J. T. TROWBRIDGE

new york HURST & COMPANY publishers

J. T. TROWBRIDGE SERIES

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME

By J. T. TROWBRIDGE

Coupon Bonds. Cudjo's Cave. Drummer Boy, The. Martin Merryvale, His X Mark. Lucy Arlyn. Father Bright Hopes. Neighbor Jackwood. Three Scouts, The.

Price, postpaid, 50¢. each, or any three books for $1.25

HURST & COMPANY Publishers, New York

CONTENTS.

FRANK MANLY, THE DRUMMER BOY.

I.

FRANK AT HOME.

One evening, in the month of October, 1861, the Manly family were gathered together in their little sitting-room, discussing a question of the most serious importance to all of them, and to Frank in particular. Mrs. Manly sat by the table, pretending to sew; but now and then the tears rushed into her eyes, and dropped upon her work, in spite of all she could do to keep them back. Frank watched her with a swelling breast, sorry to see his mother so grieved, and yet glad in one little corner of his heart; for, although she had declared that she could not think of granting his request, he knew well, by those tears of hers, that she was already thinking of granting it.

"A pretty soldier you'll make, Frank!" said Helen, his elder sister, laughing at his ambition. "You never fired a gun in your life; and if you should see a rebel, you wouldn't know which end of the gun to point at him, you'd be so frightened."

"Yes, I know it," retorted Frank, stoutly, determined not to be dissuaded from his purpose either by entreaties or ridicule; "and for that reason I am going to enlist as a drummer boy."

"Well," exclaimed Helen, "your hands will tremble so, no doubt you can roll the drumsticks admirably."

"Yes, to be sure," replied Frank, with a meaning smile; for he thought within himself, "If she really thinks I am such a coward, never mind; she'll learn better some day."

"O, don't go to war, dear Frank," pleaded, in a low, sweet voice, his younger sister, little Hattie, the invalid, who lay upon the lounge, listening with painful interest to the conversation; "do, brother, stay at home with me."

That affectionate appeal touched the boy's heart more deeply than his mother's tears, his elder sister's ridicule, and his father's opposition, all combined. He knelt down by little Hattie's side, put his arms about her neck, and kissed her.

"But somebody must go and fight, little sister," he said, as soon as he could choke back his tears. "The rebels are trying to overthrow the government; and you wouldn't keep me at home—would you?—when it needs the services of every true patriot?"

"Which of the newspapers did you get that speech out of?" asked Helen. "If Jeff Davis could hear you, I think he'd give up the Confederacy at once. He would say, 'It's no use, since Young America has spoken.'"

"Yes; like the coon in the tree, when he saw Colonel Crockett taking aim at him," added Frank: "says the coon, 'Don't shoot! If it's you, colonel, I'll come down!' And I tell ye," cried the boy, enthusiastically, "there's something besides a joke in it. Jeff'll be glad to come down out of his tree, before we hang him on it."

"But if you go to war, Frank," exclaimed the little invalid, from her pillow, "you will be shot."

"I expect to be shot at a few times," he replied; "but every man that's shot at isn't shot, sissy; and every man that's shot isn't killed; and every man that's killed isn't dead—if what the Bible says is true."

"O my son," said Mrs. Manly, regarding him with affectionate earnestness, "do you know what you say? have you considered it well?"

"Yes," said Frank, "I've thought it all over. It hasn't been out of my thoughts, day or night, this ever so long; though I was determined not to open my lips about it to any one, till my mind was made up. I know five or six that have enlisted, and I'm just as well able to serve my country as any of them. I believe I can go through all the hardships any of them can. And though Helen laughs at me now for a coward, before I've been in a fight, she won't laugh at me afterwards." But here the lad's voice broke, and he dashed a tear from his eye.

"No, no, Frank," said Helen, remorsefully, thinking suddenly of those whose brothers have gone forth bravely to battle, and never come home again. And she saw in imagination her own dear, brave, loving brother carried bleeding from the field, his bright, handsome face deathly pale, the eyes that now beamed so hopefully and tenderly, closing—perhaps forever. "Forgive my jokes, Frank; but you are too young to go to war. We have lost one brother by secession, and we can't afford to lose another."

She alluded to George, the oldest of the children, who had been several years in the Carolinas; who had married a wife there, and become a slave-owner; and who, when the war broke out, forgot his native north, and the free institutions under which he had been bred, to side with the south and slavery. This had proved a source of deep grief to his parents; not because the pecuniary support they had derived from him, up to the fall of Fort Sumter, was now cut off, greatly to their distress,—for they were poor,—but because, when he saw the Union flag fall at Charleston, he had written home that it was a glorious sight; and they knew that the love of his wife, and the love of his property, had made him a traitor to his country.

"If I've a brother enlisted on the wrong side," said Frank, "so much the more reason that I should enlist on the right side. And I am not so young but that I can be doing something for my country, and something for you here at home, at the same time. If I volunteer, you will be allowed state aid, and I mean to send home all my pay, to the last dollar. I wish you would tell me, father, that I can have your consent."

Mr. Manly sat in his easy-chair, with his legs crossed, his hands pressed together, and his head sunk upon his breast. For a long time he had not spoken. He was a feeble man, who had not succeeded well in the business of life; his great fault being that he always relied too much upon others, and not enough upon himself. The result was, that his wife had become more the head of the family than he was, and every important question of this kind, as Frank well knew, was referred to her for decision.

"O, I don't know, I don't know, my son," Mr. Manly groaned; and, uncrossing his legs, he crossed them again in another posture. "I have said all I can; now you must talk with your mother."

"There, mother," said Frank, who had got the answer he expected, and now proceeded to make good use of it; "father is willing, you see. All I want now is for you to say yes. I must go and enlist to-morrow, if I mean to get into the same company with the other boys; and I'm sure you'd rather I'd go with the fellows I know, than with strangers. We are going to befriend each other, and stand by each other to the last."

"Some of them, I am afraid, are not such persons as I would wish to have you on very intimate terms with, any where, my child," answered Mrs. Manly; "for there is one danger I should dread for you worse than the chances of the battle-field."

"What's that?"

"That you might be led away by bad company. To have you become corrupted by their evil influences—to know that my boy was no longer the pure, truthful child he was; that he would blush to have his sisters know his habits and companions; to see him come home, if he ever does, reckless and dissipated—O, I could endure any thing, even his death, better than that."

"Well," exclaimed Frank, filled with pain, almost with indignation, at the thought of any one, especially his mother, suspecting him of such baseness, "there's one thing—you shall hear of my death, before you hear of my drinking, or gambling, or swearing, or any thing of that kind. I promise you that."

"Where is your Testament, my son?" asked his mother.

"Here it is."

"Have you a pencil?"

"He may take mine," said Hattie.

"Now write on this blank leaf what you have just promised."

Mrs. Manly spoke with a solemn and tender earnestness which made Frank tremble, as he obeyed; for he felt now that her consent was certain, and that the words he was writing were a sacred pledge.

"Now read what you have written, so that we can all hear what you promise, and remember it when you are away."

After some bashful hesitation, Frank took courage, and read. A long silence followed. Little Hattie on the lounge was crying.

"But you ought to keep this—for I make the promise to you," he said, reflecting that he had used his own Testament to write in.

"No, you are to keep it," said his mother, "for I'm afraid we shall remember your promise a great deal better than you will."

"No, you won't!" cried Frank, full of resolution. "I shall keep that promise to the letter."

Mrs. Manly took the Testament, read over the pledge carefully, and wrote under it a little prayer.

"Now," said she, "go to your room, and read there what I have written. Then go to bed, and try to sleep. We all need rest—for to-morrow."

"O! and you give your consent?"

"My son," said Mrs. Manly, holding his hand, and looking into his face with affectionate, misty eyes, "it is right that you should do something for your family, for we need your help. Your little sister is sick, your father is feeble, and I—my hand may fail any day. And it is right that you should wish to do something for your country; and, but that you are so young, so very young, I should not have opposed you at all. As it is, I shall not oppose you any more. Think of it well, if you have not done so already. Consider the hardships, the dangers—every thing. Then decide for yourself. I intrust you, I give you into the hands of our heavenly Father."

She folded him to her heart, kissing him and weeping. Frank then kissed his sisters good-night, his resolution almost failing him, and his heart almost bursting with the thought that this might be the last evening he would ever be with them, or kiss them good-night.

II.

OFF TO THE WAR.

It was a calm, clear October night. The moonlight streamed through the window of Frank's room, an he lay in bed, thinking of the evening that was past, and of the morning that was to come. Little Willie, his younger brother, was sleeping sweetly at his side. He had heard his sisters come up stairs and go to bed in the room next to his; and they were conversing now in low tones,—about him he was sure.

Would he ever sleep in that nice warm bed again? Would he ever again fold dear little Willie in his arms, and feel his dewy cheek against his own, as he did now? What was the future that awaited him? Who would fill his mother's place when he was gone from her? He had read over the prayer she wrote for him; it was still fresh in his thoughts, and he repeated it now to himself in the silence of the moonlit chamber.

When he opened his eyes, he saw a white shape enter softly and approach his bedside. There it stood in the moonlight, white and still. Was it a ghost? Was it an angel? Frank was not afraid.

"Mother!"

"Are you awake, my darling?"

"O, yes, mother. I haven't slept at all."

"I didn't mean to awake you, if you were asleep," she said, kneeling down beside him. "But I could not sleep; and I thought I would come and look at you, and kiss you once more; for perhaps I shall never see you in your bed again."

"O, mother, don't talk so. I hope I shall be spared to you a long, long time yet."

"I hope you will; but we must think of the worst, and be prepared for it, my son. If it is God's will, I can give you up. And you—you must make up your mind to brave all dangers, even to die, if necessary. It is a great and holy cause you are engaging in. It is no gay and pleasant adventure, as perhaps you think. Are you sure you have thought of it well?"

"I have," responded Frank. "I am going; and I am going to do my duty, whatever it is. For a few minutes after I came to bed, thinking of what you had said, and of leaving you, and of"—here he choked—"I was almost sorry I had said a word about going; it looked so dreary and sad to me. But I said my prayers, and now I feel better about it. I don't think any thing can shake my resolution again."

"If it is so," replied his mother, "I have nothing more to say." And she kissed him, and gave him plentiful good advice, and finally prayed with him, kneeling by his bedside.

"O, don't go, mother," said Frank; "it is such a comfort to have you here! May-be it is the last time."

"May-be it is, my son. But I must bid you goodnight. You must sleep. See how soundly Willie is sleeping all this time! He don't know that he is losing a brother."

After she was gone, Frank felt more lonesome than ever, the house was so silent, the moonshine in his chamber was so cold. But he hugged his warm little brother close to his heart, and cried very softly, if he cried at all.

I do not know how much he slept that night. No doubt his excited thoughts kept him awake until very late, for he was fast asleep the next morning when Helen came to call him.

"Hurrah!" he exclaimed, starting up; "fight for the old flag!" for he was dreaming of a battle. "Hallo!" he said, rubbing his eyes open. "That you, Helen?"

"A wide-awake drummer boy you are," she replied, with her usual good-natured irony. "You'll have to rouse up earlier than this, I tell you, if you ever beat the reveillé for the soldiers."

"So much the more reason why I should have a good nap in the morning, when I can," said Frank.

"Well, lie and sleep, if you want to," she added, with a touch of tenderness. "I thought I'd let you know breakfast was ready."

But Frank was wide awake enough now. He felt there was something great and grand in the day before him, and he was anxious to meet it. He was up and dressed in a minute. He threw open his window, and looked away towards the city, which lay dim and strange in the beautiful mists of the morning, with the crimson clouds of the sunrise lifting like curtains behind it. And the far-off roar of the rumbling streets reached his ear, inspiring him freshly with hope and action.

All the family were at breakfast, except Hattie, the sick one, when Frank came down stairs. Even Willie had crept out of bed before him, wondering what made his brother sleep so long that morning. And now he found the little fellow dividing his attentions between his breakfast and his toy gun, which had acquired a new interest in his eyes since Helen had told him Frank was going to the war.

"I'm going with my bwother Fwank," he declared, shouldering arms over his johnny-cake. "And if any body—any webel"—breathing earnestly—"hurt my bwother Fwank, me shoot 'em me will!"

"Yes," remarked Helen, "you and Frank will put down the rebellion, I've not the least doubt."

This was meant for a sly hit at Frank's youthful patriotism; but Willie took it quite seriously.

"Yes," he lisped; "me and Fwank—we put down the webellion. Take aim!"—pointing his toy at his father's nose. "Fire! bang! See, me kill a webel."

"How little the child realizes what it is to fight the rebels," said his mother, with a sigh.

"I'm afraid," said Helen, "Frank doesn't realize it much more than Willie does. He has just about as correct a notion about putting down the webellion."

"Very likely," said Frank, who had learned that the beat way to treat a joke of this kind is always to humor it, instead of being offended. For a joke is often like a little barking dog—perfectly harmless, if you pass serenely by without noticing it, or if you just say, "Poor fellow! brave dog!" and pat its neck; but which, if you get angry and raise your stick, will worry you all the more for your trouble, and perhaps be provoked to bite.

There was a silence of several minutes—Willie alone manifesting a desire to keep up the conversation on war matters. He stuck his johnny-cake on the end of his gun, and bombarded his mother's coffee-cup with it; and was about to procure more johnny-cake, in order to shell the sugar-bowl, which he called "Fort Sumter," when Helen put an end to his sport by disarming him.

"I want father to go to town with me, to the recruiting office," said Frank; "for I don't suppose I will be accepted, unless he does."

That sounded like proceeding at once to business, which Mr. Manly never liked to do. He was one of those easily discouraged men, whose rule is always to postpone until to-morrow what they are not absolutely obliged to do to-day. He waited, however, as usual, to hear what his wife would say to the proposition, before expressing himself decidedly against it. Fortunately, Mrs. Manly had energy and self-reliance enough for both.

"If you are still firmly resolved to go, then your father will go with you to the recruiting office," she said; and that settled it: for Frank was resolved—his character resembling his mother's in respect to energy and determination.

Accordingly, after breakfast, Mr. Manly, with frequent sighs of foreboding and discouragement, made a lather, honed his razor, and shaved himself, preparatory to a visit to town. Frank, in the mean while, made ready for his departure. He put in order the personal effects which he intended to leave at home, and packed into a bundle a few things he purposed to take with him. An hour passed quickly away, with all its busy preparations, consultations, and leave takings; and the last moment arrived.

"Say good-by twice to me," said Hattie, the little invalid, rising up on her lounge to give him a farewell kiss.

"Why twice to you?" asked Frank.

"Because," she answered, with a sad, sweet smile, "If you do come home from the war, perhaps you won't find me here;" for the child had a notion that she was going to die.

"O sissy," exclaimed Frank, "don't say so; I shall come back, and I shall find you well."

"Yes," replied Hattie, sorry that she had said any thing to make him feel bad; "we will think so, dear brother." And she smiled again; just as angels smile, Frank thought.

"Besides, this isn't my good-by for good, you know," said he. "I shall get a furlough, and come home and see you all, before I leave for the seat of war with my regiment." Frank couldn't help feeling a sort of pride in speaking of his regiment. "And may-be you will all visit me in camp before I go."

"Come," called his father, at the door; "if we are going to catch this car, we must be off."

So Frank abbreviated his adieus, and ran.

"Wait, wait!" screamed Willie, pulling his cap on "Me go, me go!"

"Go where, you little witch?" cried Helen.

"Me go to war, along with my bwother Fwank. Put down webellion," pouted the child, shouldering his gun, and trudging out of the door in eager haste, fearing lest he should be left behind.

Mrs. Manly was parting from her son on the doorstep, putting back a stray curl from his cheek, smoothing his collar, and whispering, with wet eyes and quivering lips, "My child, remember!"

"I will—good-by!" were Frank's last words; and he hastened after his father, just pausing on the next corner to look around at the faces in the door of his home, and wave his hat at them. There was Hattie, leaning on Helen's arm, and waving her handkerchief, which was scarcely whiter than that thin white face of hers; and there was his mother gazing after him with steadfast eyes of affection and blessing, while her hands were fully occupied in restraining that small but fiery patriot, Willie, who, with his cap over his eyes, was vehemently struggling to go with his bwother Fwank.

This was the tableau, the final picture of home, which remained imprinted on Frank's memory. For the corner was passed, and the doorway and windows of the dear old house, and the dearer faces there, were lost to sight. He would have delayed, in order to get one more look; but already the tinkling bells gave warning of the near approach of the horse-car, and he and his father had no more than time to reach the Main Street, when it came up, and stopped to take them in.

In but little more than an hour's time, by far the most important step in Frank's life had been taken. He had enlisted.