"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."

"It was a North Carolina drummer boy that shot him," said Frank. "Winthrop was heading the attack on the battery; he jumped upon a log, and was calling to the men, 'Come on!' when the drummer boy took a gun, aimed deliberately, and shot him dead."

"I wouldn't want to be killed by a miserable drummer boy!" said Jack Winch, envious because Frank remembered the incident.

"A drummer boy may be as brave as any body," said Frank, keeping his temper. "But I wouldn't want to be even the bravest drummer boy, in a bad cause."

"And as for being shot," said Gray, "I think Jack wouldn't willingly place himself where there was much danger of being killed by any body."

"You'll see! you'll see!" said Jack, testily. "Just wait till the time comes."

"What water is this the town fronts on?" asked Frank.

"The Chesapeake, of course! Who don't know that?" said Jack, contemptuously.

"Only it ain't!" said Gray, with a quiet laugh. "This is the River Severn. The Chesapeake is some two miles below."

"There, Jack," said Ned Ellis, "I'd give up now. You don't know quite so much as you thought you did."

"What a queer old town it is," said Frank, generously wishing to draw attention from Jack's mortification. "It isn't a bit like Boston. It don't begin to be as smart a place."

"Of course not!" said Jack, more eager than ever now to appear knowing. "And why should it be? Boston is the capital of Massachusetts; and if Annapolis was only the capital of this state, it would be smart enough."

"What is the capital of this state?" asked Gray, winking slyly at Frank.

"Baltimore! I thought every body knew that," said Jack, with an air of importance.

This ludicrous blunder raised a great laugh.

"O Jack! O Jack Winch! where did you go to school?" said Joe Harris, "not to know that Frederick is the capital of Maryland."

"So it is! I had forgotten," said Jack. "Of course I knew Frederick was the capital, if I had only thought."

At this the boys laughed louder than ever, and Jack flew into a passion.

"Harris was fooling you," whispered Frank. "Annapolis is the capital. Gray is taking us now to see the State House."

"Ha, ha, ha!" Winch suddenly burst forth. "Did you think I didn't know? Annapolis is the capital; and there's the State House."

"Is it possible?" said Gray. "The rebels must have changed it then, for that was St. John's College when I was here before."

The boys shouted with merriment; all except Jack, who was angry. He had been as fickle at his studies, when at school, as he had always been at every thing else; never sticking long to any of them, but forever beginning something new; until, at last, ignorant of all, he gave up, declaring that he had knowledge enough to get through the world with, and that he wasn't going to bother his brain with books any longer. It added now to his chagrin to think that he had not education enough to prevent him from appearing ridiculous among his mates, and that the golden opportunity of acquiring useful information in his youth was lost forever.

Meanwhile Frank's reflections were very different. Gray's reminiscences of April had strongly impressed upon his mind the fact that he was now on the verge of his country's battle-fields; that this was the first soil that had been wrested from the grasp of treason, and saved for the Union,—that the ground he stood upon was already historic. And now the sight of some negroes reminded him that he was for the first time in his life in a slave state.

"These are the fellows that are the cause of this war," said Gray, indicating the blacks.

"Yes," said Winch, anxious to agree with him, "it's the abolitionists that have brought the trouble on the country. They insisted on interfering with the rights of the south, and so the south rebelled."

"We never interfered with slavery in the states where it belonged," said Frank, warmly. "The north opposed the extension of slavery over new territory, and took the power of the government out of the hands of the slaveholders, who had used it for their own purposes so long; and that is what made them rebel."

"Well, the north is partly to blame," insisted Jack, thinking he had Gray on his side.

"Yes; to blame for letting the slaveholders have their own way so long," said Frank. "And just as much to blame for this rebellion, as my father would be for my conduct, if he should attempt to enforce discipline at home, and I should get mad at it and set the house on fire."

"A good comparison," said Gray. "Because we were going to restore the spirit of the constitution, which is for freedom, and always was, though it has been obliged to tolerate slavery, the slaveholders, as Frank says, got mad and set Uncle Sam's house afire."

"He had heard somebody else say so, or he wouldn't have thought of it," said Jack, sullenly.

"No matter; it's true!" said Gray. "The south is fighting for slavery,—the corner-stone of the confederacy, as the rebel vice-president calls it,—while the north——"

"We are fighting for the Constitution and the Union!" said Jack.

"That's true, too; for the constitution, as I said, means freedom; and now the Union means, union without slavery, since we have seen that union with slavery is impossible. We are fighting for the same thing our forefathers fought for—Liberty!"

"They won liberty for the whites only," said Frank. "Now we are going to have liberty for all men."

"If I had a brother that was a slaveholder and secessionist, I wouldn't say any thing," sneered Jack.

Frank felt cut by the taunt; but he said, gayly,—

"I won't spoil a story for relation's sake! Come, boys, politics don't suit Jack, so let's have a song; the one you copied out of the newspaper, Gray. It's just the thing for the occasion."

Franks voice was a fine treble; Gray's a mellow bass. Others joined them, and the party returned to the Academy, singing high and clear these words:—

"The traitor's foot is on thy shore, Maryland, my Maryland! His touch is on thy senate door, Maryland, my Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That stained the streets of Baltimore, When vandal mobs our banners tore, Maryland, my Maryland!

"Drum out thy phalanx brave and strong, Maryland, my Maryland! Drum forth to balance right and wrong, Maryland, my Maryland! Drum to thy old heroic song, When forth to fight went Freedom's throng. And bore the spangled flag along, Maryland, my Maryland!"

"That's first rate!" said Frank, who delighted in music. "Gray altered the words a little, and Mr. Sinjin found us the tune."

"Frank likes any thing that has a drum in it," said John Winch, enviously. "He'll get sick of drums, though, soon enough, I guess."

"Jack judges me by himself," said Frank, gayly, setting out to run a race with Gray to the parade-ground.



IX.

THANKSGIVING IN CAMP.

St. John's College stands on a beautiful eminence overlooking the city. The college, like the naval school, had been broken up by the rebellion; its halls and dormitories were appropriated to government uses, and the regiment was removed thither the next day.

"You will be surprised," Frank wrote home, "to hear that I have been through the naval school since I came here, and that I am now in college."

Few boys get through college as quick as he did. On the following day the regiment abandoned its new quarters also, and encamped two miles without the city. In the afternoon the tents were pitched; and where was only a barren field before, arose in the red sunset light the canvas city, with its regular streets, its rows of tent doors opening upon them, and its animated, laughing, lounging, working inhabitants.

The next morning was fine. All around the camp were pleasant growths of pine, oak, gum, and persimmon trees, and now and then a tree festooned with wild grape-vines. Near by were a few scattered ancient-looking farm-houses, with their out-door chimneys, dilapidated out-buildings, negro huts, and tobacco fields. There were several other regiments in the vicinity,—two of Massachusetts boys. And there the New York Zouaves, in their beautiful Oriental costumes, were encamped. Frank climbed a tree, and looked far around on the picturesque and warlike scene. The pickets, which had gone out the night before, now returning, discharged their loaded pieces at targets, the reports blending musically with the near and distant roll of drums.

"What is the cheering for?" asked Frank, as he came in that day from a ramble in the woods.

"For General Burnside," said Gray. "All the troops rendezvousing at Annapolis are to be under his command, to be called the Coast Division. It is to be another Great Armada; and our colonel thinks we shall see fighting soon."

This good news had made the regiment almost wild with joy; for it desired nothing so much as to be led against the enemy by some brave and famous general.

Frank loved the woods; and the next day he induced his companions to go with him and hunt for nuts and fruits. Although it was late in autumn, there were still persimmons and wild grapes to be had, and walnuts, and butternuts. But Frank had another object in view than that of simply pleasing his appetite. Thanksgiving day, which is bred in the bones of the New Englander, and which he carries with him every where, was at hand, and the drummer boy had thought of something which he fancied would suit well the festal occasion.

"What are you there after?" said John Winch, from a persimmon tree; "filling your hands with all that green stuff. Come here; O, these little plums are delicious, I tell you."

"These grapes are the thing," said Harris, from another tree. "I'm going to eat all I can; then I'm going to get my pockets full of nuts and carry back to camp."

Frank busied himself in his own way, however, and returned to camp with his arms loaded with evergreens.

"What in time are you about?" said Winch, as Frank set himself industriously to work with twigs and strings. "Oh, I know; wreaths! Boys, le's make some wreaths. Give me some of your holly, won't you, Frank?"

"Yes," said Frank, "take all you want to use. I shall be very glad to have you help me."

"Will you show me how?"

"Yes," said Frank; "sit down here. Bend your twigs and tie them together, in the first place, for a frame. Then bind the holly on it, this way."

"O, ain't it fun?" said Winch, with his usual enthusiasm over a new thing. "When we get these evergreens used up, we'll get some more, and make wreaths for all the tents." He worked for about ten minutes; then began to yawn. "Where's my pipe? I'm going to have a smoke. How can you have patience with that nonsense, Frank? What's the use of a wreath, anyhow, after it's made? Girl's play, I call it."

And off went Winch, having used up a ball of Frank's strings to no purpose, and leaving his wreath half finished.

But Frank, never easily discouraged, kept cheerfully at work, leaving his task only when duty called him.

Thursday came,—THANKSGIVING. A holiday in camp. The regiment had made ample preparations to celebrate it. Instead of pork and salt junk, the men were allowed turkeys; and in place of boiled hominy and molasses, they had plum pudding. And they feasted, and told gay stories, and sang brave songs, and thought of home, where parents, wives, sisters, and friends were, they fondly believed, eating turkey and plum pudding at the same time, and thinking of them. There was no drill that day; and no practise with any drumsticks but those of the devoted turkeys.

One of the most pleasing incidents of the day occurred in the morning. This was the presentation of wreaths. Frank had made one for each of the company tents, and a fine one for Captain Edney, and one equally fine for Mr. Sinjin, the drum-major, and a noble one for the colonel of the regiment. He presented them all in person, except the last, which he requested Captain Edney to present for him. The captain consented, and at the head of a strong delegation of officers and men, proceeded to Colonel ——'s tent, called him out, and made a neat little speech, and presented the wreath on the end of his sword.

The colonel seemed greatly pleased.

"I accept this wreath," he said, "as the emblemof a noble thought, which I am sure must have inspired our favorite young drummer boy in making it."

Frank blushed like a girl with surprise and pleasure at this unexpected compliment.

"The wreath," continued the colonel, "is the crown of victory; and we will hang up ours, my fellow-soldiers, on this memorable Thanksgiving day, as beautiful and certain symbols of the success of BURNSIDE'S EXPEDITION."

This short speech was greeted with enthusiastic applause. Frank was delighted with the result of his little undertaking, feeling himself a thousand times repaid for all his pains; while John Winch, seeing him in such high favor with every body, could not help regretting, with many a jealous pang, that he had not assisted in making the wreaths, and so become one of the heroes of the occasion.

That evening another incident occurred, not less pleasing to the drummer boy. With a block of wood for a seat, and the head of his drum for a desk, he was writing a letter to his mother, by a solitary candle, around which his comrades were playing cards on a table constructed of a rough board and four sticks. Amid the confusion of laughter and disputes, with heads or arms continually intervening between him and the uncertain light, he was pursuing his task through difficulties which would have made many a boy give up in vexation and despair, when a voice suddenly exclaimed, with startling emphasis,—

"Frank Manly, drummer!" And at the same instant something was thrown into the tent, like a bombshell, passing the table, knocking over the candle, and extinguishing the light.

"Well, that's manners, I should say," cried the voice of Seth Tucket, a fellow, as Frank described him, "who makes lots of fun for us, partly because he is full of it himself, and partly because he is green, and don't know any better." Tucket muttered and spat, then broke forth again, "I be darned ef that pesky football didn't take me right in the face, and spatter my mouth full of taller."

"Well, save the taller, Seth, for we're getting short of candles," said Frank. "Here, who is walking on my feet?"

"It's me," said Atwater. "I'm going out to see who threw that thing in."

"You're too late," said Frank. "Strike a light, somebody, and let's see what it is. It tumbled down here by my drum, I believe."

There was a general scratching of matches, and after a while the broken candle was set up and relighted.

"I swan to man," then said Tucket, "jest look at that jack-of-spades. He got it in the physiognomy wus'n I did. 'Alas, the mother that him bare, if she had been in presence there, in his greased cheeks and greasier hair, she had not known her child.'"

These words from Marmion, aptly altered to suit the occasion, Seth, who was not so green but that he knew pages of poetry by heart, repeated in a high-keyed, nasal sing-song, which set all the boys laughing.

"A pretty way, too, to turn up Jack, I should say," he added, in allusion to the candlestick,—a turnip, with a hole in it,—which had rolled over his cards.

In the mean time, Frank and Jack Winch were scrambling for the missile.

"Let me have it," snarled Jack.

"It's mine; my name was called when it was flung in," said Frank, maintaining his hold.

"Well, keep it, then!" said John. "It's nothing but a great wad of paper."

"It's a torpedo! an infernal machine!" cried Tucket. "Look out, Manly! it'll blow us all into the next Fourth of July."

Frank laughed, as he began to undo the package. The first wrapper was of brown paper with these words written upon it, in large characters:—

"FRANK MANLY, Drummer. Inquire Within."

Beneath that wrapper was another, and beneath that another, and so on, apparently an endless series. The boys all gathered around Frank, looking on as he removed the papers one by one, until the package, originally as big as his head, had dwindled to the dimensions of his fist.

"It's got as many peels as an onion," said Tucket.

"Nothing but papers. I told ye so!" said Jack Winch.

But Frank perceived that the core of the package was becoming comparatively solid and weighty. There was certainly something besides paper there. What could it be? a stone? But what an odd-shaped stone it was! Stones are not often of such regular shape, so uniformly round and flattened. He had almost reached the last wrapper; his heart was beating anxiously; but, before he removed it, he thought he heard a peculiar sound, and held down his ear. A flush of delight overspread his countenance, and he clasped the ball in both hands, as if it had been something precious.

"O, boys!" he exclaimed, looking up eagerly for their sympathy, "where did it come from? Atwater, did you see any body?"

Nobody. It was all a mystery.

"Boys, it's for me, isn't it?" said Frank, still hugging his treasure, as if afraid even of looking at it, lest it should fly away.

"Come, let's see!" and Winch impatiently made a snatch to get at it.

Atwater coolly took him by the arm, and pulled him back. Then Frank, carefully as a young mother uncovered the face of her sleeping baby, removed the tinsel paper, which now alone intervened between the object and his hand, and revealed to the astonished eyes of his comrades a tiny, beautiful, smiling-faced silver watch.

"O, isn't it a beauty?" said Frank, almost beside himself with delight; for a watch was a thing of which he had greatly felt the need in beating his calls, and wished for in vain. "Who could have sent it? Don't you know, boys, any of you?" he asked, the mystery that came with the gift filling him with strange, perplexed gladness.

"All I know is," said Tucket, "I'd be willing to have six candles, all lit, knocked down my throat, and eat taller for a fortnight, ef such a kind of a football, infernal machine,—watch you call it,—would only come to me."

"Frank'll feel bigger 'n ever now, with a watch in his pocket," said the envious Jack Winch, with a bitter grin.

All had some remark to make except Atwater, who stood with his arms drawn up under his cape, and smiled down upon Frank well pleased.

Frank in the mean time was busily engaged in trying to discover, among all the papers, some scrap of writing by which the unknown donor might be traced. But writing there was none. And the mystery remained unsolved.



X.

FRANK'S PROGRESS.

So passed Thanksgiving in camp.

The next day the boys, with somewhat lugubrious faces, returned to their hard diet of pork and hominy, heaving now and then a sigh of fond remembrance, as they thought of yesterday's puddings and turkeys.

And now came other hardships. The days were generally warm, sometimes hot even, like those of July in New England. But the nights were cold, and growing colder and colder as the winter came on. And the tents were but a thin shelter, and clothing was scanty, and the men suffered. Many a time Frank, shivering under his blanket, thought, with a swelling and homesick heart, of Willie in his soft, warm bed, of his mother's inexhaustible store of comforters, and of the kitchen stove and the family breakfast, those raw wintry mornings.

From the day the regiment encamped, the men had expected that they were soon to move again. But now they determined that, even though they should have orders to march in three days, they would make themselves comfortable in the mean while. They accordingly set to work constructing underground stoves, covered with flat stones, with a channel on one side to convey away the smoke, and a deeper channel on the other for the draft. These warmed the earth, and kept up an even temperature in the tents all night.

I said Frank sometimes had homesick feelings. It was not alone the hardships of camp life that caused them. But as yet he had not received a single letter from his friends, and his longing to get news from them was such as only those boys can understand who have never been away from home until they have suddenly gone upon a long and comfortless journey, and who then begin to realize, as never before, all the loving care of their parents, the kindness of brothers and sisters, and the blessedness of the dear old nest from which they have untimely flown.

Owing to the uncertainty of the regiment's destination, Captain Edney had told his men to have all their friends' letters to them directed to Washington. There they had been sent, and there, through some misunderstanding or neglect, they remained. And though a small mail-bag full had been written to Frank, this was the reason he had never yet received one.

Alas for those missing letters! The lack of them injured Frank more deeply and lastingly than simply by wounding his heart. For soon that hurt began to heal. He was fast getting used to living without news from his family. He consoled himself by entering more fully than he had done at first into the excitements of the camp. And the sacred influence of HOME, so potent to solace and to save, even at a distance, was wanting.

And here begins a portion of Frank's history which I would be glad to pass over in silence. But, as many boys will probably read this story who are not altogether superior to temptation, and who do not yet know how easy it is for even a good-hearted, honest, and generous lad sometimes to forget his mother's lessons and his own promises, and commence that slow, gradual, downward course, which nearly always begins before we are aware, and from which it is then so hard to turn back; and as many may learn from his experience, and so save themselves much shame and their friends much anguish, it is better that Frank's history should be related without reserve.

In the first place, he learned to smoke. He began by taking a whiff, now and then, out of the pipe of a comrade, just to be in fashion, and to keep himself warm those chill evenings and mornings. Then a tobacco planter gave him, in return for some polite act on his part, a bunch of tobacco leaves, which Frank, with his usual ingenuity, made up into cigars for himself and friends. The cigars consumed, he obtained more tobacco of some negroes, addicted himself to a pipe, and became a regular smoker.

Now, I don't mean to say that this, of itself, was a very great sin. It was, however, a foolish thing in Frank to form at his age a habit which might tyrannize over him for life, and make him in the end, as he himself once said to John Winch, "a filthy, tobacco-spitting old man."

But the worst of it was, he had promised his mother he would not smoke. He thought he had a good excuse for breaking his word to her. "I am sure," he said, "if she knew how cold I am sometimes, she wouldn't blame me." Unfortunately, however, when one promise has been broken, and nobody hurt, another is broken so easily!

Ardent, sympathetic, fond of good-fellowship, Frank caught quickly the spirit of those around him. He loved approbation, and dreaded any thing that savored of ridicule. He disliked particularly the appellation of "the parson," which John Winch, finding that it annoyed him, used now whenever he wished to speak of him injuriously. Others soon fell into the habit of applying to him the offensive title, without malice indeed, and for no other reason, I suppose, than that nicknames are the fashion in the army. To call a man simply by his honest name seems commonplace; but to christen him the "Owl" if his eyes are big, or "Old Tongs" if his legs are long, or "Step-and-fetch-it" if he suffers himself to be made the underling and cats-paw of his comrades,—that is considered picturesque and amusing.

Frank would have preferred any of these epithets to the one Winch had fastened upon him. Perhaps it was to show how little he deserved it, that he made his conduct appear as unclerical as possible—smoking, swaggering, and, I am sorry to add, swearing. Imbibing unconsciously the spirit of his companions, and imitating by degrees their habits and conversation, he became profane before he knew it,—excusing himself on the plea that every body swore in the army. This was only too near the truth. Men who had never before indulged in profanity, now frequently let slip a light oath, and thought nothing of it. For it is one of the great evils of war that men, however refined at home, soon forget themselves amid the hardships, roughness, and turbulence of a soldier's life. It seems not only to disguise their persons, but their characters also; so that those vices which would have shocked them when surrounded by the old social influences appear rather to belong to their new rude, half barbarous existence. And we all know the pernicious effect when numbers of one sex associate exclusively together, unblessed by the naturally refining influence of the other.

Such being the case with men of years and respectability, we need not wonder that Frank should follow their example. Indeed, from the first, we had but one strong ground of hope for one so young and susceptible—that he would remember his pledges to his mother. These violated, the career of ill begun, where would he end?

Here, however, I should state that Frank never thought, as some boys do, that it is smart and manly to swear. Sometimes we hear a man talk, whom the vicious habit so controls that he cannot speak without blasphemy. With such, oaths become as necessary a part of speech as articles or prepositions. If deprived of them they are crippled; they seem lost, and cannot express themselves. They are therefore unfit for any society but that of loafers and brawlers. Such slavery to an idle and foolish custom Frank had the sense to detest, even while he himself was coming under its yoke.

Here, too, before quitting the subject, justice requires us to bear witness in favor of those distinguished exceptions to the common profanity, all the more honorable because they were few. Although, generally speaking, officers and men were addicted to the practice, the language of here and there an officer, and here and there a private, shone like streaks of unsullied snow amid ways of trodden mire. Captain Edney never swore. Atwater never did. No profane word ever fell from the lips of young Gray. And there were others whose example in this respect was equally pure.

Fortunately, Frank was kept pretty busy these times; else, with that uneasy hankering for excitement which possesses unoccupied minds, and that inclination to mischief which possesses unoccupied hands, he might have acquired worse vices.

No doubt some of our young readers will be interested to know what he had to do. The following were some of his duties:—

At daybreak the drummer's call was beat by the drums of the guard-tent. Frank, though once so profound a sleeper, had learned to wake instantly at the sound; and, before any of his comrades were astir, he snatched up his drum, and hurried from the tent. That call was a signal for all the drummers to assemble before the colors of the regiment, and beat the reveille. Then Frank and his fellow-drummers practised the double-quick for two hours. Then they beat the breakfast call. Then they ate their breakfast. At eight o'clock they had to turn out again, and beat the sergeant's call. At nine o'clock they beat for guard mounting. Then they practised two hours more at wheeling, double-quick, etc. They then beat the dinner call. Then they had the pleasure of laying aside the drumsticks, and taking up the knife and fork once more. After dinner more calls and similar practice. The time from supper (five o'clock) until the beat for the evening roll-call (at eight), the drummers had to themselves. After that the men were dismissed for the night, and could go to bed if they chose,—all except the drummers, who must sit up and beat the tattoo at nine. That is the signal for the troops to retire. Then come the taps (to extinguish lights), beat by each drummer in the company, going down the line of tents.

There were other calls besides those mentioned, such as the company drill call, the adjutants call, to the color, etc., all of which were beat differently; so that, as you see, the drummer boy's situation was no sinecure.

He found his watch of great assistance to him, in giving him warning of the moment to be ready for the stated calls. Although evidently a new watch, it had been well regulated, and it kept excellent time. The secret donor of this handsome present was still undiscovered. Sometimes he suspected the colonel, sometimes Captain Edney; then he surmised that it must somehow have come to him from home. But all his conjectures and inquiries on the subject were alike in vain; and he enjoyed the exquisite torment of feeling that he had a lover somewhere who was unknown to him.



XI.

A CHRISTMAS FROLIC.

Christmas came. The men had a holiday, but no turkeys, no plum puddings, except such as had come to individuals in private boxes from home. The sight of these boxes was not very edifying to those who had none. Frank, who was once more in communication with his friends, had expected such a box, and been disappointed.

"You just come along with me, boys," said Seth Tucket, "and we'll lay in for as merry a Christmas as any of 'em. It may come a little later in the day; but patient waiters are no losers,—as the waiter said when he picked the pockets of the six gentlemen at dinner."

"What's the fun?" asked the boys, who were generally ready for any sport into which Seth would lead them.

He answered them enigmatically. "'Evil, be thou my good!'—that's what Milton's bad angel said. 'Fowl, be thou my fare!'—that's what I say." From which significant response, followed by an apt imitation of a turkey-gobbler, the boys understood that he had some device for obtaining poultry for dinner.

It was a holiday, and I have said, and they had already got permission to go beyond the lines. There were some twenty of them in all, Frank included. Tucket led them to a thicket about two miles from camp, where they halted.

"You see that house yonder? That's where old Buckley lives—the meanest man in Maryland."

"I know him," said Frank. "He's a rebel; he threatened to set his dog on us one day. He hates the Union uniform worse than he does the Old Scratch."

"He has got lots of turkeys," said Ellis, "which he told the sergeant he'd see die in the pen before he'd sell one to a Yankee."

"I know where the pen is," said John Winch; "he keeps 'em shut up, so our boys shan't steal 'em, and he and his dog and his nigger watch the pen."

"Well, boys," said Seth, "now the thing is to get the turkeys. As rebel property, it's our duty to confiscate 'em, and use 'em for the support of the Union cause. Now I've an idee. I'll go over in the woods there, and wait, while one of you goes to the house and asks him if he has got any turkeys to sell. He'll say no, of course. Then ask him if you may have the one out in the woods there. He'll say there ain't none in the woods; but you must insist there is one, and say if 'tain't his you'll take it, and settle with the owner when he calls. That'll start him, and I'll see that he goes into the woods fur enough, so that the rest of you can rush up, grab every man his turkey, and skedaddle. Winch 'll show you the way; he says he knows the pen. 'Charge, Ellis, charge! On, Harris, on! Shall be the words of private John.' But who'll go first to the house?" asked Seth, coming down from the high key in which he usually got off his poetry.

"Let Frank," said Harris; "for he knows the man."

"He? He dasn't go!" sneered Jack. "He's afraid of the dog."

This base imputation decided Frank to undertake the errand, which, after all, notwithstanding the danger attending it, was less repugnant to his feelings than more direct participation in the robbery.

Seth departed to ensconce himself in the woods. Frank then went on to the secessionists house, quieting his conscience by the way with reflections like these: It was owing to such men as this disloyal Marylander that the Union troops were now suffering so many hardships. The good things possessed by traitors, or by those who sympathised with traitors, were fairly forfeited to patriots who were giving their blood to their country. Stealing, in such a case, was no robbery. And so forth, and so forth—sentiments which prevailed pretty generally in the army. Besides, there was fun in the adventure; and with boys a little fun covers a multitude of sins.

The fun, however, was considerably dampened, on Frank's part, as he approached the house. "Bow, wow!" suddenly spoke the deep, dreadful tones of the rebel mastiff. He hated the national uniform as intensely as his master did, and came bounding towards Frank as if his intention was to eat him up at once.

Now, the truth is, Frank was afraid of the dog. His heart beat fast, his flesh felt an electric chill, and there was a curious stirring in the roots of his hair. The dog came right on, bristling up as large as two dogs, opening his ferocious maw, and barking and growling terribly. Then the fun of the thing was still more dampened, to the boy's appreciation, by a sudden suspicion. Why had his companions thrust the most perilous part of the enterprise upon him, the youngest of the party? It was mean; it was cowardly; and the whole affair was intended to make sport for the rest, by getting him into a scrape. So, at least, thought Frank.

"But I'll show them I've got some pluck," said something within him, proud and determined.

To fear danger is one thing. To face it boldly, in spite of that fear, is quite another. The first is common; the last is rare as true courage. The dog came straight up to Frank, and Frank marched straight up to the dog.

"Even if I had known he would bite," said Frank, afterwards, "I'd have done it." For he did not know at the time that this was the very best way to avoid being bitten. The dog, astonished by this straightforward proceeding, and probably thinking that one who advanced unflinchingly, with so brave a face, without weapons, must have honest business with his master, stepped aside, and growlingly let him pass.

"Where's your master?" said Frank, coolly, to an old negro, who was shuffling across the yard. "I want to see him a minute."

"Yes, massa," said the black, pulling at his cap, and bowing obsequiously.

He disappeared, and presently "old Buckley" came out, looking worthy to be the dog's master.

"Perhaps," thought Frank, "if I treat him in the same way, he won't bite, either;" and he walked straight up to him. The biped did not bark or growl, as the quadruped had done, but he looked wickedly at the intruder.

"How about those turkeys?" said Frank.

"What turkeys?" returned the man, surlily.

"It is Christmas now, and I thought you might be ready to sell some of them," continued Frank, nothing daunted.

"I've no turkeys to sell," said the man.

"But you had a lot of them," said Frank.

"I had fifty." Buckley looked sternly at Frank, and continued: "Half of them have been stolen by you Yankee thieves. And you know it."

"Stolen! If that isn't too bad!" exclaimed Frank. "I am sure I have never had one of them. Are you certain they have been stolen? I heard a gobbler over in the woods here, as I came along."

"You did?" said the man.

Frank thought it only a very white lie he was telling, having heard, at all events, a very good imitation of a gobbler. He repeated roundly his assertion. The man regarded him with a steady scowling scrutiny for near a minute, his surly lips apart, his hands thrust into his pockets. Frank, who could speak the truth with as clear and beautiful a brow as ever was seen, could not help wincing a little under the old fellow's slow, sullen, suspicious observation.

"Boy," said the man, without taking his hands from his pockets, "you're a lying to me!"

"Very well," said Frank, turning on his heel, "if you think so, then I suppose it isn't your turkey."

"And what are you going to do about it?" said the man.

"The federal army," said Frank, with a smile, "has need of that turkey. I shall take him, and settle with the owner when he turns up."

And he walked off. The man was evidently more than half convinced there was a turkey in the woods—probably one that had escaped when a part of his flock was stolen.

"Toby," said he, "fetch my gun."

The old negro trotted into the house, and trotted out again, bringing a double-barrelled shot-gun, which Frank did not like the looks of at all.

"There's some Yankee trick here," said the secessionist, cocking the piece, and carefully putting a cap on each barrel; "but I reckon they'll find me enough for 'em. Toby, you stay here with the dog, and take care of things. Now, boy, march ahead there, and show me that gobbler."

The old negro grinned. So did his master, in a way Frank did not fancy. It was a morose, menacing, savage grin—a very appropriate prelude, Frank thought, to a shot from behind out of that two-barrelled fowling-piece. But it was too late now to retreat. So, putting on a bold and confident air, he started for the woods, followed by the grim man with the gun.

His sensations by the way were not greatly to be envied. He had never felt, as he afterwards expressed it, so streaked in his life. By that term I suppose he alluded to those peculiar thrills which sometimes creep over one, from the scalp to the ankles, when some great danger is apprehended. For it was evident that this man was in deadly earnest. Tramp, tramp, he came after Frank, with his left hand on the stock of his gun, the other on the lock, ready to pop him over the moment he should discover he had been trifled with. No doubt their departure had been watched by the boys from the thicket, and the unlucky drummer expected every moment to hear the alarm of a premature attack upon the turkey-pen, which would, unquestionably, prove the signal for his own immediate execution.

"He will shoot me first," thought Frank, "to be revenged; then he'll ran back to defend his property."

And now, although he had long since made up his mind that he was willing to die, if necessary, fighting for his country, his whole soul shrunk with fear and dread from the shameful death, in a shameful cause, with which he was menaced.

"Shot, by a secessionist, in the act of stealing turkeys." How would that sound, reported to his friends at home?

"Shot while gallantly charging the enemy's battery." How differently that would read! and the poor boy wished that he had let the miserable turkeys alone, and waited to try his fortunes on the battle-field.

However, being once in the scrape, although the cause was a bad one, he determined to show no craven spirit. With a heart like hot lead within him, he marched with every appearance of willingness and confidence into the woods, regarding the gun no more than if it had been designed for the obvious purpose of shooting the gobbler.

"When we come in sight of him," said Frank, "let me shoot him, won't you?"

"H'm! I reckon I'll give you a shot!" muttered the man, with darkly dubious meaning.

"I wish you would," said Frank. "Our boys have two cartridges apiece given them every day now, and they practise shooting at a target. But as I am a drummer, I don't have any chance to shoot. There's your turkey now."

In fact an unmistakable gobble was just then heard farther on in the woods.

"May I take the gun and go on and shoot him?" Frank asked, with an innocent air.

And he stopped, determined now to get behind the man, if he could not obtain the gun.

The rebel laughed grimly at the idea of giving up his weapon. But the sound of the turkey, together with the boy's cool and self-possessed conduct, had so far deceived him that he no longer drove Frank inexorably before him, but permitted him to walk by his side, and even to lag a little behind.

"Gobble, obble, obble!" said the turkey, behind some bushes, still several rods off.

"Yes, that's my turkey!" said the man, ready enough to claim the unseen fowl.

"How do you know he is yours?" asked Frank.

"I know his gobble. One I had stole gobbled jest like that." And the secessionist's stern features relaxed a little.

Frank's relaxed a little, too; for, serious as his dilemma had seemed a minute since, he could not but be amused by the man's undoubting recognition of that gobble.

"All turkeys make a noise alike," said Frank.

"No they don't, no they don't!" said the man, positively,—no doubt fearing a plot to get the fowl away from him, and anxious to set up his claim in season. "I reckon I know about turkeys. Hear that?"—as the sound was heard again, still at a distance. "That's my bird. I should know that gobble among five hundred."

Frank suppressed his merriment, thinking that now was his time to get away.

"Well," said he, "unless you'll sell me the bird, I don't know that there's any use of my going any farther with you."

He expected a repetition of the refusal to sell, when he would have the best excuse in the world for making his escape. But Buckley was still suspicious of some trick,—fearing, perhaps, that Frank would run off and get help to secure the turkey.

"We'll see; we'll see. Wait till we get the bird," said the man. "You've done me a good turn telling me about him, and mayhap I'll sell him to you for your honesty. But wait a bit; wait a bit."

They were fast approaching the bushes where the supposed turkey was.

"Quit, quit, quit! Gobble, obble, obble!" said the pretended fowl.

"He must know now," thought Frank, with renewed apprehension; but he dared not run.

In fact, the old fellow was beginning to see that his recognition of his gobbler had been premature. A patch of blue uniform was visible through the brush. The rebel stopped, and drew up his gun. As Hamlet killed Polonius for a rat, so would he kill a Yankee for a turkey. Click! the piece was cocked and aimed.

"Here, you old clodhopper, you; don't you shoot! don't you shoot!" screamed Seth Tucket, rushing wildly out of the bushes just as the rebel pulled the trigger.



XII.

THE SECESSIONIST'S TURKEYS.

In the mean time the boys watching from their ambush, and seeing that the rebel had gone off with Frank, but left his dog and negro behind, armed themselves with clubs. When all was ready, Winch gave the word, and forward they dashed at the doublequick, clearing more than half the space intervening between them and the barns, before they were discovered by the enemy. Then the dog bounded out with a bark, and the old negro began to "holler," and the rebel's wife and daughter ran out and screamed, and an old negress also appeared, brandishing a broom, and adding her voice to the chorus.

At this moment the report of a gun came from the direction in which the secessionist had gone off with Frank.

John Winch heard it, just as the dog met the charging party. Who was killed? Frank or Seth? John did not know, but he was frightened. He had come for fun and poultry, not for fighting and bullets. Neither was he particularly ambitions to be bitten by that monstrous dog. He lost faith in his club, and dropped it. He lost confidence in the prowess of his companions, and deserted them. In short, Jack Winch, who had been one of the most eager to engage in the adventure, took ignominiously to his heels.

He reached the thicket before venturing to look behind him. Then he saw that his comrades had frightened away the negro, beaten back the dog, and taken the turkey-pen by storm. He would now have been but too glad to join them; but it was too late. Having accomplished their undertaking, they were returning, each bringing, pendent by the legs, a flopping fowl.

It is better to be a brave man than a coward, even in a bad cause. Fortune often favors brave men in the wrong in preference to aiding cowards in the right, for Fortune loves not a poltroon. John Winch felt at that moment that nobody henceforth would love or favor him, and he began to frame excuses for his shameful conduct.

"Hello, Jack Winch," cried Ellis, coming up with a turkey in one hand and a chicken in the other, "you're a smart leader—to run away from a yelping dog like that!"

"Coward! coward!" chimed in the others, with angry contempt.

"I sprained my ankle. Didn't you know it?" said the miserable Jack, with a writhing countenance, limping.

"Sprained your granny!" exclaimed Harris. "I never saw a sprained ankle go over the ground as fast as yours did, just as we came to the dog."

"Then I heard the gun," said Jack, "and I was afraid either Seth or Frank was shot."

"Woe to the man of turkeys if they are!" said Joe, twisting the neck of his fowl to quiet it. "We'll serve him as I am serving this hen."

The boys hastened to a rendezvous they had appointed with the absent ones, followed by Jack at a very creditable pace, considering his excruciating lameness.

As yet, neither Frank nor Seth had been shot. The charge of buck shot fired from the rebel fowling-piece had entered the bushes just as the blue uniform left them. But the secessionist cocked the other barrel of his piece immediately, with the intention of making up for the error of his first aim.

"Shoot me," shouted Seth, "and you'll be swinging from that limb in five minutes!"

The man hesitated, glancing quickly about for those who were expected to put Seth's threat into execution.

"I've twenty fellows with me," added Seth, "and they'll string you up in no time, by darn!"

The secessionist was not so much impressed by the rather slender oath with which Seth clinched his speech, as by the sharp and earnest tone in which the whole was uttered,—Seth walking savagely up to him as he spoke. All the while, the alarm raised by the negro, and the dog, and the women, was sounding in the man's ears.

"They're after my turkeys! This is your trick, boy!" and he sprang upon Frank, lifting his gun as if to level him to the earth.

But Seth sprang after him, and seized the weapon before it descended. That green down-easter was cool as if he had been at a game of ball. He was an athletic youth, and he readily saw that Buckley, though a sturdy farmer, was no match for him. He pushed him back, shouting shrilly, at the same time, in the words of his favorite poet,—

"'Now, if thou strik'st him but one blow, I'll hurl thee from the brink as far as ever peasant pitched a bar!'"

This strange form of salutation astonished the rebel even more than the rough treatment he received at the hands of the vigorous and poetical Tucket. He saw that it was no time to stay and parley. He knew that his turkeys were going, and, muttering a parting malediction at Frank, he set off at a run to protect his poultry-yard.

"Now's our time," said Tucket, starting for the rendezvous, and striking into another quotation from his favorite minstrel, parodied for the occasion. "'Speed, Manly, speed! the cow's tough hide on fleeter foot was ne'er tied. Speed, Manly, speed! such cause of haste a drummer's sinews never braced. For turkey's doom and rebel deed are in thy course—speed, Manly, speed!'"

And speed they did, arriving at the place of meeting just as their companions came up with the poultry.

"Hello, Jack!" said Frank; "what's the matter with you?"

"He stumbled over a great piece of bark," Ellis answered for Winch.

"Did you, Jack?"

"Yes!" said Jack, putting on a look of anguish. He had not thought of the bark before, but supposing Ellis had seen such a piece as he spoke of, he accepted his theory of the stumbling as readily as the rebel had recognized in Seth's gobbling one of his own lost turkeys. "And broke my ankle," added Jack.

"What kind of bark was it? do you know?" said Ellis.

"No. I was hurt so I didn't stop to look."

"Well, I'll tell you. It was the dog's bark." And Ellis and his comrades shouted with laughter, all except poor Jack Winch, who knew too well that no other kind of bark had checked his progress.

Then the turkey-stealers had their adventure to relate, and Frank had his amusing story to tell, and Tucket could brag how near he had come to being shot for one of Buckley's gobblers, and all were merry but Jack, who had brought from the field nothing but a counterfeit lameness and dishonor, and who accordingly lagged behind his comrades, sulky and dumb.

"He limps dreadfully—when any body is looking at him," said Harris.

"Nobody killed, and only one wounded," said Frank.

"The sight of old Buckley coming with his dog would be better than a surgeon, to cure that wound," said Tucket. "You'd see Winch leg it faster 'n any of us—like the old woman that had the hypo's, and hadn't walked a step for twenty years, and thought she couldn't; but one day her friends got up a ghost to scare her, and she ran a mile before they could ketch her."

Do you know how these jokes, and the laughter that followed, sounded on the ear of Jack Winch? Even the bark of the rebel mastiff was music in comparison, and his bite would have hurt him less.

"By the way," said Seth, "the old skinflint will be after us, sure as guns. Hurry! or we'll hear—'The deep-mouthed bull-dog's heavy bay resounding up the rocky way, and faint, from farther distance borne, the darned old rebel's dinner horn.' Give me that chicken, Ellis. And, boys, we must manage some way to smuggle these fowls into camp. I can carry this chicken under my coat; but how in Sam Hill you'll manage with the turkeys, I don't see."

"I know," said Frank, always full of invention. "If nobody else has a better plan, I've thought of a good one."

Several devices were suggested, but none met with general approbation. Then Frank explained his.

"Cover up the turkeys with evergreens, and we will go in with our arms full, as if we were going to make wreaths for the regiment."

This plan was agreed upon, and shortly after the adventurers might have been seen returning to camp loaded down with boughs and vines. Jack alone came in empty-handed. Frank had no turkey, and so he threw down his load outside the tent, where any one could examine it.

It was not long before the owner of the turkeys made his appearance, carrying to headquarters his complaint of the robbery. Unfortunately, Frank was not only known as a drummer boy, but he wore the letter of his company on his cap. Besides, his youth rendered his identification comparatively easy. As might have been expected, therefore, he was soon called to an account. Captain Edney himself came to investigate the matter, accompanied by the secessionist.

"That's the boy," said Buckley, with determined vindictiveness, when Frank was arraigned before him.

Frank could not help looking a little pale, for he felt that he was in a bad scrape, and how he was to get out of it, without either lying or betraying his accomplices, he could not see. He did not care so much about himself, but he would not for any thing have borne witness against the others. He had almost made up his mind to tell a sturdy falsehood, if necessary,—to stoop to a dishonorable thing in order to avoid another, which he considered even more damaging to his character. For such is commonly the result of wrongdoing; one step taken, you must take another to retrieve that. One foot in the mire, you must put the other in to get that out.

However, the drummer boy still hoped that by putting a bold face on the matter, and prevaricating a little, he might still keep clear of that thing he had been taught always to abhor—a downright untruth.

"This man brings serious charges against you, Frank," said Captain Edney.

"I should think it was for me to bring charges against him," replied Frank, trying to look indignant.

"Why, what has he done to you?" The captain could not help smiling as he spoke, and Frank felt encouraged.

"He's a rebel of the worst kind. He is always insulting the federal uniform, and he seems to think that whoever wears it is a villain. He threatened to set his dog on me the other day, and to-day he was going to knock me down with his gun."

"What was he going to knock you down for? You must have done something to provoke him."

"Yes, I did!" said Frank, boldly. "I went to his house, and asked him, in the politest way I could, if he would sell us fellows a turkey. I might have known that it would provoke him, for he has been heard to say he'd rather his turkeys should die in the pen than that a Union soldier should have one, even for money."

It was evident to the secessionist that instead of making out a case against the boy, the boy was fast making out a case against him. In his impatience he broke forth into violent denunciations of Frank, but Captain Edney stopped him.

"None of that, sir, or I'll send you out of the camp forthwith. He says,"—turning to Frank,—"that you decoyed him into the woods while your companions stole his turkeys."

"Decoyed him?" said Frank. "He may call it what he pleases. I'll tell you just what I did, sir. He said he hadn't any turkeys. So I said, 'Then the one I heard in the woods, as I came along, isn't yours—is it?'"

"Had you heard one?"

"I had heard a noise so much like one,"—laughing,—"that he himself, when he heard it, was ready to swear it was his gobbler."

"And was it really a turkey?"

"No, sir. It was Seth Tucket hid behind the bushes."

Frank was now conscious of making abundant fun for his comrades, who all crowded around, listening with delight to the investigation. Even Captain Edney smiled, as he gave a glance at the green-looking, seriously-winking Seth.

"So it was you that played the gobbler, Tucket," said the captain.

"I hope there wan't no great harm in't ef I did, sir," replied Seth, with ludicrous mock solemnity. "Bein' Christmas so, I thought I'd like a little bit of turkey, sir, ef 'twant no more than the gobble. And there I was, enjoying it all by myself, hevin' a nice time, when this man comes up and lays claim to me for his turkey."

This sober declaration, uttered in a high key, with certain jerks of the arms and twists of the down-east features, which Seth could use with the drollest effect, excited unrestrained mirth among the men, and made the officer's sword-belts shake not a little with the suppressed merriment inside.

"What do you mean by his claiming you?" asked the captain.

"He told Manly I belonged to him, and that some thieving Yankee had stolen me." said Seth, with open eyes and mouth, as if he had been making the most earnest statement. "Now I'll leave it to any body ef that's so. And I guess that's about all his complaints of hevin' turkeys stole amounts to; for ef he can make a mistake so easy in my case, he may in others. Though mabby he means I stole the gobble of one of his turkeys. I own it's a gobble I picked up somewheres, but I didn't know 'twas his." And Tucket drew down his face with an expression of incorruptible innocence.

"Well, boys," said the captain, silencing the laughter, "we have had fun enough for the occasion, though it is a merry Christmas. No more buffoonery. Tucket. Were you aware, Frank, that it was Tucket, and not a turkey, in the bushes, when you took this man to the woods?"

"I rather thought it was Tucket," said Frank, "though the man stuck to it so stoutly that 'twas his gobbler, I didn't know but——"

"Never mind about that." The captain saw that it was Frank's object to lead the inquiry back to the ludicrous part of the business, and promptly checked him. "What was your motive in deceiving him?"

"To have a little fun, sir."

"Did you not know that there was a design to rob his poultry pen?"

Frank recollected his momentary doubts as to the good faith of his companions, when the dog assailed him, and thought he could make that uncertainty the base of a strong "No, sir."

"But you know his pen was robbed?"

"No, sir, I do not know it——," Frank reflecting as he spoke, that a man cannot really know any thing of which he has not been an eye-witness, and comforting his conscience with the fact that he had not seen the turkeys stolen.

"Now,"—Captain Edney did not betray by look or word whether he believed or doubted the boy's assertion,—"tell me who was with you in the woods."

"Seth Tucket, sir."

"Who else?"

"O, ever so many fellows had been with me."

"Name them."

And Frank proceeded to name several who had really been with him that morning, but not on the forage after poultry. On being called up and questioned, they were able to give the most positive testimony, to the effect that they had neither stolen any fowls themselves nor been with any party that had. In the mean time the sergeant and second lieutenant instituted a search through the company's tents, and succeeded in finding a solitary turkey, which nobody could give any account of, and which nobody claimed. This the secessionist identified; averring that there were also a dozen more, besides several chickens, for which redress was due. But not one of them could be discovered, perhaps because they were so skilfully concealed, but more probably because those who searched were not anxious to find.

Captain Edney accordingly paid the man for the loss of the single turkey, which he ordered sent immediately to the hospital. He also told the secessionist that he would pay him for all the poultry he was ready to swear had been appropriated by the men of his company, provided he would first take the oath of allegiance to the United States. This Buckley sullenly refused to do, and he was immediately conducted by a guard outside the lines. Seth Tucket followed at a short distance, saying, as he put his hand in his pocket, as if to produce some money, "Say, friend! better le' me pay ye for that gobble I stole. Any thing in reason, ye know."

But Buckley gave him only a glance of compressed rage, and marched off in silence, with disappointment and revenge in his heart.



XIII.

THE EXPEDITION MOVES.

Frank won the greatest credit from his comrades by the manner in which he had gone through the investigation. And the fowls, which those who searched could not discover, found their way somehow to the cooks, and back again to the boys, and were shared among their companions, who had a feast and a good time generally.

But when all was over, and the excitement which carried Frank through had subsided, and it was night, and he lay in the darkness and solitude of the tent, with his comrades asleep around him,—then came sober reflection; and he thought of the poor man who had lost his turkeys, and who, for one, had got no fun out of the business; and he remembered that he had, to all intents and purposes, lied to Captain Edney; and he knew in his heart that he had done a dishonest thing.

Yes, he had actually been engaged in stealing turkeys. He was guilty of an act of which, a few weeks before, he would have deemed himself absolutely incapable. All the mitigating circumstances of the case, which had lately stood out so clear and strong as almost to hide the offence from his moral vision, now faded, and shrunk away, and the wrong itself stood forth, alone, in its undisguised ugliness.

"What is it to me that the man is a secessionist? That doesn't give us the right to rob him. He is not in arms against the government; and we don't know that he assists the rebels in any way, either by giving them information or money. Perhaps he had good reason to hate the Union soldiers. If he had not before, he has now. I wish I had let his turkeys alone."

These words Frank did not exactly frame to himself, lying there in the dark and silent tent; but so said the soul within him. And the next day the culpability of his conduct was brought home still more forcibly to his conscience by the receipt of a box from home. It contained, besides a turkey, pies, cakes, apples, and letters. And in one of the letters his mother wrote,—

"I hope these things will reach you by Christmas, and that you will enjoy them, and share them with those who have been good to you, and be very happy. We all think of the hardships you have to go through, and would willingly give up many of our comforts if you could only have them. We shall not have any turkey at Christmas—we shall all be so much happier to think you have one. For I would not have you so much as tempted to do what you say some of the soldiers have done—that is, steal the turkeys belonging to the secessionists. If there are rebels at heart, not yet in open opposition to the government, I would have you treat them kindly, and not provoke them to hate our cause worse than they do already. And always remember that, whatever the government may see fit to do to punish such men, you have no right to interfere with either their private opinions or their private property."

Why was it that the contents of Frank's Christmas box did not taste so good to him as he had anticipated? Simply because he could partake of neither pie nor turkey without the sorry sauce of a reproving conscience.

He thought to atone for his fault by magnanimity in sharing with others what he could not relish alone. He gave liberally to all his mates, and carried a large piece of the turkey, together with a generous supply of stuffing, and an entire mince pie, to his old friend Sinjin.

Now, Frank had not, for the past month, been on as good terms with the veteran as formerly. The meeting with Mrs. Manly in Boston seemed to have awakened unpleasant remembrances in the old drummer's mind, and to render him unpleasantly stiff and cold towards her son. He had received the thanksgiving wreath with a very formal and stately acknowledgment, and Frank, who knew not what warm torrents might be gushing beneath the stern old man's icy exterior, had kept himself somewhat resentfully aloof from him ever since. But he still felt a yearning for their former friendship, and he now hoped, with the aid of the good gifts of which he was the bearer, to make up with him.

"I wish you a merry Christmas," said Frank, arrived at the old man's tent.

"You are rather late for that, it seems to me," replied Sinjin, lifting his brows, as he sat in his tent and looked quietly over his shoulder at the visitor.

"I know it," said Frank. "But the truth is, I hadn't any thing to wish you a merry Christmas with yesterday. But this morning I got a box by express, full of goodies, direct from home."

"Ah!" said the old man, with a singular unsteadiness of eye, while he tried to look cold and unconcerned.

"Yes; isn't it grand? A turkey of my mother's own stuffing, and pies of her own baking, and every thing that's splendid. And she said she hoped you would accept a share, with her very kind regards. And so I've brought you some."

The old man had got up on his feet. But he did not offer to relieve Frank's hands. He made no reply to his little speech; and he seemed not so much to look at him, as through him, into some visionary past far away. Perhaps it was not the drummer boy he saw at all, but fairer features, still like his—a sweet young girl; the same he used to trot upon his knees, in those unforgotten years, so long ago, when he was in his manhood's prime, and life was still fresh to him, and he had not lost his early faith in friendship and love.

There Frank stood, holding the cover of the Christmas box, with the good things from home upon it, and waited, and wondered; and there the old man stood and dreamed.

"Please, sir, will you let me leave them here?" said Frank, ready to cry with disappointment at this strange reception.

The old man heaved a sigh, brushed his hand across his eyes, and came back to the present. He stooped and took the gift with a tremulous smile, but without a word. He did not tell the drummer boy that he had, in that instant of forgetfulness, seen his mother as she was at his age, and that his old heart now, though seemingly withered and embittered, gushed again with love so sorrowful and yearning, that he could have taken her son in his arms, even as he had so often taken her, and have wept over him. And Frank, in his ignorance, went away, feeling more hurt than ever at his old friend's apparent indifference.

* * * *

And now matters were assuming a more and more warlike appearance. For some time Frank's regiment had been out on brigade drill twice a week, and he had written home a glowing description of the scene. But an incomparably grander sight was the inspection and review of the entire division, which took place the last week of December. The parade ground, comprising two thousand acres, at once smooth and undulating, was admirably fitted to show off, with picturesque and splendid effect, the evolutions of regiment, brigade, and division. Thousands of spectators flocked from Annapolis and the vicinity, in vehicles, on horseback, and on foot, to witness the display.

Frank was with his company, carrying his knapsack, haversack, tin cup, and canteen, like the rest, and with his drum at his side. He could not but feel a pride in the grand spectacle of which he formed a part. At eleven o'clock, Brigadier-General Foster, commanding the department in Burnside's absence, passed down the line, accompanied by a numerous staff, and followed by the governor of the state and members of the legislature. They inspected each regiment in turn; and many were the looks of interest and pleased surprise which the young drummer boy received from officers and civilians.

The reviewing party then took its position on the right, the words of command rang along the line, and regiment after regiment, breaking into battalion column, filed, with steady tramp, in superb, glittering array, to the sound of music, past the general and his assistants. No wonder the drummer boy's heart beat high with military enthusiasm, as he marched with his comrades in this magnificent style, marvelling what enemy could withstand such disciplined masses of troops.

And now the fleet of transports, which were to convey them to their destination, were gathering at Annapolis. The camp was full of rumors respecting the blow which was to be struck, and the troops were eager to strike it.

So ended the old year, the first of the war; and the new year came in. It was now January, 1862.

On the 3d, the regiment was for the first time paid off. Frank received pay for two months' service, at twelve dollars a month. He kept only four dollars for his own use, and sent home the remaining twenty dollars in a check, to be drawn by his father in Boston. It was a source of great pride and satisfaction to him that he could send money to his parents; and he wondered at the greedy selfishness of John Winch, who immediately commenced spending his pay for pies and cakes, at the sutler's enormous prices.

On the 6th, the regiment broke camp and marched to Annapolis. There was snow on the ground, which had fallen the night before; and the weather was very cold. The city was a scene of busy activity. The fleet lay in the harbor. Troops and baggage trains crowded to the wharves. Transport after transport took on board its precious freight of lives, and hauling out into the stream to make room for others, dropped anchor off the town.

After waiting five hours—five long and dreary hours—at the Naval Academy, our regiment took its turn. One half went on board an armed steamer, whose decks were soon swarming with soldiers and bristling with guns. The other half took passage in a schooner. And the steamer took the schooner in tow, and anchored with her in the river. And so Frank and his comrades bade farewell to the soil of Maryland.

The excitement of these scenes had served to put Frank's conscience to sleep again. However, it received a sting, when, on the day of leaving Annapolis, he learned that the secessionist whose turkeys had been stolen, had, in revenge for his wrongs, quitted his farm, and gone to join the rebel army.



XIV.

THE VOYAGE AND THE STORM.

On the morning of the 9th of January the fleet sailed.

Frank was on board the schooner towed out by her steam consort.

Although the morning was cold and wet, the decks of the transports were crowded with troops witnessing the magnificent spectacle of their own departure.

Just before they got under way, a jubilant cheering was heard. Frank made his way to the vessel's side, to see what was going on. A small row-boat passed, conveying some officer of distinction to his ship. Frank observed that he was a person of quite unpretending appearance, but of pleasant and noble features.

"Burnside! Burnside! Burnside!" shouted a hundred voices.

And in acknowledgment of the compliment, the modest hero of the expedition stood up in the boat, and uncovered his high, bald forehead and dome-like head.

The rowers pulled at their oars, and the boat dashed on over the dancing waters, greeted with like enthusiasm every where, until the general's flag-ship, the little steamer Picket, took him on board.

And now the anchors were up, the smoke-pipes trailed their cloudy streamers on the breeze, flags and pennants were flying, paddle-wheels began to turn and plash, the bands played gay music, and the fleet drew off, in a long line of countless steamers and sailing vessels, down the Severn, and down the Chesapeake.

All day, through a cold, drizzling rain, the fleet sailed on, the transports still keeping in sight of each other, in a line extending for miles along the bleak, inhospitable bay.

The next morning, Frank went on deck, and found the schooner at anchor in a fog. The steamer lay alongside. No other object was visible—only the restlessly-dashing waters. The wild shrieking of the steamer's whistle, blowing in the fog to warn other vessels of the fleet to avoid running down upon them, the near and far responses of similarly screaming whistles, and of invisible tolling bells, added impressiveness to the situation.

At nine o'clock, anchors were weighed again, and the fleet proceeded slowly, feeling its way, as it were, in the obscurity. There was more or less fog throughout the day; but towards sundown a breeze blew from the shore, the fog rolled back upon the sea, the clouds broke into wild flying masses, the blue sky shone through, and the sunset poured its placid glory upon the scene.

Again the troops crowded the decks. The fleet was entering Hampton Roads. Upon the right, basking in the golden sunset as in the light of an eternal calm, a stupendous fortress lay, like some vast monster of old time, asleep. Frank shivered with strange sensations as he gazed upon that immense and powerful stronghold of force; trying to realize that, dreaming so quietly there in the sunset, those gilded walls, which seemed those of an ancient city of peace, meant horrible, deadly war.

"By hooky!" said Seth Tucket, coming to his side, "that old Fortress Monroe's a stunner—ain't she? I'd no idee the old woman spread her hoop skirts over so much ground."

"You can see the big Union gun there on the beach," said Atwater. "To look at that, then just turn your eye over to Sewell's Point there, where the rebel batteries are, makes it seem like war." And the tall, grave soldier smiled, with a light in his eye Frank had seldom seen before.

The evening was fine, the sky clear, the moon shining, the air balmy and spring-like. The fleet had come to anchor in the Roads. The bands were playing, and the troops cheering from deck to deck. The moonlight glittered on the water, and whitened the dim ships riding at anchor, and lay mistily upon the bastions of the great slumbering fortress. At a late hour, Frank, with his eyes full of beauty and his ears full of music, went below, crept into his berth, and thought of home, and of the great world he was beginning to see, until he fell asleep.

The next day the fleet still lay in Hampton Roads. There were belonging to the expedition over one hundred and twenty-five vessels of all classes, freighted with troops, horses, forage, and all the paraphernalia of war. And this was the last morning which was to behold that magnificent and powerful armada entire and unscattered.

At night the fleet sailed. Once at sea, the sealed orders, by which each vessel was to shape its course, were opened, and Hatteras Inlet was found to be its first destination.

The next day was Sunday, January 12. The morning was densely foggy. Frank, who had been seasick all night, went on deck to breathe the fresh sea air. The steamer, still towing the Schooner, was just visible in the fog, at the other end of the great sagging hawser. And the sea was rolling, rolling, rolling. And the ship was tossing, tossing, tossing. And Frank's poor stomach, not satisfied with its convulsive efforts to turn him wrong side out the night before, recommenced heaving, heaving, heaving. He clung to the rail of the schooner, and every time it went down, and every time it came up, he seemed to grow dizzier and sicker than ever. He consoled himself by reflecting that he was only one of hundreds on hoard, who were, or had been, in the same condition; and when he was sickest he could not help laughing at Seth Tucket's inexhaustible drollery.