VI.
BREAKING CAMP.
Frank was disappointed in not being able to keep that promise. An ordercame for the regiment to be ready to march in two days; in the mean timeno furloughs could be granted.
"I am sorry for you, Frank," said Captain Edney; "and I would make anexception in your case, if possible."
"No, I don't ask that, sir," said Frank, stoutly. "I did want to see myfolks again, but----" He turned away his face.
"Well," said the captain, "I think it can be arranged so that you shallsee them again, if only for a short time. You can warn them in season ofour breaking camp, and they will meet you as we pass through Boston."
This was some consolation; although it was hard for Frank to give up thelong-anticipated pleasure of visiting his family, and the satisfaction ofrelating his experience of a soldier's life to his sisters and mates. Hehad thought a good deal, with innocent vanity, of the wonder andadmiration he would excite, in his uniform, fresh from camp, and boundfor the battlefields of his country; but he had thought a great deal moreof the happiness of breathing again the atmosphere of love and sympathywhich we find nowhere but at home.
The excitement which filled the camp helped him forget hisdisappointment. The regiment was in fine spirits. It was impatient to beon the march. Its destination was not known; some said it was to be moveddirectly to Washington; others, that it was to rendezvous at Annapolis,and form a part of some formidable expedition about to be launchedagainst the rebellion; but all agreed that what every soldier ardentlydesired was now before them--active service, and an enemy to beconquered.
The two days in which time the regiment was to prepare to move, becamethree days--four days--a week; unavoidable obstacles still delayed itsdeparture, to the infinite vexation of Frank, who saw what a longfurlough he might have enjoyed, and who repeatedly sent to his friendsdirections when and where to meet him, which he found himself obliged,each time, to write in haste and countermand the next morning. Such aresome of the annoyances of a soldier's life.
But at length the long-delayed orders came. They were received withtumultuous joy by the impatient troops. It was necessary to send theponderous baggage train forward a day in advance; and the tents werestruck at once. All was bustle, animation, and hilarity in the camp; anda night of jubilee followed.
The drummer boy never forgot that night, amid all his subsequentadventures. While his companions were singing, shouting, and kindlingfires, he could not help thinking, as he watched their animated figureslighted up by the flames, that this was, probably, the last night many ofthem would ever pass in their native states; that many would fall inbattle, and find their graves in a southern soil; and that, perhaps, hehimself was one of those who would never return.
"What are you thinking about, my bold soldier boy?" said a familiarvoice, while a gentle hand slapped him on the back.
He turned and saw the bushy mustache of his friend and master, the olddrummer, peering over his shoulder.
"O Mr. Sinjin!" said Frank. (The veteran wrote his name _St. John_, butevery body called him _Sinjin_.) "I was afraid I should not see youagain."
"Eh, and why not?"
"Because we are off in the morning, you know, and I couldn't find youto-day; and----"
"And what, my lad?" said the old man, regarding him with a very tendersmile.
"I couldn't bear the thought of going without seeing you once more."
"And what should a young fellow like you want to see an ugly, battered,miserable old hulk like me, for?"
"You have been very kind to me," said Frank, getting hold of the oldman's hard, rough hand; "and I shall be sorry to part with you, sir, verysorry."
"Well, well." The veteran tried in vain to appear careless and cynical,as he commonly did to other people. "You are young yet. You believe infriendship, do you?"
"And don't you?" Frank earnestly inquired.
"I did once. A great while ago. But never mind about that. I believe in_you_, my boy. You have not seen the world and grown corrupted; you arestill capable of a disinterested attachment; and may it be long beforethe thoughtlessness of some, and the treachery of others, and theselfishness of all, convince you that there is no such thing as a truefriend." And the old drummer gave his mustache a fierce jerk, as if hehad some grudge against it.
"O Mr. Sinjin," said Frank, "I shall never think so and I am sure you donot. Haven't you any friends? Don't you really care for any body? Hereare all these boys; you know a good many of us, and every body that knowsyou half as well as I do, likes you, and we are going off now in a fewhours, and some of us will never come back; and don't you care?"
"Few, I fancy, think of me as you do," said the old man, in a slightlychoking voice. "They call me _Old Sinjin_, without very much respect,"grinning grimly under his mustache.
"But they don't mean any thing by that; they like you all the time, sir,"Frank assured him.
"Well, like me or not," said the veteran, his smile softening as helooked down at the boy's face upturned so earnestly to his in thefire-light, "I have determined, if only for your sake, to share thefortunes of the regiment."
"You have? O, good! And go with us?" cried Frank, ready to dance for joy.
"I've got tired, like the rest of you, of this dull camp life," said theold drummer; "and seeing you pack your knapsack has stirred a littleyouthful blood in my veins which I didn't suppose was there. I'm off forthe war with the rest of you, my boy;" and he poked a coal from the fireto light his cigar, hiding his face from Frank at the same time.
Frank, who could not help thinking that it was partly for his sake thatthe old man had come to this decision, was both rejoiced and sobered bythis evidence of friendship in one who pretended not to believe there wassuch a thing as true friendship in the world.
"I am so glad you are going; but I am afraid you are too old; and if anything should happen to you----" Frank somehow felt that, in that case, hewould be to blame.
The old man said nothing, but kept poking at the coal with a tremblinghand.
"Here, Old Sinjin," said Jack Winch, "have a match. Don't be _singin'_your mustaches over the fire for nothing;" with an irreverent pun on theold man's name.
"Mr. Sinjin is going with us, Jack," said Frank.
"Is he? Bully for you, old chap!" said Jack, as the veteran, with asomewhat contemptuous smile, accepted the proffered match, and smokedaway in silence. "We are going to have a gallus old time; nothing couldhire me to stay at home." For Jack, when inspired by the idea of change,was always enthusiastic; he was then always going to have a gallus oldtime, if any body knows what that is. "Here goes my shoes," pitchingthose which he had worn from home into the fire.
"Why, Jack," said Frank, "what do you burn them for? Those were goodshoes yet."
"I know it. But I couldn't carry them. The other boys are burning up alltheir old boots and shoes. Uncle Sam furnishes us shoes now."
"But you should have sent them home, Jack; I sent mine along with myclothes. If you don't ever want them again yourself, somebody else may."
"What do I care for somebody else? I care more for seeing the old thingscurl and fry in the fire as if they was mad. O, ain't that a splendidblaze! It's light as day all over the camp. By jimmy, the fellows thereare going to have a dance."
John ran off. Old Sinjin had also taken his departure, evidently notliking young Winch's company. Frank was left once more to his ownthoughts, watching the picturesque groups about the fires. It was nowmidnight. The last of the old straw from the emptied ticks had been castinto the flames, and the broken tent-floors were burning brilliantly.Some of the wiser ones were bent on getting a little sleep. Frank sawAtwater spreading his rubber blanket on the ground, and resolved tofollow his example. Others did the same; and with their woollen blanketsover them; their knapsacks under their heads, and their feet to the fire,they bivouacked merrily under the lurid sky.
It was Frank's first experience of a night in the open
air. The weatherwas mild, although it was now November; the fires kept them warm; and butfor the noises made by the wilder sort of fellows they would have sleptwell in that novel fashion. The drummer boy sank several times into alight slumber, but as often started up, to hear the singing and laughter,and to see Atwater sleeping all the while calmly at his side, the wakefulones making sport and keeping up the fires, and the flames glitteringdimly on the stacks of arms. The last time he awoke it was day; and theshort-lived camp-fires were paling their sad rays before the eternalglory of the sunrise.
The veteran Sinjin beat the drummer's call. Frank seized his drum andhurried to join his friend,--beating with him the last reveille which wasto rouse up the regiment in the Old Bay State.
After roll-call, breakfast; then the troops were drawn up under arms,preparatory to their departure. A long train of a dozen cars was at thedepot, in readiness to receive the regiment, which now marched out of theold camping-ground to the gay music of a band from a neighboring city.
After waiting an hour on the train, they heard the welcome whistle of theengine, and the still more welcome clang of the starting cars, and offthey went amid loud cheers and silent tears.
Frank had no relatives or near friends in the crowd left behind, as manyof his comrades had, but his heart beat fast with the thought that therewere loved ones whom he should meet soon.
But the regiment reached Boston, and marched through the streets, andparaded on the Common; and all the while his longing eyes looked in vainfor his friends, who never appeared. It seemed to him that nearly everyother fellow in his company saw friends either on the march or at thehalt, while he alone was left unnoticed and uncomforted. And so hisanticipated hour of enjoyment was changed to one of bitterness.
Why was it? His last letter must have had time to reach his family.Besides, they might have seen by the newspapers that the regiment wascoming. Why then did they fail to meet him? His heart swelled with griefas he thought of it,--he was there, so near home, for perhaps the lasttime, and nobody that he loved was with him during those precious,wasting moments.
But, suddenly, as he was casting his eyes for the twentieth time alongthe lines of spectators, searching for some familiar face, he heard avoice--not father's or mother's, or sister's, but one scarcely less dearthan the dearest.
"My bwother Fwank! me want my bwother Fwank!"
And turning, he saw little Willie running towards him, almost between thelegs of the policemen stationed to keep back the crowd.