XVIII.
BITTER THINGS.
Atwater could not have said much to comfort him, even if he had had theopportunity. Some young fellows who had heard of Frank's losses at bluff,and of his intoxication, saw him on deck, and came crowding around tohave some jokes with him. Atwater retired. And Frank, who had littlerelish for jokes just then, went below, and got into his berth, where hecould be quiet, and think a little.
But thinking alone there with his conscience was torture to him. Heturned on his bed and looked, and saw Atwater sitting in his bunk, witha book in his hand, reading by the dim light. The card-playing was goingon close by, and jokes and oaths and laughter were heard on all sides;but Atwater heeded no one, and no one heeded him.
Only Frank: he regarded the still, earnest soldier a long time, silentlyadmiring his calmness and strength, so perfectly expressed in his mild,firm, kindly, taciturn face, and wondering what book he had.
"What are you reading, Atwater?" he at length asked.
"My Bible," replied the soldier, giving him a grave, pleasant smile.
Frank felt pained,--almost jealous. I can't tell how it is, but we don'tlike too well the sight of our companions cheerfully performing thoseduties which we neglect or hate. Cain slew Abel for that cause.
"I didn't know you read that," said Frank.
"I never have too much. But my wife----" The soldier's voice always sunkwith a peculiarly tender thrill whenever he spoke of his bride of anhour, or rather of a minute, whom he had wedded and left in such haste."She slipped a Bible in my knapsack unbeknown to me. I had a letter fromher to-day, in which she asked me if I read it. So I must read it, andsay yes, if only to please her. But the truth is," said Atwater, with abrightening eye, "I find good in it I never thought was there before."
Frank had no word to answer him. Conscience-stricken, sick at heart,miserable as he could be, he could only lie there in his berth, and lookat the brave soldier, and envy him.
He remembered how, not long ago, when his mother's wishes were more tohim than they had been of late, he had desired to read his Testament forher sake, but had not dared to do so openly, fearing the sneers of hiscomrades. And his mother, in every letter, repeated her injunction, "Myson, read your Testament;"--which had become to him as the idle wind. Fornever now, either by stealth or openly, did he read that book.
Yet here was this plain, honest soldier,--many called him dull,--for whoma word from one he loved was sufficient; he took the book as if that wordwere law. And the looks, the jests, which Frank had feared, were nothingto him.
Ashamed, remorseful, angry with himself, the boy lay thinking what heshould do. A few bitter moments only. Then, opening his knapsack, he tookout his Testament, and sitting in his bunk so that the light would shineon the page, opened it and read. His companions saw, and were surprisedenough. But nobody jeered. What was the reason, I wonder?
And this was what Frank read. Written on a blank leaf, with a pencil, inhis own hand, were these words:--
_"I do now solemnly promise my mother and sisters that, when I am in the army, I will never be guilty of swearing, or gambling, or drinking, or any other mean thing I know they would not approve of. And I do solemnly pledge my word that they shall sooner hear of my death than of my being guilty of any of those things._ Frank Manly."
And beneath those words were written these also, in his mother's hand:--
_"O heavenly Father! I beseech Thee, help my dear son to keep his promises. Give him strength to resist temptation. Save him, I pray Thee, from those who kill the body, but above all from those who kill the soul. If it be Thy gracious will, let him pass safely through whatever evils may beset him, and return to us uncontaminated and unhurt. But if this may not be, then, O, our Saviour! take him, take my precious child, I implore Thee, pure unto Thyself. And help us all so to live, that we shall meet again in joy and peace, if not here, hereafter. Amen._"
Frank did not turn that page, but sat looking at it long. And he sawsomething besides the words there written. He saw himself once more a boyat home, the evening before his enlistment; pencil in hand, writing thatsolemn promise; his mother watching near; the bright face of his sisterHelen yonder, shadowed by the thought of his going; the little invalidHattie on the lounge, her sad face smiling very much as he saw it smilingout just now from the flowers in the coffin.
He saw his mother also, pencil in hand, writing that prayer,--hercountenance full of anxious love and tears, her gentle lips tremulouswith blessings. He saw her come to his bed in the moonlight night, whenlast he slept there with little Willie at his side, as maybe he willnever sleep again. And he heard her counsels and entreaties, as she kneltthere beside him; and felt her kisses; and lived over once more thethoughts of that night after she was gone, and when he lay sleepless withthe moonlight on his bed.
But here he was now--not away there in the room at home, but here, amongsoldiers, on shipboard. And the pure, innocent Frank of that night livedno more. And all those promises had been broken, one by one. And he knewnot what to do, he was so miserable.
Yet--the sudden thought warmed and thrilled his breast--he might be pureas then, he might be innocent as then, and all the stronger for havingknown what temptation was, and fallen, and risen again. And he might keepthose promises in a higher and nobler sense than he dreamed of when hemade them; and his mother's prayer might, after all, be answered.
"Frank," said the voice of Captain Edney. He had come to visit thequarters of his company, and, seeing the boy sitting there so absorbed,his young face charged with thought and grief, had stopped some momentsto regard him, without speaking.
Frank started, almost like a guilty person, and gave the military saluterather awkwardly as he got upon his feet. He had been secretly dreadingCaptain Edney's displeasure, and now he thought he was to be called to anaccount.
"I have something for you in my room," said the officer, with a look ofserious reserve, unlike the cheerful, open, brotherly glance with whichhe formerly regarded the drummer boy.
Frank accompanied him, wondering what that something was. A reproof forhis drunkenness, or for gambling away the watch, he expected more thanany thing else; and his heart was heavy by the way.
"Did you know a mail came on board to-day?" said the captain, as theyentered his stateroom.
Frank remembered hearing Atwater say he had that day got a letter fromhis wife. But his mind had been too much agitated by other things toconsider the subject then.
"No, sir, I didn't know it."
"How happens that? You are generally one of the most eager to receiveletters."
Frank hung his head. What answer could he make? That he was intoxicatedin his berth when the mail arrived? A sweat of shame covered him. He wassilent.
"Well, well, my boy!"--Captain Edney patted him gently on theshoulder,--"you are forgiven this time. I am sure you did not mean toget drunk."
"O, sir!" began Frank, but stopped there, over whelmed by the captain'skindness.
"I know all about it," said Captain Edney. "Tucket assures me that he andthe rest were more to blame than you. But, for the sake of your friends,Frank, take warning by this experience, and never be betrayed into anything of the kind again. I trust you. And here, my boy, are yourletters."
He put half a dozen into Frank's hands. And Frank, as he took them, felthis very heart melt within him with gratitude and contrition. He was notthinking so much of the letters as of Captain Edney and his watch.
"Forgive me; forgive me!" he humbly entreated.
"I do, freely, as I told you," said the captain.
"But--the watch you gave me!"
"Dear boy!"--the captain put his arm kindly about him,--"haven't I alwaystold you I knew nothing about the watch? I did not give it to you, nor doI know what generous friend did."
"It is true, then?" Frank looked up with a half-glad, half-disappointedexpression. He was disappointed to know tha
t so good a friend was notthe donor of the watch, and yet glad that he had not wronged _him_ bygambling it away. "Then, Captain Edney, I wish you would tell me what todo. I have done the worst and meanest thing. I have lost the watch."
And he went on to relate how he had lost it. Captain Edney heard him withdeep concern. He had all along felt a sense of responsibility for the boyMrs. Manly had intrusted to him, as well as a genuine affection for him;he had therefore double cause to be pained by this unexpecteddevelopment.
"Frank," said he, "I am glad I did not first hear this story from anybody else; and I am glad that the proof of your thorough repentanceaccompanies the confession. That breaks the pain of it. To-morrow I willsee what can be done about the watch. Perhaps we shall get it again.To-night I have only one piece of advice to give. Don't think of winningit back with cards."
"Then how shall I ever get it?" asked Frank, in despair. For he did notwish his mother to know of the circumstances; and to buy the watch backwhen he was paid off again, would be to withhold money which he feltbelonged to her.
Captain Edney could not solve the difficulty; and with that burden uponhis mind, Frank returned to his bunk with his letters.
He bent over them with doubt and foreboding. The first he selected wasfrom his mother. As he opened it, his eye caught these words:--
"... He says that you beat some of the worst men in the regiment at their own vices. He says you are generally smoking, except when you take out your pipe to swear. According to his account, you are one of the profanest of the profane. And he tells of your going with others to steal turkeys of a secessionist in Maryland, and how you got out of the scrape by the most downright lying. He gives the story so circumstantially that I cannot think he invented it, but am compelled to believe there is something in it. O, my child, is it possible? Ill as your sister is, to hear these things of you is a greater trial than the thought of parting with her so soon. Have you forgotten your promises to me? Have you forgotten----"
Frank could read no more. He gnashed his teeth together, and held themtight, like a person struggling against some insupportable pain. Hissister so ill? That was Hattie. He saw the name written farther back. "Hesays,"--"according to his account,"--who was it sending home such storiesabout him? He glanced up the page, until his eye fell upon the name.
"_John Winch_----"
O, but this was too much! To be accused of swearing by _him_! To becharged with stealing by one who went with him to steal, and did not,only because he was a coward! Frank felt an impulse to fall instantlyupon that wretched youth, and choke the unmanly life out of him. Johnwas at that moment writing a letter under the lantern, probably fillingit with more tales about him;--and couldn't he tell some great onesnow!--grinning, too, as he wrote; quite unaware what a tiger waswatching him, athirst for his blood.
Yes. Winch had got letters to-day, and, learning what a lively sensationhis stories of Frank created, had set to work to furnish the sequel tothem; giving interesting particulars up to latest dates.
N. B. He was writing on the head of Frank's drum, which he had borrowedfor the purpose. He had written his previous letters on the same. It wasa good joke, he thought, to get the boy he was abusing to contribute someneedful assistance towards the work; it added a flavor to treachery. ButFrank did not so much enjoy the pleasantry. He was wild to be beating thetattoo, not on the said drum, but on the head of the rogue who waswriting on the drum, and with his fist for drumsticks.
But he reflected, "I shall only be getting deeper into trouble, if Ipitch into him. Besides, he is a good deal bigger than I,"--a powerfulargument in favor of forbearance. "I'll wait; but I'll be revenged on himsome way."
Little did he know--and as little did Winch surmise--how that revenge wasto be accomplished. But it was to be, and soon.
For the present, Frank had other things to think of. He read of Hattie'sfading away; of her love for him; and the tender messages shesent,--perhaps the last she would ever send to him. And he remembered hiswonderful vision of her that evening. And tears came to cool and softenhis heart.
And so we quit him for the night, leaving him alone with his letters, hisgrief, and his remorse.