine. And I am sorry to see you getting into such habits so soon." "Habits? what habits?" retorted Jack, blushing in his turn. "A little liquor don't hurt a fellow. _I_ take it only as a medicine. You mustn't go to being squeamish down here, I tell you." And Jack drank a swallow or two, smacking his lips afterwards, as he returned the cork to the bottle. By this time Frank's courage was up--his moral courage, I mean, which is more rare, as it is far more noble, than any merely physical bravery in the face of danger. "I don't mean to be squeamish," he said; "but right is right, and wrong is wrong, Jack. And what was wrong for us at home isn't going to be right for us here. I, for one, believe we can go through this war without doing any thing that will make our parents ashamed of us when we return." "My eye!" jeered his companion; "and do you fancy a little swallow of brandy is going to make my folks ashamed of me?" "It isn't the single swallow I object to, Jack; it's the habit of drinking. That's a foolish thing, to say the least, for young fellows, like you and me, to get into; and we all know what it leads to. Who wants to become a tobacco-spitting, rum-drinking, filthy old man?" "Ha, ha, ha," laughed Jack; rather feebly, however, for he could not help feeling that Frank was as much in the right as he was in the wrong. "You look a long ways ahead, it seems to me. I haven't thought of being an old man yet." "If we live, we shall be men, and old men, too, some day," said Frank, without minding his sneers. "And you know we are laying the foundations of our future characters now." "That's what your mother, or your Sunday school teacher, has been saying to you." "No matter who has said it. I know it's true, and I hope I never shall forget it. I mean to become a true, honest man if I live; and now, I believe, is the time to begin." "O, no doubt you'll be great things," grinned Jack. The tone in which he said this was highly offensive; and Frank was provoked to retort,-- "You don't seem even to have thought what you are going to be. You try first one thing, then another, and stick to nothing. That's what your father said this morning, with tears in his eyes." Jack turned red as fire, either with anger or shame, or both, and seemed meditating a passionate reply, when some of his companions, who had been eating their rations outside, entered the tent. "Come in, boys," cried Jack, "and hear Frank preach. You didn't know we had a chaplain in our company--did ye? That's the parson, there, with the girl's hair. He can reel you off sermons like any thing. Fire away, Frank, and show the boys." "Yes, steam up, parson," said Joe Harris, "and give us a specimen." "Play away, seven," cried Ned Ellis, as if Frank had been a fire-engine of that number. These, together with other facetious remarks, made Frank so ashamed and confused that he could not say a word. For experience had not yet taught him that even the most reckless and depraved, however they may laugh at honest seriousness in a companion, cannot help respecting him for it in their hearts. "You needn't blush so, young chap," said tall Abram Atwater, a stalwart, square-shouldered, square-featured young man of twenty, who alone had not joined in the derisive merriment. "It won't hurt any of these fellows to preach to them, and they know it." Frank cast a grateful look at the tall soldier, who, though almost a stranger to him, had thus generously taken his part against some who professed to be his friends. He tried to speak, but could not articulate a word, he was still feeling so hurt by Jack's ingratitude. Perhaps his pride was as much wounded as his friendship; for, as we have hinted, he had been a good deal puffed up with the idea of his influence over Jack. This incident, as we shall see, had a bad effect upon Frank himself; for, instead of persevering in the good work he had undertaken, he was inclined to give up all hope of exerting an influence upon any body. In the mean time Jack was washing down the sermon, as he said, with more brandy. "'Twas such an awful dry discourse, boys;" and he passed the bottle around to the others, who all drank, except Abram Atwater. That stalwart young soldier stood in the midst of the tent, straight and tall, with his arms calmly folded under his blue cape (a favorite attitude of his), and merely shook his head, with a mild and tolerant smile, when the liquor was passed to him. Such was the beginning of Frank's camp life. It was not long before he had recovered from his confusion, and was apparently on good terms with his messmates. He spent the afternoon in walking about the camp; watching some raw recruits at their drill; watching others playing cards, or checkers, or backgammon; getting acquainted, and learning the ways of the camp generally. So the day passed; and that night Frank lay for the first time soldier-fashion, under canvas. He went to bed with his clothes on, and drew his blanket over him. It was not like going to bed in his nice little room at home, with Willie snuggled warmly beside him; yet there was a novelty in this rude and simple mode of life that was charming. His companions, who lay upon the ground around him, kept him awake with their stories long after the lights were out; but at length, weary with the day's excitement, he fell asleep. There,--a dweller now in the picturesque white city of tents gleaming in the moonlight, ruggedly pillowed on his soldier's couch, those soft brown curls tossed over the arm beneath his head,--the drummer boy dreamed of home. The last night's consultation and the morning's farewells were lived over again in the visions of his brain; and once more his mother visited his bedside; and again his father accompanied him to the recruiting office. But now the recruiting office was changed into a barber's shop, which seemed to be a tent supported by a striped pole; where, at John Winch's suggestion, he was to have his hair trimmed to the fighting-cut. The barber was a stiff-looking officer in epaulets, who heated a sword red-hot in an oven, while Frank preached to him a neat little sermon over his ration. Then the epaulets changed to a pair of roosters with flaming red combs, that flapped their wings and crowed. And the barber, approaching Frank with his red-hot sword, made him lie on his back to be shaved. Then followed an excruciating sense of having his hair pulled and his face scraped and burnt, which made him move and murmur in his sleep; until, a ruthless attempt being made to thrust the sword up his nostrils, he awoke. Shouts of laughter greeted him. His companions had got up at midnight, lighted a candle, and burnt a cork, with which they had been giving him an artificial mustache and whiskers. He must have been a ludicrous sight, with his countenance thus ornamented, sitting up on his bed, rubbing his eyes open, and staring about him, while Winch and Harris shrieked with mirth, and Ned Ellis flapped his arms and crowed. Frank put up his hand to his head. O grief! his curls had been mangled by dull shears in the unskilful hands of John Winch. The depredator was still brandishing the miserable instrument, which he had borrowed for the occasion of the fellow who cut the company's hair in the "Owl House." Frank's sudden awaking, astonishment, and chagrin were almost too much for him. He could have cried to think of a friend playing him such a trick; and to think of his lost curls! But he had made up his mind to endure every thing that might befall him with unflinching fortitude. He must not seem weak on an occasion like this. His future standing with his comrades might depend upon what he should say and do next. So he summoned all his stoutness of heart, and accepted the joke as good-naturedly as was possible under the circumstances. "I wish you'd tell me what the fun is," he said, "so that I can laugh too." "Give him the looking-glass," cried Jack Winch, holding the candle, while Ellis stopped crowing, to bring a little three-cornered fragment of a broken mirror, by which Frank was shown the artistic burnt-cork work on his face. He could hardly help laughing himself at his own hideousness, now that the first disagreeable sense of being the sport of his friends had passed. "I hope you have had fun enough to pay for waking me up out of the queerest dream any body ever had," he said. And he told all about the barber, and the epaulets that became roosters, and the red-hot sword for a razor, etc. Then, looking at himself again in the piece of glass, he called out, "Give me those shears;" and taking them, he manfully cut off his mutilated curls. "There, that isn't exactly the fighting-cut, Jack, but 'twill do. Now, boys, tell some more of those dull stories, and I guess I can go to sleep again." And he lay down once more, declining to accept an urgent invitation to preach. "There, boys," said stout Abram Atwater, who had sat all the time cross-legged, a silent, gravely-smiling spectator of the scene, "you shan't fool him any more. He has got pluck; he has shown it. And now let him alone." IV. THE OLD DRUMMER AND THE NEW DRUM. As yet, Frank had no drum. Neither had he any scientific knowledge of the instrument. He was ambitious of entering upon his novel occupation, and was elated to learn, the next morning, that he was to begin his acquaintance with the noble art of drumming that very day. "The sergeant is inquiring for you," said Abram Atwater, with his mild, pleasant smile, calling him out of the tent. Frank, who was writing a letter to his mother, on his knapsack, jumped up with alacrity, hid his paper, and ran out to see what was wanted. "This way, Manly," said the sergeant. "Here's the man that's to give you lessons. Go with him." The teacher was a veteran drummer, with a twinkling gray eye, a long, thick, gray mustache, and a rather cynical way of showing his teeth under it. He had some drumsticks thrust into his pocket, but no drum. "I suppose," thought Frank, "we shall find our drums in the woods;" into which his instructor straightway conducted him in order to be away from the diversions and noises of the camp. Frank was disappointed. The veteran gave him his first exercise--on a board! "I thought I was to learn on a drum," he ventured to suggest, looking up, not without awe, at the bushy mustache. "You don't want a drum till you know how to drum," said the veteran. "But I should think it would be better----" "Wait!" lifting his drumstick. "Do you understand what we are here for?" "To learn to drum," replied Frank, in some astonishment. "To learn to drum," repeated the veteran, a curious smile just raising the corners of that grizzled mustache. "You understand correctly. Now, am I your teacher, or are you mine?" "You are mine, sir," answered the boy, still more amazed. "Right again!" exclaimed the professor. "That's the way I understood it; but I might be wrong, you know. We are all liable to be wrong--are we not?" "Yes, sir." Frank stared. "Good again! But now it is understood correctly; I am your instructor, and you are not mine; that is it." Frank assented. "Very well! Now listen. Since I am to give you lessons, and you are not to give me lessons, you will follow the method I propose, and excuse me if I decline to follow your method. That is reasonable,--isn't it?" "Certainly, sir," murmured the abashed pupil. "The point settled, then, we will proceed," said the veteran, with the same incomprehensible, half-sarcastic, half-humorous, but now quite good-natured smile lighting up his grim visage. "But before we proceed," said Frank, "may I just say what I was going to?" The old drummer lifted both his sticks, and his eyebrows too (not to speak of his shaggy mustache), in surprise at the lad's audacity. "Do you want me to report you as insubordinate?" he asked, after a pause, during which the two regarded each other somewhat after the fashion of two dogs making acquaintance--a tall, leering old mastiff looking surlily down at the advances of an anxious yet stout and unflinching young spaniel. "No, sir," answered Frank. "But I thought----" "You thought! What business have you to think?" "No business, perhaps," Frank admitted, confronting the weather-beaten old drummer with his truthful, undaunted, fine young face. "But I can't help thinking sir, for all that." "You can help expressing your thoughts out of season, though," said the veteran. "I will try to in future, sir," answered Frank, laughing. At the same time a smile of genuine benevolence softened the tough, ancient visage of the veteran; and they proceeded with the lesson. After it was over, the teacher said to the pupil,-- "Now, my young friend, I will hear that observation or question of yours, whatever it is." "I think I have answered it for myself," said Frank. "I was going to say, I should think it would be better to learn to drum on a drum; but I see now, if I get to roll the sticks on a board, which is hard, I can roll them so much the better on a drumhead, which is elastic." "Right, my young friend," replied the veteran, approvingly. "And in the mean time, we avoid a good deal of unpleasant noise, as you see." For he had other pupils practising under his eye in the woods, not far from Frank. "And I should like to ask--if I could have permission," began Frank, archly. "Ask me any thing you please, out of lesson-hours." And the old drummer patted the young drummer's shoulder. Frank felt encouraged. He was beginning to like his teacher, notwithstanding his odd ways; and he hoped the old man was beginning to like him. "I want to know, then, if you think I will make a drummer?" "And what if you will not?" "Then I shall think I ought to give up the idea of it at once; for I don't want to be second-rate in any thing I once undertake." "And you have been just a little discouraged over your first lesson? and would be willing now to give up?" "No, sir. I should feel very bad to be obliged to give up the drum." "Very well. Then I can say something to comfort you. Stick to it, as you have begun, and you will make a drummer." "A first-rate one?" Frank asked, eagerly. "First-rate, or else I am no judge." "I am glad!" and the delighted pupil fairly jumped for joy.
{'title': 'The Drummer Boy by J. T. Trowbridge', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}