Chapter 16

"There, my boy," said the old man, to comfort him, "no tears for me! It is enough to see you again. They told me you were hurt--" looking at the lad's disabled arm. "I am glad it is no worse." And the wan veteran smiled content.

Frank, with his one hand, smoothed the pillow under the old gray head, struggling hard to keep back his sobs as he did so.

"Who is my neighbor there?" Mr. Sinjin cheerfully asked.

"Atwater," Frank managed to articulate.

"Is it? I am sorry! A bad wound?"

"The bullet went through a Bible he carried, then into his breast, beyond the reach of surgery, I am afraid," Mr. Egglestone answered for Frank. "He lies in a stupor, just alive."

"Poor fellow!" said Mr. Sinjin, feelingly. "If Death must have one of us, let him for once be considerate, and take me. Atwater is young, just married,--he needs to live; but I--I am not of much account to any body, and can just as well be spared as not."

"O, no, O, no!" sobbed Frank; "I can't spare you! I can't let you die!"

"My boy," said the old man, deeply affected, "I would like to tarry a little longer in the world, if only for your sake. You have done so much for me--so much more than you can ever know! You have brought back to my old heart more of its youth and freshness than it had felt for years. I thank God for it. I thank you, my dear boy."

With these words still ringing in his ear, Frank was taken away by the thoughtful Mr. Egglestone and compelled to lie down.

"You must not agitate the old man, and you need repose yourself, Frank. I fear the effects of all this excitement, together with that wound, on your slender constitution."

"O, my wound is nothing!" Frank declared. "See that he and Atwater have every thing done for them--won't you, Mr. Egglestone?"

The minister promised, and Frank endeavored to settle his mind to rest.

But he could not sleep. Every five minutes he started up to inquire after his friends. Hour after hour passed, and he still remained wakeful as a spirit doomed never to sleep again. His wounded arm pained him; and he had so many things to think of,--his suffering comrades, old Buckley shot out of the tree, his rebel brother, his folks at home, and all the whirling incidents and horrors of that dread day.

So he thought, and thought; and prayed silently for the old drummer groaning on his bed of pain; and pleaded for Atwater lying there, still, with the death-shadow he had foreseen darkening the portal of his body. And Frank longed for his mother, as he grew weary and weak, until at last sleep came in mercy, and dropped her soft, vapory veil over his soul.

* * * *

The thrilling news of the victory came north by telegraph. Then followed letters from correspondents, giving details of the battle, when, one morning, Helen Manly ran home in a glow of excitement, bringing a damp and crumpled newspaper.

"News from Frank!" she cried, out of breath.

In a moment the little family was gathered about her, the parents eager and pale.

"Is he living? Tell me that!" said Mrs. Manly.

"Yes, but he has been wounded, and is in the hospital."

"Wounded!" broke forth Mr. Manly in consternation; but his wife kept her soul in silence, waiting with compressed white lips to learn more.

"In the arm--not badly. There is a whole half column about him here. For he has made himself famous--Frank! our dear, dear Frank!" And the quick tears flooding the girl's eyes fell upon the paper.

Mrs. Manly snatched the sheet and read, how her boy had distinguished himself; how he had captured a rebel, and fought gallantly in the ranks, and received a wound without minding it; and how all who had witnessed his conduct, both officers and men, were praising him; it was all there--in the newspaper.

"What adds to the romance of this boy's story," said the writer in conclusion, "is a circumstance which occurred at the capture of the breastwork. Among the dead and wounded left behind when the enemy took to flight, was a rebel captain, of northern parentage, who came south a few years ago, married a southern belle, became a slaveholder, joined the slaveholders' rebellion in consequence, and lost his life in defence of Roanoke Island. He lived long enough to recognize in the drummer boy _his own younger brother_, and died in his arms."

Great was the agitation into which the family was thrown by this intelligence.

"O that I had the wings of a dove!" said Mrs. Manly. "For I must go, I must go to my child!"

Pride and joy in his youthful heroism, pain and grief for the other's tragic end, all was absorbed in the dreadful uncertainty which hung about the welfare of the favorite son; and she knew that not all the attentions and praises of men could make up to him, there on his sick bed, for the absence of his mother.

The family waited, however,--in what anguish of suspense need not to be told,--until the next mail brought them letters from Mr. Egglestone and Captain Edney. By these, their worst fears were confirmed. Exposure, fatigue, excitement, the wound he had received, had done their work with Frank. He was dangerously ill with a fever.

"O, dear!" groaned Mr. Manly, "this wicked, this wicked rebellion! George is killed, and now Frank! What can we do? what can we do, mother?" he asked, helplessly.

While he was groaning, his wife rose up with that energy which so often atoned for the lack of it in him.

"I am going to Roanoke Island! I am going to my child in the hospital!"

That very day she set out. Alone she went, but she was not long without a companion. On the boat to Fortress Monroe she saw a solitary and disconsolate young woman, whose face she was confident of having seen somewhere before. She accosted her, found her going the same journey with herself, and on a similar errand, and learned her history.

"My husband, that I was married to at the cars just as his regiment was leaving Boston, has been shot at Roanoke Island, and whether he is alive or dead I do not know."

"Your husband," said Mrs. Manly,--"my son knows him well. They were close friends!"

And from that moment the mother of Frank and the wife of Atwater were close friends also, supporting and consoling each other on the journey.

XXXIII.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

At Roanoke Island, a certain tall, lank, athletic private had been detailed for fatigue duty at the landing, when the steamer from the inlet arrived.

Being at leisure, he was watching with an expression of drollery and inquisitiveness for somebody to tell him the news, when he saw two bewildered, anxious women come ashore, and look about them, as if waiting for assistance.

Prompted by his naturally accommodating disposition, and no less by honest curiosity, the soldier stepped up to them.

"Ye don't seem over'n above familiar in these parts, ladies," he said, with his politest grin.

"We are looking for an officer who promised to aid us in finding our friends in the hospital--or at least in getting news from them," said the elder of the two,--a fine-looking, though distressed and careworn woman of forty.

"Sho! wal. I s'pose he's got other things to look after, like as not!" And the soldier, in his sympathy, cast his eyes around in search of the officer. "Got friends in the hospital, hev ye?" Then peering curiously under the bonnet of the young female, "Ain't you the gal that merried Atwater?"

"O! do you know him? Is he--is he alive?" By which eager interrogatives he perceived that she was "the gal."

The droll countenance grew solemn. "I ain't edzac'ly prepared to answer that last question, Miss--Miss Atwater!" he said, with some embarrassment. "But the fust I can respond to with right good will. Did I know him!"--Tears came into his eyes as he added, "Abe Atwater, ma'am, was my friend; and a braver soldier or a better man don't at this moment exist!"

"Then you must know my boy, too!" cried the elder female,--"Frank Manly, drummer."

The soldier brightened at once.

"Frank Manly! 'Whom not to know argues one's self unknown.' Your most obedient, ma'am,"--bowing and scraping. "Your son has attracted the attention of the officers, and made himself pop'lar with every body. Mabby ye haven't heerd----"

"I've heard," interrupted the anxious mother. "But how is he? Tell me that!"

"Wal, he was a little grain more chirk last night, I was told. He has had a fever, and been delirious, and all that--perty nigh losing his chance o' bein' promoted, he was, one spell! But now I guess his life's about as sure's his commission, which Cap'n Edney says there ain't no doubt about."

"So young!" said Mrs. Manly, trembling with interest.

"He's young, but he's got what we want in officers--that is, sperit; he's chock full of that. I take some little pride in him myself," added the private. "We was almost like brothers, me and Frank was! 'In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean-tempest's wrath, we stood together, side by side; one hope was ours, one path!'"

"This, then, is Seth Tucket!" exclaimed Mrs. Manly, who knew him by his poetry.

"That's my name, ma'am, at your service!" And Seth made another tremendous bow. "But I see," he said, "you're anxious; ye want to git to the hospital. I tell ye, Frank'll be glad to see ye; he used to rave about you in his delirium; he would call '_mother! mother!_' sometimes half the night."

"Poor child! poor, dear child!" said Mrs. Manly. "I can't wait! help me, sir,--show me the way to him, if nothing more!"

"Hello!" shouted Seth. "Whose cart is this? Where's the driver of this cart? It's been standin' here this hour, and nobody owns it." He jumped into it. "Who claims this vehicle? 'Who so base as would not help a woman? If any, speak! for him have I offended!' Nobody? Then I take the responsibility--and the cart too! Hop in, ladies. Here's a board for you to set on. I'll drive ye to the hospital, and bring back the kerridge before Uncle Sam misses it."

The women were only too glad to accept the invitation, and they were soon seated on the board. Seth adjusted his anatomy to the edge of the cart-box, and drove off. But he soon stood up, declaring that a hungry fellow like him couldn't stand that board,--he was too sharp set.

Mrs. Manly did not venture to ask again about Atwater,--what he had already said of him having gone so heavily to the poor wife's heart. But she could inquire about the old drum-major, who, she had heard, was wounded.

"Old Sinjin? Wal! I'm in jest the same dilemmy consarning him as Atwater. They've both been sick and at the pint of death ever sence the fight. Now one of 'em's dead, and t'other's alive. A chap that was at the hospital told me this morning, 'One of them sickest fellers in your regiment died last night," says he; 'I don't know which of 'em,' says he. And I haven't had a chance yet to find out."

"O, haste then!" cried the young wife. "May be my husband is living still!"

"Shouldn't wonder the least might if he is," said Seth, willing to encourage her. "For he has hung on to life wonderfully; he said he believed you was coming, and he couldn't bear the idee of dying before he could see you once more. Old Buckley's bullet has been found, you'll be pleased to know."

"Old Buckley? Who is old Buckley?"

"The Maryland secessionist that shot your husband, and that I brought down from the tree to pay for it. He never'll git into another tree, without his soul goes into a gobble-turkey, as I should think it might, and flies up in one to roost!"

"And the bullet!----"

"As I was going to tell ye, it's been found. It went through the Bible that you gave him (and that Frank's preserving for you now, I believe), and lodged in his body, the doctor couldn't tell where. But one night Mr. Egglestone,--the fighting minister, you know, that merried you,--he was bathing Abe's back, and what did he find but a bunch, that Abe said was sore. 'Doctor!' says he, 'I've found the bullet!' And, sure enough! the doctor come and cut out the lead. It had gone clean through the poor feller,--into his breast, and out under his side!--Hello!" said Seth, "I shall hev to turn out and wait for that company to march by. I swan to man ef 'tain't my company,--or a part on't, at least! They're drumming out a coward, to the tune of the _Rogue's March_!"

The women were all impatience to get on; and Mrs. Manly felt but the faintest gleam of interest in the procession, until, as it drew near, in a wretched figure, wearing, in place of the regimental uniform, a suit of rags that might have been taken from some contraband, with drummers before and fixed bayonets behind, she recognized--Jack Winch!

"Wal!" said Seth, "I'd ruther go into a fight and be shot dead than go out of camp in that style! See that label, 'COWARD,' on his back? But he deserves it, ef ever a chap did!"

And Seth, as he drove on, related the story of Jack's miserable boasting and poltroonery. Much as she pitied the wretch, Mrs. Manly could not help remembering his treachery towards her son, and feeling that Frank was now amply avenged.

XXXIV.

THE HOSPITAL.

Let us pass on before, and take a peep into the hospital. There we find Ned Ellis, playing dominoes with one hand, and joking to keep up the spirits of his companions. There lies Frank on his cot, with blanched countenance, eyes closed, and pale lips smiling, as if in dreams. Of his two friends, Atwater and the old drummer, only one, as Seth Tucket said, remains. One was carried out last night--in a coffin his cold form is laid--life's fitful fever is over with him.

And the other? Very still, very pale, stretched on his narrow bed, no motion of breathing perceptible, behold him! What is it we see in that sculptured, placid face? Is it life, or is it death? It's neither life nor death, but sleep, that dim gulf between.

Mr. Egglestone, who has been much about the hospital from the first, enters with a radiant look, and steps lightly to Frank's side.

The drummer boy's eyes unclose, and smile their welcome.

"Better, still better, I am glad to see!" says the minister, cheerily.

"Almost well," answered Frank, although so weak that he can hardly speak. "I shall be out again in a day or two. The fever has quite left me; and I was having such a beautiful dream. I thought I was a water-lily, floating on a lake; and the lake, they told me, was _sleep_; and I felt all whiteness and peace! Wasn't it pretty?"

"Pretty, and true too!" said the minister, with a suffusing tear, as he looked at the pale, gentle boy, and thought how much like a white fragrant lily he was. "I have news for you, Frank. The steamer has arrived."

"O! and letters?"

"Probably, though I have none yet. But something besides letters!"--Mr. Egglestone whispered confidentially, "Atwater's wife is here!"

"Is she? Brave girl!--O, dear!" said Frank, his features changing suddenly, "why didn't my mother come too! She might, I think! It seems as if I couldn't wait, as if I couldn't live, till I see her!"

"Well, Frank," then said the minister, having thus prepared him, "your mother did think--your mother is here!"

At the moment, Mrs. Manly, who could be no longer restrained, flew to the bedside of her son. He started up with a wild cry; she caught him in her arms; they clung and kissed and cried together.

"Mother! mother!" "My child! my darling child!" were the only words that could be heard in that smothering embrace.

Mr. Egglestone turned, and took the hand of her companion, who had entered with her, and led her to the cot where lay the still figure and placid, sculptured face. O woman, be strong! O wife, be calm! keep back the tears, stifle the anguish, of that heaving breast.

She is strong, she is calm, tears and anguish are repressed. She bends over the scarcely breathing form, gazes into the utterly pallid face, and with clasped hands in silence blesses him, prays for him--her husband.

For this is he--Abe Atwater, the shadow of death he foresaw still darkening the portal of his body, as if hesitating to enter, nor yet willing to pass by. And the face in the coffin outside there is the face of the old drummer, whose soul, let us hope, is at peace. One was taken--will the other be left?

The eyes of Abe opened; they beheld the vision of his wife, and gladness, like a river of soft waters, glides into his soul. O, may it be a river of life to him! As love has held his spirit back from death, so may its power restore him; for such things have been; and there is no medicine for the sick body or sinking soul like the breath and magnetic touch of love.

Frank meanwhile was lying on his bed, holding his mother's hands, and drinking in the joy of her presence. And she was feeding his rapture with the tenderest motherly words and looks, and telling him of home.

"But how selfish I am!" said Frank, "How little you could afford to leave, and come here! I thought I was going to be a help to you, and, the best I can do, I am only a trouble and a hindrance!"

"I could not stop an instant to think of trouble or expense when my darling was in danger!" exclaimed the grateful mother. "I feel that God will take care of us; if we are his children, he will provide for all our wants. Will he not, Mr. Egglestone?"

"When I have read to you this paper," replied the minister, "then you can be the judge. I was requested to read it to Frank as soon as he was able to hear it--after his friend's death."

"Is it something for me? Poor old Mr. Sinjin!" exclaimed Frank. "He died last night, mother. But he was so happy, and so willing to go, I can't mourn for him. What is the paper?"

"A few nights ago he requested me to come to his side and write as he should dictate." And the clergyman, seating himself, read:--

"'The Last Will and Testament of Servetus St. John, commonly called Old Sinjin.

"I, Servetus St. John, Drummer, being of sound mind, but of body fast failing unto death, having received its mortal hurt in battle for my country, do give and bequeath of my possessions as follows:--

"'_Item._ My Soul I return to the Maker who gave it, and my Flesh to the dust whence it came.

"'_Item._ To my Country and the Cause of Freedom, as I have given my last poor services, so I likewise give cheerfully my Life.

"'_Item._ To Mehitabel Craig, my only surviving sister after the flesh, I give what alone she can claim of me, and what, as a dying sinner, I have no right to withhold, my full pardon for all offences.

"'_Item._ To my present friend and comforter, Mr. Egglestone, as a memento of my deep obligations to him, I give my watch.

"'_Item._ To my fellow-sufferer, Abram Atwater, or to his widow, in case of his decease, I bequeath the sum of one hundred dollars.

"'_Item._ To my fellow-sufferer and dearly beloved pupil, Frank Manly, I give, in token of affection, a miniature which will be found after my death.

"'_Item._ To the same Frank Manly I also give and bequeath the residue of all my worldly possessions, to wit:--'"

Then followed an enumeration of certain stocks and deposits, amounting to the sum of three thousand dollars.

The will was duly witnessed, and Mr. Egglestone was the appointed executor.

Frank was silent; he was crying, with his hands over his face.

"So you see, my young friend," said Mr. Egglestone, "you have, for your own comfort, and for the benefit of your good parents, a snug little fortune, which you will come into possession of in due time. As for the miniature, I may as well hand it to you now. I found it after the old man's death. He always wore it on his heart."

He took it from its little soiled buckskin sheath, and gave it to Mrs. Manly. She turned pale as she looked at it. Frank was eager to see it, and, almost reluctantly, she placed it in his hands. It might almost have passed for a portrait of himself, only it was that of a girl; and he knew at once that it was his mother, as she had looked at his age.

While he was gazing at the singular memento of the old man's romantic and undying attachment, Mrs. Manly looked away, with the air of one resolutely turning her mind from one painful subject to another.

"I wish to ask you, Mr. Egglestone, what disposition has been made of--I had another son, you know."

He understood her.

"I trust," said he, "that what Captain Edney and myself thought proper to do will meet your approval. After the battle, the wife of Captain Manly sent a request to have his body forwarded to her by a flag of truce. We consulted Frank, who told us to do as we pleased about it. Accordingly, we obtained permission to grant her request, and the body of her husband was sent to her."

There was for a moment a look, as of one who felt bitter wrong, on Mrs. Manly's face; but it passed.

"You did well, Mr. Egglestone. To her who had got the soul belonged the body also. May peace go with it to her desolated home!"

"Mother!" whispered Frank, gazing still at the miniature, "tell me! am I right? do I know now why it was the dear old man thought so much of me?"

"If you have not guessed, my child. I will tell you. Years ago, when I was the little girl you see there, he was good enough to think _I_ was good enough to marry him. That is all."

Frank said no more, but laid the picture on his heart,--for it was his, and the dearest part of the dear old man's legacy.

XXXV.

CONCLUSION.

After a long delay Captain Edney came; apologizing for not appearing to welcome his drummer boy's mother and his old schoolmistress before. His excuse was valid: one of his men, S. Tucket by name, had got into a scrape by running off with one of Uncle Sam's carts, and he had been to help him out of it.

He found a new light shining in the hospital--the light of woman's influence; the light of life to Frank and his friend Atwater, nor to them only, but to all upon whom it shone.

Mrs. Manly remained in the hospital until her son was able to travel, when leave of absence was granted him, and all his friends crowded to bid him farewell, as he departed in the boat with his mother for the north--for home!

Of his journey, of his happy arrival, the greetings from father, sister, little brother, friends--of all this I would gladly write a chapter or two; but he is no longer the Drummer Boy now, and so our business with him is over. And so he left the service? Not he.

"I'm to be a Soldier Boy now!" he declared to all those who came to shake him by the hand and hear his story from his own lips.

His wound was soon healed, and he hastened to return to his regiment; for he was eager to be learning everything belonging to the profession of a soldier. It was not long, however, before he came north again--this time on surprising business. Captain Edney, who had won the rank of Colonel at the battle of Newbern, had been sent home to raise a regiment; and he had been permitted to choose from his own company such persons as he thought best fitted to assist him, and hold commissions under him.

He chose Gray, Seth Tucket, and Frank. Another of our friends afterwards joined the regiment, with the rank of First Lieutenant; having quite recovered from his wound, under the tender nursing of his wife.

With his friends Edney, Gray, Tucket, and Atwater, Frank was as happy as ever a young officer in a new service could be. He began as second lieutenant; but----

But here our story must end; for to relate how he has fought his way up, step by step, to a rank which was never more fairly earned, would require a separate volume,--materials for which we may possibly find some day in his own letters to his mother, and in those of Colonel Edney to his sister Helen.

* * * *

Some extracts from a letter just received from the hero of these pages may perhaps interest the reader.