Chapter XXXIII: A Friend in need 268 (6)

Frank had listened, humbly, tremblingly, full of tears which he did not shed for the eyes that were about them. But now he started, and took the letter eagerly. "What's it? any bad news?" for he felt an alarming presentiment.

"I do not think it is bad. If you had seen what I saw, you would not think so either." Mr. Egglestone's manner was exceedingly tender, and his voice was liquid and low. "All is well with your folks at home; both with those who are there as you left them, and with the one whose true home is not there any longer, but in a brighter land, we trust."

"O!"--it was almost a cry of pain that broke from Frank. "Hattie?"

"Yes, Frank; it is of Hattie I am speaking. She has passed away. I was present, and saw her depart. And she was very calm and happy, and her last look was a smile, and her last words were words of hope and love. The letter will tell you all about it. I recall one thing, however, which I will repeat, since it so nearly concerns you. They were speaking of you. And she said, 'Maybe I shall see him before any of you will! Yes!' she added, her face shining already like a spirit's with the joyful thought, 'tell him how I love him; and say that I shall be with him when he does not know!' And I am sure that, if it is possible for souls that have escaped from these environments of flesh to be near us still, she will often be near you, loving you, influencing you. Perhaps she is present now, and hears all we say, and sees how badly you feel, and thinks you would not feel quite so badly if you knew that she is happy."

Frank would have spoken, to ask some earnest question which arose in his heart; but his feelings were too much agitated, and he could not trust his voice.

"We will believe such things are true of our lost ones," Mr. Egglestone said, with a parting pressure of the boy's hand. "For, with that faith, we shall surely try so to live that, when they approach us, they will not be repelled; and thus we will be guarded from evil, if not by any direct influence of theirs, then by our own reverence and love for them."

With this he took his leave. And Frank crept into his bunk, and turned away his face, before he dared to open and read his mother's letter.

In that letter there were no reproofs for his misconduct. But in place of such his mother had written the simple story of Hattie's death, with many affecting little details, showing her thoughtful tenderness for all, her cheerful sweetness, and her love for Frank. Then followed affectionate messages from them at home, who were very lonely now, and longed to have him with them--all which had a power beyond any reproaches to win the boy back to that purity of heart and life which belonged to his home-affections, and was safe when they were strong, and was imperilled when they were forgotten.

"O, to think," he said to himself, "only this morning I was imagining how it looked at home to-day--and it is all so different! I am gone, and now Hattie is gone too!"

XXI.

UP THE SOUND.

So passed that Sunday, memorable to the expedition; for it ushered in the battle-week.

Besides the transports and store-ships belonging to the coast division, a squadron of United States gunboats, under command of Commodore Goldsborough, had rendezvoused at the inlet. These were to take care of the rebel fleet, attend to the shore batteries, and prepare the way for the operation of the land forces.

All the vessels destined to take part in the advance were now over the bulkhead, in Pamlico Sound. On Monday, the sailing vessels were hauled into position, each astern of its steam-consort, by which it was to be towed. Sixty-five vessels of various classes were to participate in the movement; while upwards of fifty were to remain behind at the inlet, holding in reserve sixty days' supply of stores for the entire expedition.

The stay at the inlet had occasionally been enlivened by the arrival of refugees, white and black, from the coast of North Carolina. Some of these were citizens escaped from the persecutions meted out by the rebels to all who still remained loyal to the old flag. Some were deserters from the confederate army, in which they had been compelled to serve. Others were slaves fleeing from bondage to freedom.

Again, on Monday, a sail-boat hove in sight, and, being overhauled by one of the gunboats, proved to be loaded with these fugitives. They were mostly negroes; two of whom were bright, intelligent boys, who gave such evidence of joy at their escape, of loyalty to the Union, and of a thorough knowledge of the country, that Flag-officer Goldsborough retained them for the information they might be able to give, while the rest were sent ashore.

And now, general orders were read to the troops, announcing to them that they were soon to land on the coast of North Carolina, and reminding them that they were there, not to pillage or destroy private property, but to subdue the rebellion, and to maintain the Constitution and the laws.

Monday and Tuesday were occupied with preparations. But early Wednesday morning--more than three weeks after the arrival of the expedition at the inlet--the signals to weigh anchor and set sail were given.

Commodore Goldsborough's gunboat took the lead. Other vessels of the naval squadron followed. Then came the transports--a goodly spectacle.

"''Twere wuth ten years of peaceful life, one glance at our array,'" observed the poetical Tucket.

Each brigade formed three columns of steamers and sailing vessels in tow; and brigade followed brigade. The shallow water of the sound was scarcely ruffled by a breeze. It lay like a field of silver before the furrows of the fleet. The tall, taper masts of the schooners pointed like needles to the sky under which they moved. The aisles between the three columns of ships were unbroken through the whole length of the fleet, which extended for two miles over the surface of the sound, and advanced with such slow and uniform motion, each vessel keeping its position, that now all seemed moving as one, and again all seemed at rest, with the waters of the sound flowing past their steady keels.

As yet, the destination of the fleet was unknown. As it proceeded at first southward and westward, the rumor grew that Newbern was to be attacked. But it was only the course of the channel which thus far shaped its course; and after a few zigzag turns, the cause of which was inexplicable to the green ones, ignorant of the shoals, it began to steer due north. Then all doubts with regard to its destination vanished.

"Roanoke Island, boys! Roanoke Island!" was echoed from mouth to mouth on board the schooner.

The day was beautiful--only a light breeze blowing, and a few light clouds floating in the blue ether. And now the vessels at the inlet began to sink below the horizon; first, the hulls, then the decks disappeared; and lastly, spars and rigging went down behind the curve of the sphere, and were visible no more to the clearest glass.

At the same time emerged in the west the main land of North Carolina. At first, tall cypresses rose to view, growing as it were "out of a mirror." Then appeared the long swampy shores, lying dim and low, with here and there a miserable fish-house, the sole trace of human habitation.

At sundown the fleet was within ten miles of Roanoke Island. The signal from the flag-ship was given, at which the vessels of each brigade drew together, the clank of running-out chains sounded along the lines, the anchors plashed, and the fleet was moored for the night.

As yet there were no signs of rebels. What the morrow, what the night, might bring forth was all uncertainty. The night set in dark enough. But soon the sky cleared, the moon came out resplendent, and the stars looked down from their far eternal calm upon the evanescent shows of mortal conflict--the batteries of the rebellion yonder, and here the fleet, no more than the tiniest shells to those distant, serene, awful eyes of Deity. And Frank looked up at the stars; and the spirit within him said, "They will shine the same to-morrow night, and the next night, and forever; and whether there is war or peace, whether victory comes or defeat, and whether thou, child, art living or art dead, they know not, they change not, neither do they rejoice or mourn." And the thought sank deep into the heart of the boy as he retired to his bed, and closed his eyes to sleep.

A sharp lookout was kept for the rebel gunboats all night, but they never made their appearance. The next morning the weather was heavy--promising rain. At eight o'clock, however, the signal to weigh anchor--the Union Jack at the foremast, and the American flag at the stern--was telegraphed from the flag-ship, and repeated by the flag-ship of each brigade. Again the fleet got in motion, approaching the entrance to Croatan Sound. The water was shoal, and progress was slow, and soon it came on to rain. It was a dismal day; rain on the decks, rain on the water, rain on the marshy shores of the main land, and over the forests beyond, where the ghosts of blasted trees stretched their naked arms despairingly to the dripping clouds. And now a low swampy point of Roanoke Island pushes out into the dim water, under a veil of rain.

At about noon, most of the vessels came to anchor. But some of the gunboats advanced to the entrance of Croatan Sound, and reconnoitred. The rebel fleet was discovered, drawn up in line of battle on the west side of the island, awaiting the conflict. A fog coming on, active operations against the enemy were postponed, and the gunboats, withdrawing also, came to anchor for the night.

During the day, several of the armed steamers, which had served as transports, prepared to cooperate with the naval squadron in their true character as gunboats; the troops on board of them being distributed among other vessels of the coast division. Among the steamers thus cleared was the schooner's consort; and thus it happened that Mr. Sinjin returned to his old quarters, to the great joy of the drummer boy, whose heart burned within him at the thought of meeting his old friend once more, after their unhappy parting.

They met, indeed; but the schooner was now so crowded, and such was the stir on board, that Frank scarce found an opportunity to offer the veteran his hand, and get one look out of those serious gray eyes.

The drummers being assembled, the surgeon came to them, and gave each a strip of red flannel to tie on his arm as a token, at the same time informing them that, when the troops landed, they were to go with him and help carry the wounded.

"This begins to look like serious business, my boy," said the old drummer, kindly, as he stooped to assist Frank in tying on his badge.

His touch was very gentle. Frank's breast began to swell. But before he could speak the old man had disappeared in the crowd.

"He don't know yet that I know he gave me the watch," thought the boy, "and he wouldn't look and see that I have it again."

Then he regarded the red token on his arm, and remembered that they all had other things to think of now.

Picket-boats were out in advance all night, at the entrance to Croatan Sound, in the darkness and fog, keeping watch for the enemy. No enemy appeared. Towards morning, however, the fog lifting, two rebel steamers were seen hastily taking to their heels, having come down in the obscurity to see what they could see.

It was Friday, the 7th of February. The morning was beautiful; the sunrise came in clouds of glory; there was as yet no taint of battle in the purity of the air. It was a lovely day for a sea fight. Frank climbed into the rigging to observe.

At ten o'clock Goldsborough's gunboats could be seen making their way, one by one, cautiously, through the narrow channel between marshy islands into Croatan Sound. There were nineteen of them. The gunboats of the coast division followed, six in number. The S. R. Spaulding, to which Burnside had transferred his flag, next went in, making signals for the transports to follow.

Far off a gun was heard. It was only a signal fired by a rebel steamer to announce the approach of the squadron; but it thrilled the hearts of the troops waiting to go into battle.

An hour later another cannon boomed, nearer and louder. It was a shot tossed from the commodore's flag-ship at the rebels, who promptly responded.

The flag-ship now hoisted the signal,--

"THIS DAY OUR COUNTRY EXPECTS EVERY MAN TO DO HIS DUTY."

From ship to ship, from man to man, from heart to heart, thrilled the electric message. It was greeted by cheers and the thunder of guns. This was at half past eleven o'clock.

XXII.

THE ATTACK OF THE GUNBOATS.

The spars of the transports were beginning to be thronged. Corporal Gray brought up a glass to Frank.

"O, good!" cried Frank. "Is it yours?"

"No; it belongs to Mr. Sinjin."

"Did he send it to me?"

"Not he! But he had been casting that sharp eye of his up at you, and I knew what he meant when he said, 'Corporal, there's a good lookout from the masthead, if you'd like to take a glass up there."

"Did he really mean it for me, after all my bad treatment of him?" said Frank. "Bless his old heart!"

With his naked eye for the general view, and the glass to bring out the details, Frank enjoyed a rare spectacle that day. Roanoke Island and its surroundings lay outspread before him like a map. On the west of it was Croatan Sound, separating it from the marshes and forests of the main land. On the east was Roanoke Sound, a much narrower sheet of water; beyond which stretched that long, low, interminable strip of land which forms the outer coast, or seaboard, of this double-coasted country. Still east of that glimmered the blue rim of the Atlantic, a dozen miles away. At about the same distance, on the north, beyond Roanoke Island and the two sounds each side of it, opened the broad basin of Albemarle Sound, like an inland sea. The island itself appeared to be some twelve miles in its greatest length, and two or three in breadth, indented with numerous creeks and coves, and forming a slight curve about Croatan Sound. It was within this curve that the naval battle took place. It had now fairly begun.

At noon the flag-officer's ship displayed the signal for closer action, and the engagement soon became general.

The enemy's gunboats, seven in number, showed a disposition to fight at long range, retreating up the sound as the fleet advanced--a movement which soon brought the latter under the fire of a battery that opened from the shore.

The air, which had previously been perfectly clear that morning, was now loaded with clouds of smoke, which puffed from a hundred guns, and surging up from the vessels of the squadron, from the rebel gunboats, and from the shore battery, rolled away in broken, sun-illumined masses, wafted by a light northeasterly breeze.

The soldiers in the rigging of the transports could see the flashes burst from the cannons' mouths, the spouted smoke, the shots throwing up high in air the water or sand as they struck, or coming skip-skip across the sound, the shells exploding, and the terrible roar of the battle filled the air.

For a time the fire of the attack was about equally divided between the rebel steamers and the fortification on the island. It was soon discovered, however, that boats had been sunk and a line of piles driven across the channel abreast of the battery, to prevent the farther advance of our gunboats in that direction. Behind those the retreating steamers discreetly withdrew, where they were presently reënforced by several other armed vessels. The gunboats made no attempt to follow, but took positions to give their principal attention to the battery.

The fire from the shore gradually slackened, and thousands of hearts swelled anew as the hour seemed at hand when the troops were to land and carry the works at the point of the bayonet.

Burnside paced the deck of the Spaulding, keeping an eye on the fort, watching the enemy's shots, and looking impatiently for the arrival of the transports. At length they came crowding through the inlet, dropping their anchors in the sound just out of range of the fort. Seen from the gunboats, they were a sight not less astonishing than that which they themselves were coming to witness. Troops, eagerly watching the conflict, crowded the decks and hung upon the rigging like swarms of bees. Ropes, masts, and yards were festooned with the heavy, clinging clusters, which seemed ready to part and fall with their own weight. The effect of the picture was enhanced by the mellow brilliancy of the afternoon sky, against which the dark masses were clearly defined, and by the perfect tranquility of the water, like a sea of glass mirroring the ships and their loaded spars.

The gunboats sent to the ships the roar of their artillery, and the ships sent back the chorus of thousands of cheering voices for every well-aimed shot.

Frank was in the rigging of the schooner, watching the fight, making drawings to send to his mother, and talking with his comrades, among whom Sinjin's glass passed from hand to hand.

"I tell ye, boys!" remarks Seth Tucket, "this is a leetle ahead of any game of bluff ever I took a hand in! The battery is about used up. S'pose you look at your--my--our watch, Frank, and see how often the darned rebels fire."

"Once in about ten minutes now," Frank informs him. "O! did you see that shell burst? Right over one of our gunboats!"

"She's aground," says Gray, with the glass. "She can neither use her guns nor get off! A little tug is going to help her."

"Bully for the tug!" says Jack Winch.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" ring the deafening plaudits from the ships.

"What is it?" is eagerly asked.

"The battery's flag-staff is shot away!" shouts Frank at the top of his voice. "Hooray!"

"Some think the flag has been hauled down, to surrender the fort, but it's a mistake," declares Gray. "See! up it goes again on a piece of the pole! And the guns are at it again."

"Where's Burnside?" asks some one. And Tucket quotes,--

"'O, where was Roderick then? One blast upon his bugle horn were worth a thousand men!'"

"He is sending off a boat to the shore yonder, to look for a landing-place. We'll be going in there soon, boys!"

The boat approaches a cove called Ashby's Harbor, taking soundings as it nears the land. On board of her is one of the negro lads, who fearlessly pilots her towards scenes familiar to his days of bondage.

"They'd better keep their eyes skinned!" says Tucket. "There's rebels in the mash there, I bet ye a dollar!"

The officers of the boat land safely, and reconnoitre. As they are reëmbarking, however, up spring from the tall grass a company of rebels, and flash, flash, goes a volley of musketry.

"I wish somebody had took me up on my bet," says Tucket; "'twould have been a dollar in my pocket."

"They're off; nobody left behind; nobody hurt, I hope," says Gray, watching the boat.

"Look, boys! the rebels works are afire!" is now the cry.

Flames break through the smoke, and the firing slackens on both sides for a short time.

"It's only the barracks, probably, fired by a shell," says Gray. "They've no idea of surrendering. They hold out well!"

The battery is completely enveloped in black smoke, out of which leaps the white puff of the cannon, showing that the gunners are still at work.

"See! the gunboat that was aground is getting off! that's a brave tug that's handling her!" cries Frank "O!"--an exclamation of surprise and wonder. For just then the gunboat, swinging around so that she can bring her guns to bear, lets fly her broadside, dropping shot and shell right into the smoking battery.

"It's about time," says Jack Winch, "for us boys to go ashore and clean the rebels out. I'm a gitting tired of this slow work."

"You'll get ashore soon enough, and have enough to do when you get there," says Atwater. "There are strong batteries towards the centre of the islands, that'll have to be taken when we go in."

"Abe's afraid," mutters Jack to some comrades near him. "Did ye see him, and Frank, and Seth Tucket, reading their Testaments?"

"It was the 'Lady of the Lake' Seth was reading," says Harris. "He carries it in his pocket, and pitches into it odd spells."

"Winch don't know the Lady of the Lake from the Bible!" chimes in Tucket's high nasal voice.

"Yes, I do, too! The Lady of the Lake, that's one of Bryon's poems! S'pose I don't know?"

"O, perfectly!" sneers Ellis, amid the laughter Jack's blunder elicits. "And no doubt you'll soon find out who the cowards are among us, if you don't know already."

"What's that, afire, away up the sound, close into the main land?" asks the phlegmatic Atwater.

"I swan, ef 'tan't one of the rebel steamers! She's got disabled, and they've run her ashore. She's all a sheet of fire now!"

"What's that saucy little tug around here for?"

"Burnside's aboard of her. He's coming to see if we're all right. We shall land soon," says Gray.

"See!" cries Frank; "our gunboats are shelling the shore, to make a landing-place for us. I wouldn't like to be in the woods there!"

"I guess Frank wouldn't!" observes Jack. "But I would; I'd like no better fun than to rush right in and skedaddle the rebels with the bayonet; that's the way to do it!"

"The woods are afire! Our shells have set them afire!" cries Ellis. "Look! there come the rebel steamers again, down the western shore. They think they can get down at us, now our gunboats are busy off there."

"When the cat's away the mice will play," says Tucket. "But the kittens are after 'em!"

"There goes Burnside's tug to see what the row is!"

"The battery scarcely fires at all now," says Frank, looking at his watch. "It's twenty minutes since it has fired a shot."

"There goes one! And see! the gunboats are fighting each other now like mad--again!" cries Gray. "They're all so wrapped in smoke you can hardly see one of 'em."--Bang, bang, bang!--"Isn't it grand?"

"A shell burst right over Burnside's tug!" exclaims Frank. "It burst, and sprinkled the water all around it!"

XXIII.

THE TROOPS DISEMBARK.--THE ISLAND.

At four o'clock the last of the transports had entered the inlet, and rejoined the fleet. Soon after commenced preparations for the landing of the troops. The boats were lowered and manned, and the soldiers, descending from decks and spars, began to crowd into them. Knapsacks were left behind; the men taking with them only their arms, overcoats, canteens, haversacks, and cartridge-boxes, with three days' rations of pork, beef, and hard bread, and forty rounds of ball cartridges. Down both sides of the vessels they passed, in rapid regular files, pouring into the boats. Their guns were taken as they stepped upon the stairs, and passed down to them as soon as they were embarked. Some took places at the oars; the rest filed in fore and aft. It must have been an amazing spectacle to the enemy to witness these stirring and formidable preparations for finishing the work the gunboats had begun. The troops were jubilant, and eager for battle.

As fast as the boats were filled, they pushed from the stairs to make room for others, and lay upon their oars watching for the signals. These were telegraphed from the flag-ship of each brigade. At the instant, the boats swarmed the water in miniature fleets, with oars flashing, flags flying, and arms gleaming in the sun. Rowing to the flag-ship, or steamer detailed for the purpose, they attached themselves under her stern in two lines as they arrived, each boat taking the painter of the one behind it Then, at a signal whistle, the steamers started for the shore, each towing its double string of boats.

In the mean time the fight between the fleet and the battery was continued,--rather languidly, however, on the part of the battery; and a couple of light draught gunboats, running in close to the shore, continued shelling the woods about Ashby's Harbor, to cover the landing of the troops.

When the steamers towing in the boats had arrived as near as the depth of water would permit, the signal whistles were sounded, the painters were cast off, the lines of boats broke simultaneously, the rowers took to their oars and pulled with all speed for the shore. As soon as the prows struck, the men jumped out, dashing through mud and water to the land. Many did not wait for the boats to get in, but, in their eagerness to follow their comrades, leaped overboard where the water was up to their waists. Some got stuck in the mire, and were helped out by those who came after them. Six thousand men were thus thrown upon the island at the first disembarkation; while the remainder of the troops on the transports watched the brilliant scene, and cheered lustily when they saw the flag of the Union waving on the shore.

Frank's regiment was not yet disembarked. The boys were still in the rigging, following with eager eyes the movements of the boats. An exciting incident added interest to the scene. Before the boats landed, a body of rebels in ambush, waiting to receive them, were betrayed by the gleam of their muskets. A shell dropped discreetly into their hiding-place, by one of the gunboats, sent them scampering, and the troops landed without opposition.

"It's our turn now, boys!" cried Tucket. And they slipped from the rigging, impatient to leap into the boats, and be put ashore. "I tell ye, won't it feel good to straighten out a fellow's legs once, on dry land!"

The men were generally of Seth's opinion; their long confinement on shipboard having become exceedingly monotonous and tiresome.

Frank was with his company. They loaded the boats to the gunwales. The water was still smooth, save where it was broken into waves and whirling eddies by the sweep of oars. The men shouted joyously, and waved their caps. Frank stood in the bow, and swung his cap with the rest. But looking back across the shining wakes at the forsaken schooner, a feeling of sadness came over him--a feeling of regretful memory, as of one leaving home.

There she lay, motionless; hull and spars painted dark against the sunset sky; her rigging, to the finest cordage, traced in exquisitely distinct lines upon that shining background--a picture of exceeding loveliness and peace.

As the boats swept down towards the shore, and the schooner seemed to recede into the flaming west, the network of cordage became black cobwebs on the sky, then melted away and vanished altogether. At the same time, the water, which the boats had troubled, grew smooth again, reflecting the sunset glow, with the sombre hull and ebon spars painted upon it, until Frank saw the spectre of a double ship suspended in a double heaven.

And as the last view of the schooner was all beautiful, so his last thoughts of her were all tender. He remembered no more against her the hardships of the voyage, the seasickness, the two gills of water a day. But that she had borne them faithfully through storms, that whether they slept or waked she had not failed them,--this he remembered. And his sister's death, and all his sufferings and errors, and the peace of soul which had come to him at last, were associated now and henceforth, with his memory of the ship swimming there in the illumined horizon. Only for a brief interval, like a wind that comes we know not whence, and goes again we know not whither, touching us with invisible perfumed wings, these thoughts swept over the boy, and passed as quickly. And he turned from gazing after the schooner to face the scenes before him. Nearer and nearer drew the boats to the island. Its woods and shores lay cool and tranquil in the evening light, and the troops there, half-hidden by the tall grass and the trees, were tinted with a gleam of romance.

It was now fast growing dark. Clouds were gathering in the sky. From their edges the last hues of the sunset faded, the moon was hid, and a portentous gloom fell upon the waves. The cannon were still thundering at intervals. The shells flew screaming through the air, and fell bursting on the fort or in the woods. It was now so dark that the flash of the guns had become lurid and sharp, and the meteoric course of the projectiles could be traced by their fiery wake.

Amid this scene the boats entered the cove, and as the prows struck, or before, the excited soldiers leaped out, regardless of mud and water.

"Shouldn't wonder if somebody got a wet foot," said Tucket, in the midst of the plunging and plashing--himself in up to his hips. "'A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!' Here, Manly, take a grip of my coat tail. I'm longer legged than you."

"I'm all right," said Frank. "I've no gun to carry, and I can get along." And he floundered on as fast as the deep, clinging ooze would permit.

"This is what they call the sacred soil!" observed Harris. "Just the thing, I should say, to breed rattle-snakes and rebels."

"I swan to man!" chimed in Tucket's voice from a distance,--for his long legs had given him an advantage in the general race,--"there ain't no shore after ye get to't. It's nothin' but salt ma'sh, all trod to pudd'n' by the fellers that have been in ahead of us. I thought we was to be _landed_; 'stead of that, we're swamped!"

The men pushed on, through marsh and swamp, sometimes in mire and water knee-deep, and now in tall, rank grass up to their eyes; the darkness adding to their dismal prospect.

"By Grimes!" mutters Jack Winch, "I don't think an island of this kind is worth taking. It's jest fit for secesh and niggers, and nobody else."

"We must have the island, because it's a key to the coast," says Frank.

"I wouldn't talk war, if I couldn't carry a gun," retorts Jack, made cross by the cold and wet.

"Perhaps before we get through you'll be glad to lend me yours," is Frank's pleasant response, as he hastens forward through grass which waves about his ears or lies trodden and tangled under foot.

"The gunboats have stopped firing," observes Atwater.

In fact, both gunboats and battery were now silent, the former having drawn off for the night.

XXIV.

THE BIVOUAC.

"There's a good time coming, and near, boys! there's a good time coming, and near!" sings out Tucket, holding his head high as he strides along, for he has caught a sight of fires beyond, and the company are now emerging upon a tract of sandy barrens, thinly covered with pines.

A road runs through the island. The advance of the column has already taken possession of it. Skirmishers have been thrown forward into the woods, and pickets are posted on the flanks.

The troops prepare to bivouac for the night. Fires are kindled, and soon the generous flames blaze up, illumining picturesque groups of men, and casting a wild glare far into the depths of the great, black, silent woods. The trees seem to stand out like startled giants, gazing at the unusual scene; and all above and around the frightened shadows lurk, in ghostly boughs, behind dark trunks, among the deep grasses, and in hollows of the black morass. And the darkness of the night overhangs the army like a vast tent, sombrely flickering.

A dry fence of cypress and pine rails is, without hesitation, appropriated to feed the fires of the bivouac; and the chilled, soaked soldiers gather around them to get warm and dry.

"My brave fellows," says Captain Edney, passing among them, "do the best you can for yourselves for the night. Try to keep warm, and get what rest and sleep you can. You will need all your strength to-morrow."

"To-morrow," observes Winch, with a swaggering, braggart air, "we're going to give the rebels the almightiest thrashing they've had yet! To wade in their blood as deep as I've waded to-night in this mud and water, that's what'll just suit me!"

"The less blood the better, boys," says Captain Edney. "But we must be prepared to shed our own to the last drop, if need be, for we're bound to sweep this island of every traitor to his country, before we leave it. Make up your minds to that, boys!"

There is that in his tone which promises something besides child's play on the morrow. He is calm, serious, spirited, resolute; and the hearts of his men are fired by his words.

The troops are full of jest and merriment as they kick off their shoes, and empty the water out of them, squeeze their dripping trousers, and, lying on the ground, toast their steaming legs by the fires.

"I say, le's have a gallus old time to-night, to pay for our ducking," suggests Jack Winch. "I don't want to sleep."

"You ought to be off in the swamps, on picket duty, then," says Harris. "Let them sleep that have a chance. For my part, I'm going to take the captain's advice. There's no knowing what sounds will wake us up, or how early."

"The sounds of muskets, I hope; and the earlier the better," says the valiant Jack. "Dang that shoe! I believe I've roasted it! Bah! look at Abe there, diving into his Testament, sure's you live."

And Winch, perceiving that Atwater paid no attention to the sneer, flung his shoe at him. The soldier was reading by the light of the flames, when the missile came, striking the book from his hands.

"Shame, shame!" cried Frank, indignantly. "Jack Winch, that is too mean."

"O, you go to"----France,--only Jack used a worse word,--"with that red rag on your arm! I don't have any thing to say to non-combatants."

Frank might not have been able to stifle his indignation but for the grave example of Atwater, who gave no more heed to Jack's shoe than he had given to his base taunt, but, silently gathering up his book again, brushed the sand from it, found his place, and resumed his reading, as composedly as if nothing had happened. Neither did Frank say any thing. But Ellis, near whom the shoe had fallen, tossed it back with a threat to consign it to the fire if it came that way again.

"Wonder if my pocket-book got wet any," said Harris, taking out his money and examining it.

"O, you feel mighty proud of your winnings!" said Jack, who seemed bent on picking a quarrel with some one.

"Yes, I do," said Harris. "I'm just so proud of it as this,"--reaching something towards the drummer boy. "Here, Frank, is all the money, I believe, that I've won off you. We're going into a fight to-morrow, and nobody knows how we shall come out of it. I want to stand right with every body, if I can."

Frank was too much astonished to accept the money. He seemed to think there was some joke in it.

"I'm in earnest," insisted Harris. "The truth is, I've been ashamed of winning your money, ever since. You didn't mean it, but you've acted in a way to _make_ me ashamed."

"I have! How?" Frank was more amazed than ever.

"Because you gave over play, though you had a chance to try again, and acted as if you had got above such foolish things. It's time we all got above them. You're a good-hearted fellow, Frank,--you've shown that,--and nobody shall say I've robbed you."

Frank took the money with a heart too full for thanks. He thought Harris a fellow of unexampled generosity, never considering how much his own example had had to do with bringing about this most gratifying result.

Atwater stopped reading, and looked over his book at Harris with a smile of pleasure and approval clear as daybreak. But the silent man did not speak.

"Well! the idea of a battle makes some folks awful pious all at once!" was Winch's comment.

Nobody heeded him. As for Frank, with triumph in his heart and money in his fist, he ran barefoot to where Seth Tucket lay sprawled before the blazing rails, feeling of his stockings, to see if they were dry enough to put on.

"Hello, young chap! how goes it? 'Stranger what dost thou require? Rest, and a guide, and food and fire.' Get down here and have a toasting. It comes cheap."

Frank sat down, and began counting the money.

"What's all that?" demanded Seth.

"All I owe you, and a little to spare!" cried Frank, elated.

"Sho, ye don't say! See here, Frank! I never meant you should trouble yourself about that. I'm all right, money or no money. I'm an independent sort of nabob--don't need the vile stuff. 'Kings may be great, but Seth is glorious, o'er all the ills of life victorious!' So put it away, and keep it, Frank."

But when the drummer boy told him how he had come by the money, and that it was his wish to settle his accounts before the battle, Tucket screwed up his face with a resigned expression, and received back the loan.

A great weight was now lifted from Frank's mind. The vexing problem, how he was to retain the watch and yet satisfy Seth's rightful claims, was thus happily solved. He could have danced for joy, barefooted, in the grassy sand. And he yearned more than ever now to see Mr. Sinjin, and make up with him.

A few rods off, in the rear of the soldiers' bivouacs, the old drummer could be seen, sitting with a group of officers around a fire of their own. His stockings were hung upon the end of a rail, and he was busy roasting a piece of pork on the end of a stick, held out at arm's length to the fire. Frank saw that it was no time to speak with him then; so he returned to his place, and sat down to put on his shoes and join those who had not yet been to supper, over their rations.

XXV.

ATWATER.

As the evening wore on, Atwater was observed sitting apart from the rest, unusually silent and grave even for him; gazing at the fire, with the book he had been reading closed and folded thoughtfully between his hands.

Now Frank, following his example, had lately formed the resolution to read a little in the Testament every night,--"if only for his mother's sake." But to-night his Testament was in his knapsack, and his knapsack was on board the schooner.

"I'll borrow Atwater's," he thought; and with this purpose he approached the tall private.

"Sit down here, Frank," said Atwater, with a serious smile. "I want to talk with you."

It was so extraordinary for the phlegmatic Abe to express a wish to talk with any body, that Frank almost felt awed by the summons. Something within him said that a communication of no trivial import was coming. So he sat down. And the tongue of the taciturn was that night, for once in his life, strangely loosened.

"I can't say it to the rest, Frank; I don't know why. But I feel as if I could say it to you."

"Do," said Frank, thrilling with sympathy to the soldier's mysterious emotion. "What is it, Abe?"

For a minute Atwater sat gazing, gazing--not at the fire. Then he lifted from the book, which he held so tenderly, his right hand, and laid it upon Frank's. And he turned to the boy with a smile.

"I've liked you from the first, Frank. Did you know it?"

"If you have, I don't know why," said Frank, deeply touched.

"Nor do I," said the private. "Some we like, and some we don't, without the reason for it appearing altogether clear. I liked you even when you didn't please me very well."

"You mean when----" began Frank, stammeringly.

"Yes, you know when. It used to hurt me to see and hear you--but that is past."

"I hope so," said Frank, from his heart.

"Yes. And I like you better than ever now. And do you know, Frank, I don't think I could say to you what I am going to, if you hadn't been in trouble yourself, lately? That makes me feel I can come near you."

"O! are you in trouble, Abe?"

"Yes,"--with another mild, serious smile. "Not just such trouble as you were in, though. It is nothing on my own account. It is on _hers_." And the soldier's voice sunk, as it always did, when he alluded to his wife.

"You have heard from her?" asked Frank, with sympathizing interest.

"Nothing but good news; nothing but good news," said Atwater, pressing the pocket where his letters were. "I wish you could know that girl's heart. I am just beginning to know it. She has blessed me! She is a simple creature--not so smart as some; but she has, what is better than all that, a heart, Frank!"

Frank, not knowing what else to say, answered earnestly, that he was sure of it.

"She has brought me to know this book," the soldier continued, his features tremblingly alive with emotion. "I never looked into it much before. I never thought much about it--whether it was true or not. But whether it is true or not, there is something in it that reaches me here,"--laying his hand on his heart,--"something that sinks into me. I can't tell how. It gives me comfort."

Frank, still not knowing how to reply, murmured that he was glad to hear it.

"Now, this is what I have been wanting to say to somebody," Abram went on, in a calm but suppressed voice. "I am going into battle to-morrow. Don't think I am afraid. I have no fear. But of one thing I am tolerably certain. I shall not come out of that fight unhurt."

The smile which accompanied these words, quite as much as the words themselves, alarmed Frank.

"Don't say that!" he entreated. "You are a little low-spirited, Abe; that's it."

"O, no! I am not low-spirited in the least. My country demands sacrifices. I, for one, am willing to die." This was said with singular calmness and cheerfulness. But the soldier's voice failed him, as he added, "It is only when I think of her----"

Frank, powerfully wrought upon, endeavored in vain to dissuade his friend from indulging in such sad presentiments.

"Well, we will hope that they are false," said Atwater, but with a look that betrayed how thoroughly he was convinced of their truth. "If I go through safely, then we can laugh at them afterwards. But much may happen in these coming twenty-four hours. Now, I am sitting here with you, talking by these fires that light up the woods so. To-morrow night, this which you call me,"--the soldier smilingly designated his body,--"may be stretched upon this same earth, and you may talk in vain--it cannot answer you."

"We don't know,--that's true," Frank agreed. "But I hope for the best."

"And that may be the best--for me. God knows. And for her, too,--though I dread the stroke for her! This is what I want you to do for me, Frank. If I fall,--_if_ I fall, you know,--you will write to her. Send back to her my last words, with the book she gave me, and her letters. You will find them all in this pocket, here. Will you?"

Frank could not refrain from tears, as he made the promise.

"That is all," said Atwater, cheerfully. "Now, my mind is easier. Now, whatever comes, I am ready. Stay with me, if you like, and we will talk of something else. Or shall we read a little together?"

"I'd like to read a little," said Frank.

And he opened the book to these words:--

"'Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul.... Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall to the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; ye are of more value than many sparrows.'"

"How came you to read there?" said Atwater with a smile.

"I don't know," said Frank. "But it seems meant for you--don't it?"

"Yes, and it somehow makes me happy. Go on."

And Frank read,--

"'Think not I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword.'"

"That is for both of us, for all of us, for all our people to-day," said Atwater. "I believe it is the struggle of Satan against Christ that has brought on this war. To attempt to build up a nation on human slavery--that is Satan. And I believe, wicked as we are at the north too, that the principle of freedom we are fighting for is the opposite of Satan. And whoever brings that into the world, brings a war that will never cease until the right triumphs, and the wrong ceases forever."

Frank was astonished. He had never suspected that in this stiff, reserved soldier there dwelt the spirit which, when their tongues are loosed, makes men eloquent.

Atwater had roused up, and spoken with earnestness. But his glow passed, and he said quietly,--

"Go on."

"'A man's foes shall be they of his own household.'"

There Frank stopped again, this time of his own accord. The words struck him with peculiar force.

"That is true too," said Abram; "of the nation, for a nation is a household; and of many, many families."

Frank studied the words a moment, and, after a struggle with his feelings, said in a hushed voice,--

"Did you know, Abe, I've a brother in the rebel army?"

"I did not know. I have heard you have one somewhere in the south."

"Yes, you have heard Jack twit me about my secesh brother. And I have been obliged to own he was a--traitor. And since I left home my folks have had a letter from him, in which he wrote that he was on the point of joining the confederate army, and that we would not probably hear from him again. So I suppose he is fighting against us somewhere."

"Not here, I hope," said Atwater.

"As well here as any where," said Frank. "I always loved my brother. I love him still. But, as you say, wicked as we are, Christ is in our cause, and----" Frank read,--

"'He that loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me; and he that loveth son or daughter more than me, is not worthy of me.'"

"And I," said the boy, lifting up his face with a patriotic, even a religious, fervor in it, "I love my country, I love the cause of right and freedom, better than I love my brother!"

"With that true of us, with that love in our hearts," said Atwater, "we can dare to fight, and whatever the result, I believe it will be well with us. See what the book says."

And Frank read on.

"'He that findeth his life shall lose it; and he that looseth his life for my sake shall find it.'"

"That is enough," said Atwater. "I can bind that sentence like an armor around my heart."

"What does it mean?"

"It means, I think, that though wickedness triumphs, it triumphs to its own confusion, for it has no immortal life. But even the death of a saint is victory."

After that the soldier seemed inclined to relapse into revery. Frank thought he did not wish to talk any more; so he gave him back the book. Abram put it in his pocket, and took the boy's hand.

"Good night, Frank," he smilingly said. "We shall see each other in the morning."

"Good night, Abe."

Frank left him. And Atwater, stretching himself upon the ground, put his arm beneath his head, and with the fire-light on his placid countenance, dismissed all worldly care from his mind, and slept peacefully.

XXVI.

OLD SINJIN.

At the foot of a pine tree, on a pillow of boughs, lies the old drum-major. The blaze of the bivouac fire covers him with its glow as with a mantle. But his face looks haggard and care-worn, and his grizzled mustache has a cynical curl even in sleep.

At a sound he starts, opening wide those watchful gray eyes an instant, then closing them quickly. It is a footstep approaching.

Stealthily it comes, and passes by his side. Then silence--broken only by the crackle and roar of the flames. At length one eye of the sleeper opens a little, and peeps; and as it peeps, it sees, sitting on the pine roots, in the broad fire-light, with his cap before his eyes shading them, and his eyes fixed wistfully on him, Frank, the drummer boy.

The eye that opened a little and peeped, closes again. The old fellow begins to snore.

"Poor old man!" says the boy to himself; "how tired he looks. And to think I have done so much to hurt his feelings! I wish I could tell him how sorry I am; but I must not wake him."

Again the ambushed eye opens, and the little corner of the sleeper's soul that happens to be _not_ asleep, reconnoitres. Frank is sitting there still, faithfully watching. A stream of electric fire tingles in that misanthropic breast, at the sight. But still the old man snores.

"I may as well lie down and go to sleep too," says Frank. And, very softly, so as not to awaken Mr. Sinjin, he lays himself down by his side, puts his cheek on the pillow of boughs, and keeps perfectly still.

The heart of the veteran burns within him, but he makes no sign. And now--hark! Patter, patter, patter. It is beginning to rain.

This, then, is what the dark canopy meant, hanging so luridly over the fire-lit forest. Patter, patter; faster, faster; dripping through the trees, hissing in the fire, capering like fairies on the ground, comes the midnight rain.

Sinjin thinks it about time to wake. But Frank is stirring; so he concludes to sleep a little longer, and see what he will do.

Frank takes some pine boughs, and lays them carefully over the old man, to shelter him from the rain. Hotter and hotter glows the old heart beneath; melt it must soon.

"There!" says Frank in a whisper; "don't tell him I did it!"

He is going. Old Sinjin can sleep--or pretend to sleep--no more.

"Hello! Who's there?"--awaking with amazing suddenness.--"That you, Frank? What are you here for at this time of night?"

"O, I'm a privileged character. They let me go around the camp about as I like, you know."

"How long has it been raining? And how came all this rubbish heaped over me?"

The pattering becomes a rushing in the tree-tops, a wild sibilation as of serpents in the fire, and a steady rattling and whizzing in the swamps.

"Well, well! this won't do, boy! Come with me!"

They run to the shelter of a huge leaning trunk and crouch beneath it.

"You're not so used to these things as I am," says the old man, shielding the boy with his arms.

"Let me bring some boughs to throw over you!" cries Frank.

"No--sit still! You have heaped boughs enough on me for one night!"

"Were you--awake?"

"One eye was a little awake."

"And you saw!"

"I saw all you did, my boy!"

Frank knows not whether to be happy or ashamed. Neither speaks. The storm is roaring in the trees. The water drips and the spray sifts upon them, At length Frank says,--

"I wanted to tell you I have the watch again, and I know who gave it to me, and I think he is one of the best old men in the world. And I wanted to say that I am very sorry for every thing I have said and done that was wrong."

The bosom of the lonely old man heaves as he answers, "Don't, my boy! don't say you are sorry--I can't stand that!" And he hugs the boy close.

"But why didn't you want me to know you gave the watch?"