Chapter 6

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 reveillé. 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.