“Where do you suppose Thomas is?” said Mrs. Somers, as she glanced at the clock, which indicated half-past nine.
“I don’t know,” replied John. “He can’t be a great ways off. I saw him in front of the squire’s house when the committee went in.”
“The boy’s gone down to the Harbor again with the rest of the folks, talking about the war,” added gran’ther Greene, as he rose from his chair, and hobbled into his chamber adjoining the kitchen.
At ten o’clock, the mother began to be a little uneasy; and at eleven, even John had some fears that all was not well with his brother. Neither of them was able to suggest anything that could possibly have happened to the absentee. There had been no battle fought, and so nobody could have been killed. There had been no violence used in the transactions of the evening further than breaking in the front door of Squire Pemberton, so that it was not easy to believe that any accident had happened to him.
John had given a glowing account of the proceedings at the house of the squire and the family had been much interested and excited by the stirring narrative. His mother was perfectly satisfied, as no one had been injured, and hoped the great man of Pinchbrook would be brought to his senses. All these topics had been fully discussed during the evening. John had informed his mother that Captain Benson, who had formerly commanded the Pinchbrook Riflemen, intended to raise a company for the war. He mentioned the names of half a dozen young men who had expressed their desire to join. The family had suggested that this and that man would go, and thus the long evening passed away.
“I don’t see what has become of Thomas,” said Mrs. Somers, when the clock struck eleven, as she rose from her chair and looked out of the window.
“Well, I don’t see, either,” replied John. “I don’t believe there is anything going on at this time of night.”
“I hope nothing has happened to him,” continued the anxious mother, as she went to the door and looked out, hoping, perhaps, to discover him in the gloom of the night, or to hear his familiar step.
“What could have happened to him?” asked John, who did not believe his brother was fool enough to fall overboard, or permit any serious accident to happen to him.
“I don’t know. I can’t see what has got the boy. He always comes home before nine o’clock. Have you heard him say anything that will give you an idea where he is?”
“He hasn’t said anything to me.”
“Try, and see if you can’t think of something,” persisted the anxious mother.
“He hasn’t talked of anything but the war since yesterday morning.”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t know, now,” answered John, musing. “He said he should like to join the army, and go down and fight the rebels.”
Mrs. Somers had heard as much from him, but she had given no particular attention to his remarks on this subject, for they seemed wild and visionary. John’s words, under the present circumstances, appeared to be full of importance; and taking her stocking, she seated herself before the stove, and resumed her knitting. She was silent now, for her heart was heavy with the premonitions of impending trouble.
“I will take a walk down to the Harbor, mother, and see if I can find anything of him. There may be something going on there that I don’t know about. He may be at the store, talking about the war with Captain Barney and the rest of the folks.”
Mrs. Somers offered no objection to this plan, and John put on his cap, and left the house. The poor mother brooded upon her trouble for another hour, and with every new moment, the trouble seemed more real. The clock struck twelve before John returned; and more than once during his absence, as she plied her needles, she had wiped away a tear that hung among the furrows of her care-worn cheek. She had been thinking of her husband, as well as of her son. He was, or soon would be, in the midst of the traitors, and she trembled for him. Uncle Wyman was a secessionist; and, beyond this, she had not much confidence in his integrity, and if Captain Somers came home at all, his property would all be swept away, and he would be a beggar.
The events of that day were not calculated to conciliate Squire Pemberton towards them, and the farm and the cottage would pass away from them. All these things had been considered and reconsidered by the devoted mother. Poverty and want seemed to stare her in the face; and to add to all these troubles, Thomas did not come home, and, as fond mothers will, she anticipated the worst.
John entered the kitchen, and carelessly flung his cap upon the table. Mrs. Somers looked at him, and waited patiently to hear any intelligence he might bring. But John threw himself into a chair, looking more gloomy than before he left the house. He did not speak, and therefore he had no good news to tell.
“You didn’t see anything of him—did you?” asked Mrs. Somers; but it was a useless question, for she had already interpreted the meaning of his downcast looks.
“No, mother; there isn’t a man, woman, or child stirring in the village; and I didn’t see a light in a single house.”
“What do you suppose can have become of him?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. Tom is old enough and smart enough to take care of himself.”
“It’s very strange.”
“So it is. I haven’t any idea what has become of him.”
“Did you look around Squire Pemberton’s house, where he was seen last?”
“I looked about on both sides of the road, going and coming from the Harbor. I whistled all the way, and if he had been any where round, he would have whistled back, as he always does.”
“What do you suppose has become of him?” demanded the poor mother, worried beyond expression at the mysterious disappearance of her son.
“I can’t tell, mother.”
“Don’t you think we had better call up the neighbors, and have something done about it?”
“I don’t know,” replied John, hardly less anxious than his mother.
“I don’t suppose they would be able to find him if we did,” added Mrs. Somers, wiping away the tears from her face.
“I can’t think anything has happened to him, mother. If he had been on the water, or anything of that kind, I should feel worse about it.”
“If I only knew where he was, I shouldn’t feel so bad about it,” said she; and her position, certainly, was a reasonable one.
“What’s the matter, sister?” called gran’ther Greene, from his chamber. “Hasn’t that boy got home yet?”
“No, he hasn’t come yet, and I am worried to death about him,” replied Mrs. Somers, opening the door of her brother’s room.
“What o’clock is it?”
“After twelve. Thomas never stayed out so late in his life before. What do you suppose has become of him?”
“Law sake! I haven’t the leastest idea,” answered the old man. “Thomas is a smart boy, and knows enough to keep out of trouble.”
“That’s what I say,” added John, who had unlimited confidence in his brother’s ability to take care of himself.
“I’ll tell you what I think, John,” said Mrs. Somers, throwing herself into her chair with an air of desperation.
But she did not tell John what she thought: on the contrary, she sat rocking herself in silence, as though her thought was too big and too momentous for utterance.
“Well, what do you think, mother?” asked John, when he had waited a reasonable time for her to express her opinion on the exciting topic.
Mrs. Somers rocked herself more violently than before, and made no reply.
“What were you going to say?”
“I think the boy has gone off to Boston, and gone into the army,” replied she, desperately, as though she had fully made up her mind to commit herself to this belief.
“Do you think so, mother?”
“I feel almost sure of it.”
“I don’t think so, mother. Tom wouldn’t have gone off without saying something to me about it.”
“If he wouldn’t say it to me, he wouldn’t be likely to say it to you, John. It don’t look a bit like Thomas to go off and leave his mother in this way,” moaned the poor woman, wiping away a deluge of tears that now poured from her eyes.
“I don’t believe he has done any such thing, mother,” protested John.
“I feel almost certain about it, now. If the boy wanted to go, and couldn’t stay at home, he ought to have told me so.”
“He did say he wanted to go.”
“I didn’t think he really meant it. I want my boys to love their country, and be ready to fight for it. Much as I should hate to part with them, if they are needed, they may go; but I don’t like to have them run away and leave me in this mean way. I shouldn’t feel half so bad if I knew Thomas was in the army now, as I do to think he ran away from home, just as though he had done some mean thing. I am willing he should go, and he wouldn’t be a son of mine if he wasn’t ready to go and fight for his country, and die for her too, if there was any need of it. I didn’t think Thomas would serve me in this way.”
“I don’t believe he has.”
“I know he’s gone. I like his spunk, but if he had only come to me and said he must go, I wouldn’t have said a word; but to go off without bidding us good by—it’s too bad, and I didn’t think Thomas would do such a thing.”
Mrs. Somers rose from her chair, and paced the room in the highest state of agitation and excitement. The rockers were not adequate to the duty required of them, and nothing less than the whole floor of the kitchen was sufficient for the proper venting of her emotion.
“Do you mean to say, mother, that you would have given him leave to go, even if he had teased you for a month?” asked John.
“Certainly I should,” replied his mother, stopping short in the middle of the floor. “I’m ready and willing to have my boys fight for their country, but I don’t want them to sneak off as though they had been robbing a hen-roost, and without even saying good by to me.”
“If Tom were here, do you mean to say you would let him go?” demanded John, earnestly.
“Certainly I do; I mean so. But I don’t think there is any need of boys like him going, when there are men enough to do the fighting.”
“You told Tom he shouldn’t go.”
“Well, I didn’t think he really meant it. If he had—What’s that, John?” asked she, suddenly, as a noise at the window attracted her attention.
“Only the cat, mother.”
“If Thomas or you had asked me in earnest, and there was need of your going, I wouldn’t have kept either of you at home. I would go to the poorhouse first. My father and my brother both fought for their country, and my sons shall when their country wants them.”
“Then you are willing Tom should go?”
“I am, but not to have him sneak off like a sheep-stealer.”
“Three cheers for you, mother!” shouted Thomas, as he threw up the window at which he had been standing for some ten minutes listening to this interesting conversation.
“Where have you been, Thomas?” exclaimed the delighted mother.
“Open the door, Jack, and let me in, and I will tell you all about it,” replied the absentee.
“Come in; the door isn’t locked,” said John.
He came in; and what he had to tell will interest the reader as well as his mother and his brother.
Tom Somers was an enterprising young man, as our readers have already discovered; and when the door of the finished room in the attic of Squire Pemberton’s house was fastened upon him, he was not at all disposed to submit to the fate which appeared to be in store for him. The idea of becoming a victim to the squire’s malice was not to be entertained, and he threw himself upon the bed to devise some means by which he might make his escape.
The prospect was not encouraging, for there was only one window in the chamber, and the distance to the ground was suggestive of broken limbs, if not of a broken neck. Tom had read the Life of Baron Trenck, and of Stephen Burroughs, but the experience of neither of these worthies seemed to be available on the present occasion.
As the family had not yet retired, it would not be safe to commence operations for some hours. The stale, commonplace method of tying the sheets and blankets together, and thus forming a rope by which he could descend to the ground, occurred to him; but he had not much confidence in the project. He lay quietly on the bed till he heard the clocks on the churches at the Harbor strike twelve. It was time then, if ever, for the family to be asleep, and he decided to attempt an escape by another means which had been suggested to him. If it failed, he could then resort to the old-fashioned way of going down on the rope made of sheets and blankets.
The apartment in which Tom was confined was not what people in the country call an “upright chamber.” The sides of the room were about four feet in height; and a section of the apartment would have formed one half of an irregular octagon. In each side of the chamber there was a small door, opening into the space near the eaves of the house, which was used to store old trunks, old boxes, the disused spinning-wheel, and other lumber of this description. Tom had been in the attic before, and he remembered these doors, through one of which he now proposed to make his escape.
When the clock struck twelve, he cautiously rose from the bed, and pulled off his boots, which a proper respect for his host or the bed had not prompted him to do before. The house was old, and the floors had a tendency to creak beneath his tread. With the utmost care, he crawled on his hands and knees to one of the doors of the lumber hole, which he succeeded in opening without much noise.
Making his way in among the old boxes, trunks, and spinning-wheels, he was fully embarked in his difficult venture. The dust which he stirred up in his progress produced an almost irresistible desire to sneeze, which Lord Dundreary might have been happy to indulge, but which might have been fatal to the execution of Tom Somers’s purpose. He rubbed his nose, and held his handkerchief over the intractable member, and succeeded in overcoming its dangerous tendency. His movements were necessarily very slow, for he was in constant dread lest some antiquated relic of the past should tumble over, and thus disturb the slumbers of the family who occupied the chambers below.
But in spite of the perils and difficulties that environed his path, there was something exciting and exhilarating in the undertaking. It was a real adventure, and, as such, Tom enjoyed it. As he worked his way through the labyrinth of antiquities, he could not but picture to himself the surprise and chagrin of Squire Pemberton, when he should come up to the attic chamber to wreak his vengeance upon him. He could see the magnate of Pinchbrook start, compress his lips and clinch his fists, when he found the bird had flown.
“Better not crow till I get out of the woods,” said he to himself, while his imagination was still busy upon the agreeable picture.
After a series of trials and difficulties which our space does not permit us to describe in full, Tom emerged from the repository of antiquities, and stood in the open space in front of the finished chamber. With one boot in each hand, he felt his way to the stairs, and descended to the entry over the front door. All obstacles now seemed to be overcome, for he had nothing to do but go down stairs and walk out.
It often happens, amid the uncertainties of this unstable world, that we encounter the greatest trials and difficulties precisely where we expect to find none. As Tom walked along the entry, with one hand on the rail that protected the staircase to guide him, he struck his foot against the pole upon which Fred Pemberton had suspended the flag out of the window. It was very careless of the squire, when he took the flag in, to leave the stick in that unsafe position, for one of his own family might have stumbled against it, and broken a leg or an arm, or possibly a neck; and if it might have been a “cause of offence” to one of the Pembertons, it certainly laid a grievous burden upon the shoulders of poor Tom Somers.
When the pole fell, it made a tremendous racket, as all poles will when they fall just at the moment when they ought to stand up, and be decent and orderly. This catastrophe had the effect to quicken the steps of the young man. He reached the stairs, and had commenced a rapid descent, when the door of the squire’s room, which was on the lower floor, opened, and Tom found himself flanked in that direction.
“Who’s there? What’s that?” demanded the squire, in hurried, nervous tones.
Tom was so impolite as to make no reply to these pressing interrogatories, but quickly retreated in the direction from which he had come.
“Wife, light the lamp, quick,” said the squire, in the hall below.
Just then a door opened on the other side of the entry where Tom stood, and he caught a faint glimpse of a figure robed in white. Though it was the solemn hour of midnight, and Tom, I am sorry to say, had read the Three Spaniards, and Mysteries of Udolpho, he rejected the suggestion that the “sheeted form” might be a ghost.
“Who’s there?” called the squire again.
A romantic little scream from the figure in white assured Tom that Miss Susan was the enemy immediately on his front. Then he caught the glimmer of the light below, which Mrs. Pemberton had procured, and the race seemed to be up. Concealment was no longer practicable, and he seized upon the happy suggestion that the window opening upon the portico over the front door was available as a means of egress.
Springing to the window, he raised it with a prompt and vigorous hand, and before the squire could ascend the stairs, he was upon the roof of the portico. Throwing his boots down, he grasped the gutter, and “hung off.” He was now on terra firma, and all his trials appeared to have reached a happy termination; but here again he was doomed to disappointment.
“Bow, wow, wow-er, woo, row!” barked and growled the squire’s big bull dog, when he came to realize that some unusual occurrences were transpiring.
The animal was a savage brute, and was kept chained in the barn during the day, and turned loose when the squire made his last visit to the cattle about nine in the evening. Tom was thoroughly alarmed when this new enemy confronted him; but fortunately he had the self-possession to stand his ground, and not attempt to run away, otherwise the dog would probably have torn him in pieces.
“Come here, Tige! Poor fellow! Come here! He’s a good fellow! Don’t you know me, Tige?” said Tom, whose only hope seemed to be in conciliation and compromise.
If Tige knew him, he appeared to be very unwilling to acknowledge the acquaintance under the present suspicious circumstances, and at this unseemly hour. The brute barked, snarled, howled, and growled, and manifested as strong an indisposition to compromise as a South Carolina fire-eater. He placed himself in front of the hero of the night’s adventure, as resolute and as intractable as though he had known all the facts in the case, and intended to carry out to the letter the wishes of his master.
Tom slowly retreated towards the garden fence, the dog still following him up. He had tried coaxing and conciliation, and they had failed. As he cautiously backed from the house, his feet struck against a heavy cart stake, which seemed to suggest his next resort. He was well aware that any quick movement on his part would cause the dog to spring upon him. Placing his toe under the stake, he raised it with his foot, till he could reach it with his hand, keeping his gaze fixed upon the eyes of the dog, which glared like fiery orbs in the gloom of the hour.
Tige saw the stick, and he appeared to have a wholesome respect for it—a sentiment inspired by sundry beatings, intended to cure a love of mutton on the hoof, or beef on the shelf. The brute retreated a few paces; but at this moment Squire Pemberton appeared at the front door, with a lantern in his hand. He understood the “situation” at a glance.
“Take him, Tige! Stu’ boy!” shouted the squire.
The dog snarled an encouraging reply to this suggestion, and moved up towards the fugitive. Tom’s courage was equal to the occasion, and he levelled a blow at the head of the bull dog, which, if it had hit him fairly, must have smashed in his skull. As it was, the blow was a heavy one, and Tige retreated; but the shouts of the squire rallied him, and he rushed forward to the onslaught again.
Tom, as we have before had occasion to suggest, was a master of strategy, and instead of another stroke at the head of his savage foe, with only one chance in ten of hitting the mark he commenced swinging it vigorously to the right and left, as a mower does his scythe. His object was to hit the legs of the dog—a plan which was not entirely original with him, for he had seen it adopted with signal success by a fisherman at the Harbor. The consequence of this change of tactics was soon apparent, for Tige got a rap on the fore leg, which caused him to yelp with pain, and retire from the field. While the dog moved off in good order in one direction, Tom effected an equally admirable retreat in the other direction.
On reaching the road, he pulled on his boots, which he had picked up after the discomfiture of his canine antagonist. Squire Pemberton still stood at the door trying to bring Tige to a sense of his duty in the trying emergency; but the brute had more regard for his own shins than he had for the mandate of his master, and the victor was permitted to bear away his laurels without further opposition.
When he reached his father’s house, supposing the front door was locked, he went to the kitchen window, where he had heard the patriotic remarks of his mother. Tom told his story in substance as we have related it.
“Do you mean what you have said, mother?” inquired he, when he had finished his narrative.
Mrs. Somers bit her lip in silence for a moment.
“Certainly I do, Thomas,” said she, desperately.
It was half-past one when the boys retired, but it was another hour before Tom’s excited brain would permit him to sleep. His head was full of a big thought.
Thomas went to sleep at last, and, worn out by the fatigue and excitement of the day, he slept long and soundly. His mother did not call him till eight o’clock, and it was nine before he reached the store of his employer, where the recital of the adventure of the preceding night proved to be a sufficient excuse for his non-appearance at the usual hour.
In the course of the week Captain Benson had procured the necessary authority to raise a company for three years or for the war. When he exhibited his papers, he found twenty persons ready to put down their names. A recruiting office was opened at the store, and every day added to the list of brave and self-denying men who were ready to go forward and fight the battles of liberty and union. The excitement in Pinchbrook was fanned by the news which each day brought of the zeal and madness of the traitors.
Thomas had made up his mind, even before his mother had been surprised into giving her consent, that he should go to the war. At the first opportunity, therefore, he wrote his name upon the paper, very much to the astonishment of Captain Benson and his employer.
“How old are you, Tom?” asked the captain.
“I’m in my seventeenth year,” replied the soldier boy.
“You are not old enough.”
“I’m three months older than Sam Thompson; and you didn’t even ask him how old he was.”
“He is larger and heavier than you are!”
“I can’t help that. I’m older than he is, and I think I can do as much in the way of fighting as he can.”
“I don’t doubt that,” added the captain, laughing. “Your affair with Squire Pemberton shows that you have pluck enough for anything. I should be very glad to have you go; but what does your father say?”
“He hasn’t said anything. He isn’t at home. He went away before Sumter was fired upon by the rebels.”
“True—I remember. What does your mother say?”
“O, she is willing.”
“Are you sure, Tom?”
“Of course, I am. Suppose you write something by which she can give her consent, and she will sign it.”
Captain Benson drew up the document, and when Tom went home to dinner, he presented it to his mother for her signature.
“I hope you won’t back out, mother,” said he, as she put on her spectacles, and proceeded to ascertain the contents of the document.
“Back out of what, Thomas?”
“I’ve signed the muster roll, and I belong to Captain Benson’s company now.”
“You!” exclaimed Mrs. Somers, lowering the paper, and gazing earnestly into the face of the young man, to discover whether he was in earnest.
“Yes, mother; you said you were willing, and I have signed the papers; but Captain Benson wants your consent in writing, so that there shall be no mistake about it.”
The mother read the paper in silence and sadness, for the thought of having her noble boy exposed to the perils of the camp and the march, the skirmish and the battle, was terrible, and nothing but the most exalted patriotism could induce a mother to give a son to his country.
“I don’t want to sign this paper, Thomas,” said she, when she had finished reading it.
“Have you forgot what you said the other night, mother?”
“No, I haven’t forgot it, and I feel now just as I did then. If there is any real need of your going, I am willing you should go.”
“Need? Of course there is need of soldiers. The President wasn’t joking when he called for seventy-five thousand men.”
“But there are enough to go without you.”
“That’s just what everybody might say, and then there wouldn’t be anybody to go.”
“But you are young, and not very strong.”
“I’m old enough, and strong enough. When I can get a day to myself, I don’t think it’s any great hardship to carry father’s heavy fowling-piece from sunrise to sunset; and I guess I can stand it to carry a musket as long as any of them.”
“You are only a boy.”
“I shall be a man soon enough.”
“When you have gone, John will want to go too.”
“No, mother, I don’t want to go into the army,” said John, with a sly wink at his brother. “I shall never be a soldier if I can help it.”
“What am I going to do, if you all go off and leave me?” added Mrs. Somers, trying hard to keep down a tear which was struggling for birth in her fountain of sorrows.
“I don’t think you will want for anything, mother. I’m sure I wouldn’t leave you, if I thought you would. I don’t get but two dollars and a half a week in the store, and I shall have eleven dollars a month in the army, and it won’t cost me any thing for board or clothes. I will send every dollar I get home to you.”
“You are a good boy, Thomas,” replied Mrs. Somers, unable any longer to restrain the tear.
“I know you and John both will do every thing you can for me. If your father was only at home, I should feel different about it.”
“He would believe in my fighting for my country, if he were here.”
“I know he would,” said Mrs. Somers, as she took the pen which Thomas handed her, and seated herself at the table. “If you are determined to go, I suppose you will go, whether I am willing or not.”
“No, mother, I will not,” added Thomas, decidedly. “I shouldn’t have signed the muster roll if you hadn’t said you were willing. And if you say now that you won’t consent, I will take my name off the paper.”
“But you want to go—don’t you?”
“I do; there’s no mistake about that: but I won’t go if you are not willing.”
Mrs. Somers wrote her name upon the paper. It was a slow and difficult operation to her, and during the time she was thus occupied, the rest of the family watched her in silent anxiety. Perhaps, if she had not committed herself on the eventful night when she fully believed that Thomas had run away and joined the army, she might have offered more and stronger objections than she now urged. But there was a vein of patriotism in her nature, which she had inherited from her father, who had fought at Bunker Hill, Brandywine, and Germantown, and which had been exemplified in the life of her brother; and this, more than any other consideration, induced her to sign the paper.
Thousands of loving and devoted mothers have given their sons to their country in the same holy enthusiasm that inspired her. She was not a solitary instance of this noble sacrifice, and if both her sons had been men, instead of boys, she would not have interposed a single objection to their departure upon a mission so glorious as that to which Thomas had now devoted himself.
“There’s my name, Thomas,” said his mother, as she took off her spectacles. “I’ve done it, and you have my free consent. You’ve always been a good boy, and I hope you will always be a good soldier.”
“I shall always try to do my duty, mother; and if ever I turn my back to a rebel, I hope you’ll disown me.”
“Good, Tom!” exclaimed John, who had been deeply interested in the event of the hour.
“Well, Thomas, I’d rather face two rebels than that bull dog you fit with t’other night,” added gran’ther Greene. “You are as bold as a lion, Thomas.”
“Do you think I can stand it, gran’ther?” added Tom, with a smile.
“Stand it? Well, Thomas, it’s a hard life to be a soldier, and I know something about it. When we marched from—”
“Dinner’s ready,” interposed Mrs. Somers, for gran’ther Greene had marched that march so many times that every member of the family knew it by heart.
“There’s one good thing about it, Tom,” said John: “you have got a first-rate captain.”
“I’m thankful you are going with Captain Benson, for if there ever was a Christian in Pinchbrook, he is the man,” added Mrs. Somers.
“And all the company will be your own friends and neighbors,” said gran’ther Greene; “and that’s something, I can tell you. I know something about this business. When we marched from—”
“Have some more beans, brother?” asked Mrs. Somers. “You will be among your friends, Thomas, as gran’ther says.”
“That’s a great thing, I can tell you,” added the veteran. “Soldiers should stick together like brothers, and feel that they are fighting for each other, as well as for the country. Then, when you’re sick, you want friends. When we marched from Sackett’s Harbor, there was a young feller—”
“Have some more tea, brother?”
“Part of a cup, Nancy,” replied the old man, who never took offence even when the choicest stories of his military experience were nipped in the bud.
After dinner, Thomas hastened back to the store. That day seemed to him like an epoch in his existence, as indeed it was. He felt that he belonged to his country now, and that the honor of that old flag, which had been insulted by traitors, was committed to his keeping. He was taking up the work where his grandfather had left it. He was going forth to fight for his country, and the thought inspired him with a noble and generous enthusiasm, before which all the aspirations of his youth vanished.
As he passed the house of Squire Pemberton, he bestowed a pitying reflection upon the old traitor; but his mind was so full of the great event which was dawning upon him, that he did not even think of the exciting incidents which had occurred there. He had neither seen nor heard any thing of the squire since he had escaped from the attic chamber.
Just beyond the squire’s house he met Captain Barney, who was riding up to the town hall.
“What’s this I hear of you, Tom?” demanded the captain, as he reined in his horse. “They say you have joined the company.”
“Yes, sir. I have.”
“Bravo! my boy. Good on your head! You ought to go out as a brigadier general. What does your mother say?”
“I have her written consent in my pocket.”
“All right. God bless you, my boy!” said the old salt, as he started his horse.
“Thank you, sir. There’s only one thing that troubles me.”
“Eh? What’s that, my boy?” demanded Captain Barney as he reined up the horse again.
“I suppose you have heard of my scrape at Squire Pemberton’s the other night.”
“Yes; and shiver my timbers if I didn’t want to keelhaul the old traitor when I heard of it.”
“I don’t care anything about the scrape, sir; only I’m afraid the squire will bother my mother when I’m gone,” said Thomas, with some diffidence.
“If he does, he’ll settle the matter with Jack Barney,” replied the captain, decidedly.
“My father may never come back, you know, and if he does he will be a beggar. He owes the squire a note, which will be due in June.”
“I’ll pay it myself!” roared Captain Barney. “Go and fight for your country, Tom, like a man. I’ll call and see your mother once a week, or every day in the week, if you say so. She shall not want for any thing as long as I have a shot in the locker.”
“Thank you, Captain Barney; thank you, sir.”
“I’ll take care of your mother, my lad, and I’ll take care of the squire. He shall not foreclose that mortgage, Tom. Don’t bother your head about any of those things. You’re a good boy, Tom, and I’ll keep every thing all right at home.”
“Thank you, sir,” repeated the soldier boy, as Captain Barney started his horse again.
The captain was a retired shipmaster, of ample means, and Tom knew that he was not only able, but willing, to do all he had promised. His heart was lighter; a load had been removed from his mind.
At the time of which we write, recruiting officers were not very particular in regard to the age of those whom they received into the volunteer army. If the young man seemed to have the requisite physical qualifications, it was of little consequence what his age was; and Tom Somers was tall enough and stout enough to make a very good soldier.
Captain Benson examined the certificate brought to him by the young recruit, not, however, because it was deemed a necessary legal form, but because he was acquainted with his father and mother, and would not willingly have done any thing to displease them. The matter, therefore, was disposed of to the satisfaction of all the parties concerned, and Tom actually commenced his career as a soldier boy. He immediately resigned his situation in the store, for the company now numbered forty men, not half a dozen of whom had any knowledge whatever of military drill.
As the volunteers of the Pinchbrook company could ill afford to lose the time devoted to drill before they should be mustered into the service of the United States, the town voted to pay each man fifteen dollars a month for three months. This generous and patriotic action of the town rejoiced the heart of Tom Somers, for his mother actually needed the pittance he had earned at the store. Mrs. Somers had heard nothing from her husband; but the destruction of the Gosport Navy Yard, and the seizure of several northern vessels in the harbor of Norfolk, left her little to hope for in that direction. Suddenly an impregnable wall seemed to rise up between the North and the South, and she not only feared that Captain Somers had lost all his worldly possessions, but that he would hardly be able to escape himself from the fiery furnace of secession and treason.
To her, therefore, the future looked dark and forbidding. She foresaw that she and her family would be subjected to the pressure of want, or at least be dependent upon the kindness of friends for support. She had freely stated her fears to her children, and fully exhibited the insufficiency of the family resources. The vote of the town was a perfect godsend to Tom, and a fat legacy from a rich relative would not have kindled a stronger feeling of gratitude in his soul.
For the next five weeks, Tom was employed forenoon, afternoon, and evening, in the drill, and he soon made himself proficient. The company was recruited nearly up to its maximum number, and was then attached to the —th regiment, which had just been formed and ordered to Fort Warren.
On the 27th day of May, the company, escorted by the patriotic citizens of Pinchbrook, marched to Boston, and Tom took a sorrowful farewell of his mother, his brother and sisters, and a score of anxious friends.
“Now don’t let the rebels hit you in the backbone, Thomas,” said gran’ther Green, as he shook the hand of the soldier boy.
“No, gran’ther; if I can’t fight, I won’t run away,” replied Tom.
“You’ve got good blood in your veins, my boy: don’t disgrace it. I don’t know as you’ll ever see me again, but God bless you, Thomas;” and the old man turned away to hide the tears which began to course down his wrinkled cheek.
“Be a good boy, Thomas,” added his mother.
“I will, mother.”
“And remember what I’ve been telling you. I’m not half so much afraid of your being killed by a bullet, as I am of your being ruined by bad men.”
“You needn’t fear any thing of that kind, mother.”
“I shall pray that you may be saved from your friends as well as from your enemies. We shall see you again before you go off, I hope.”
“Yes, mother; we shall not be sent south yet.”
“Don’t forget to read your Testament, Thomas,” said Mrs. Somers.
“I won’t, mother,” replied the soldier boy, as he again shook hands with all the members of the family, kissed his mother and his sisters, and hitching up his knapsack, took his place in the ranks.
His heart seemed to be clear up in his throat. During the tender scene he had just passed through, he had manfully resisted his inclination to weep, but he could no longer restrain the tears. Suddenly they came like a flood bursting the gates that confined it, and he choked and sobbed like a little girl. He leaned upon his musket, covering his face with his arm.
“It’s a hard case,” said private Hapgood, who stood next to him in the ranks.
“I didn’t think it would take me down like this,” sobbed Tom.
“Don’t blubber, Tom. Let’s go off game,” added Ben Lethbridge, who stood on the other side of him.
“I can’t help it, Ben.”
“Yes, you can—dry up! Soldiers don’t cry, Tom.”
“Yes, they do, my boy,” said Hapgood, who was a little old man, nearly ten years beyond the period of exemption from military duty. “I don’t blame Tom for crying, and, in my opinion, he’ll fight all the better for it.”
“Perhaps he will, old un; but I don’t think much of a soldier that blubbers like a baby. I hope he won’t run away when he sees the rebels coming,” sneered Ben.
“If he does, he’ll have a chance to see how thick the heels of your boots are,” answered the old man.
“What do you mean by that, old un?” demanded Ben.
“Attention—company! Shoulder—arms! Forward—march!” said the captain; and the discussion was prevented from proceeding any further.
The band, which was at the head of the citizens’ column, struck up an inspiring march, and Tom dried his tears. The escort moved off, followed by the company. They passed the little cottage of Captain Somers, and Tom saw the whole family except John, who was in the escort, standing at the front gate. The old soldier swung his hat, Tom’s sisters and his mother waved their handkerchiefs; but when they saw the soldier boy, they had to use them for another purpose. Tom felt another upward pressure in the region of the throat; but this time he choked down his rising emotions, and saved himself from the ridicule of his more callous companion on the left.
In violation of military discipline, he turned his head to take one last, fond look at the home he was leaving behind. It might be the last time he should ever gaze on that loved spot, now a thousand times more dear than ever before. Never had he realized the meaning of home; never before had he felt how closely his heart’s tendrils were entwined about that hallowed place. Again, in spite of his firmness and fortitude, and in spite of the sneers of Ben Lethbridge, he felt the hot tears sliding down his cheek.
When he reached the brow of the hill which would soon hide the little cottage from his view, perhaps forever, he gazed behind him again, to take his last look at the familiar spot. His mother and sister still stood at the front gate watching the receding column in which the son and the brother was marching away to peril and perhaps death.
“God bless my mother! God bless them all!” were the involuntary ejaculations of the soldier boy, as he turned away from the hallowed scene.
But the memory of that blessed place, sanctified by the presence of those loving and devoted ones, was shrined in the temple of his heart, ever to go with him in camp and march, in the perils of battle and siege, to keep him true to his God, true to himself, and true to those whom he had left behind him. That last look at home and those that make it home, like the last fond gaze we bestow on the loved and the lost, was treasured up in the garner of the heart’s choicest memories, to be recalled in the solemn stillness of the midnight vigil, amid the horrors of the battle-field when the angry strife of arms had ceased, and in the gloom of the soldier’s sick bed when no mother’s hand was near to lave the fevered brow.
The moment when he obtained his last view of the home of his childhood seemed like the most eventful period of his existence. His heart grew big in his bosom, and yet not big enough to contain all he felt. He wept again, and his tears seemed to come from deeper down than his eyes. He did not hear the inspiring strains of the band, or the cheers that greeted the company as they went forth to do and die for their country’s imperilled cause.
“Blubbering again, Tom?” sneered Ben Lethbridge. “I thought you was more of a man than that, Tom Somers.”
“I can’t help it, Ben,” replied Tom, vainly struggling to subdue his emotions.
“Better go back, then. We don’t want a great baby in the ranks.”
“It’s nateral, Ben,” said old Hapgood. “He’ll get over it when he sees the rebels.”
“Don’t believe he will. I didn’t think you were such a great calf, Tom.”
“Shet up, now, Ben,” interposed Hapgood. “I’ll bet my life he’ll stand fire as well as you will. I’ve been about in the world some, and I reckon I’ve as good an idee of this business as you have. Tom’s got a heart under his ribs.”
“I’ll bet he runs away at the first fire.”
“I’ll bet he won’t.”
“I know I won’t!” exclaimed Tom, with energy, as he drew his coat sleeve across his eyes.
“It isn’t the cock that crows the loudest that will fight the best,” added the old man. “I’ll bet Tom will be able to tell you the latest news from the front, where the battle’s the hottest. I fit my way up to the city of Mexico long er old Scott, and I’ve heard boys crow afore today.”
“Look here, old un! If you mean to call me a coward, why don’t you say so, right up and down?” growled Ben.
“Time’ll tell, my boy. You don’t know what gunpowder smells like yet. If you’d been with the fust Pennsylvany, where I was, you’d a-known sunthin about war. Now, shet up, Ben; and don’t you worry Tom any more.”
But Tom was no longer in a condition to be worried. Though still sad at the thought of the home and friends he had left behind, he had reduced his emotions to proper subjection, and before the column reached Boston, he had even regained his wonted cheerfulness. The procession halted upon the wharf, where the company was to embark on a steamer for Fort Warren. As the boat which was to convey them to the fort had not yet arrived, the men were permitted to mingle with their friends on the wharf, and, of course, Tom immediately sought out his brother. He found him engaged in a spirited conversation with Captain Benson.
“What is it, Jack?” asked the soldier boy.
“I want to join this company, and the captain won’t let me,” replied John.
“You, Jack!”
“Yes, I.”
“Did mother say so?”
“No, but she won’t care.”
“Did you ask her?”
“No; I didn’t think of going till after I started from home.”
“Don’t think of it, Jack. It would be an awful blow to mother to have both of us go.”
For half an hour Tom argued the matter with John; but the military enthusiasm of the latter had been so aroused by the march and its attendant circumstances, that he could not restrain his inclination.
“If I don’t join this company, I shall some other,” said John.
“I shall have to go home again, if you do; for I won’t have mother left alone. We haven’t been mustered in yet. Besides, I thought you wanted to go into the navy.”
“I do; but I’m bound to go somehow,” replied John.
But what neither Tom nor Captain Benson could do, was accomplished by Captain Barney, who declared John should go home with him if he had to take him by the collar. The ardent young patriot yielded as gracefully as he could to this persuasion.
The steamer having arrived, the soldiers shook hands with their friends again, went on board, and, amid the hearty cheers of the citizens of Pinchbrook, were borne down the bay.
Tom Somers felt that he was now a soldier indeed. While the company remained in Pinchbrook, he had slept every night in his own bed, and taken his meals in the kitchen of the little cottage. He fully realized that he had bade a long farewell to all the comforts and luxuries of home. That day, for the first time, he was to partake of soldiers’ fare, and that night, for the first time, he was to sleep upon a soldier’s bed. These thoughts did not make him repine, for before he signed the muster roll, he had carefully considered, with the best information he could obtain, what hardships and privations he would be called to endure. He had made up his mind to bear all things without a murmur for the blessed land of his birth, which now called upon her sons to defend her from the parricidal blow of the traitor.
Tom had not only made up his mind to bear all these things, but to bear them patiently and cheerfully. He had a little theory of his own, that rather more than half of the discomforts of this mortal life exist only in the imagination. If he only thought that every thing was all right, it went a great way towards making it all right—a very comforting and satisfactory philosophy, which reduced the thermometer from ninety down to seventy degrees on a hot day in summer, and raised it from ten to forty degrees on a cold day in winter; which filled his stomach when it was empty, alleviated the toothache or the headache, and changed snarling babies into new-fledged angels. I commend Tom’s philosophy to the attention and imitation of all my young friends, assured that nothing will keep them so happy and comfortable as a cheerful and contented disposition.
“Tom Somers,” said a voice near him, cutting short the consoling meditation in which he was engaged.
His name was pronounced in a low and cautious tone, but the voice sounded familiar to him, and he turned to ascertain who had addressed him. He did not discover any person who appeared to be the owner of the voice, and was leaving the position he had taken on the forward deck of the steamer, when his name was repeated, in the same low and cautious tone.
“Who is it? Where are you?” said Tom, looking all about him, among the groups of soldiers who were gathered on various parts of the deck, discussing the present and the future.
“Here, Tom,” replied the voice, which sounded more familiar every time he heard it.
He turned his eye in the direction from which the sound proceeded, and there, coiled up behind a heap of barrels and boxes, and concealed by a sail-cloth which had been thrown over the goods to protect them from an expected shower, he discovered Fred Pemberton.
“What in the name of creation are you doing there, Fred?” exclaimed Tom, laughing at the ludicrous attitude of the embryo secessionist.
“Hush! Don’t say a word, Tom. Sit down here where I can talk with you,” added Fred.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ll tell if you will keep quiet a moment. Is the company full?”
“What company?”
“Captain Benson’s, of course.”
“No.”
“I want to join.”
“You!” ejaculated Tom.
“Come, come, Tom, no blackguarding now. You and I used to be good friends.”
“I’ve nothing against you, Fred—that is, if you’re not a traitor.”
“I want to join the company.”
“Is your father willing?”
“Of course he isn’t; but that needn’t make any difference.”
“But you don’t believe in our cause, Fred. We don’t want a traitor in the ranks.”
“Hang the cause! I want to go with the company.”
“Hang the cause? Well, I reckon that’s a good recommendation.”
“I’m all right on that.”
“Are you willing to take the oath of allegiance, and swear to sustain the flag of your country?”
“Of course I am. I only followed the old man’s lead; but I have got enough of it. Do you think Captain Benson will take me into the company?”
“Perhaps he will.”
“Ask him—will you? You needn’t say I’m here, you know.”
“But what will your father say?”
“I don’t care what he says.”
Tom thought, if Fred didn’t care, he needn’t, and going aft, he found the captain, and proposed to him the question.
“Take him—yes. We’ll teach him loyalty and patriotism, and before his time is out, we will make him an abolitionist,” replied Captain Benson. “What will his father say?”
“His father doesn’t know anything about it. Fred ran away, and followed the company into the city.”
“Squire Pemberton is a traitor, and I believe the army will be the best school in the world for his son,” added the captain. “It will be better for him to be with us than to be at home. If it was the son of any other man in Pinchbrook, I wouldn’t take him without the consent of his father; as it is, I feel perfectly justified in accepting him.”
Tom hastened to the forward deck to report the success of his mission. The result was, that Fred came out of his hiding-place, and exhibited himself to the astonished members of the Pinchbrook company. When he announced his intention to go to the war, and, with a pardonable flourish, his desire to serve his country, he was saluted with a volley of cheers. Captain Benson soon appeared on the forward deck, and the name of the new recruit was placed on the enlistment paper.
Fred was seventeen years of age, and was taller and stouter than Tom Somers. No questions were asked in regard to his age or his physical ability to endure the hardships of a campaign.
The steamer arrived at Fort Warren, and the company landed. After waiting a short time on the wharf, the color company of the —th regiment, to which they were attached, came down and escorted them to the parade ground within the fort. It was a desolate and gloomy-looking place to Tom, who had always lived among green fields, and the beautiful surroundings of a New England rural district.
If the fort itself looked dreary, how much more so were the casemates in which the company was quartered! But Tom’s philosophy was proof against the unpleasant impression, and his joke was as loud and hearty as that of any of his companions. The men were divided off into messes, and they had an abundance of work to do in bringing up the company’s luggage, and making their new habitation as comfortable and pleasant as the circumstances would permit.
The next day the Pinchbrook boys were designated as Company K, and placed in the regimental line. The limits of this volume do not permit me to detail the every-day life of the soldier boy while at Fort Warren, however interesting and instructive it might be to our friends. A large portion of the forenoon was devoted to squad and company drill, and of the afternoon to battalion drill. The colonel, though a very diminutive man in stature, was an enthusiast in military matters, and had the reputation of being one of the most thorough and skilful officers in the state. Tom Somers, who, since he joined the company, had felt ashamed of himself because he was no bigger, became quite reconciled to his low corporeal estate when he found that the colonel of the regiment was no taller and no heavier than himself. And when he heard the high praise bestowed upon the colonel’s military skill and martial energy, he came to the conclusion that it does not require a big man to make a good soldier. With a feeling of satisfaction he recalled the fact that Napoleon Bonaparte, when he commanded the army of Italy, was scarcely a bigger man than the colonel or himself.
The colonel was a strict disciplinarian, and he soon diffused his energy throughout the regiment. It made rapid progress in its military education. Tom was deeply interested in the details of his new profession, and used his best endeavors to do his duty promptly and faithfully. This was not the case with all the boys in the company from Pinchbrook, and I am sorry to say that some of them, including the brave and chivalric Ben Lethbridge, had to sit upon the stool of repentance in the guard room on several occasions.
Fred Pemberton was clothed in the uniform of the United States volunteers, and we must do him the justice to say that he performed his duty to the entire satisfaction of his officers. Fred was a good fellow, and barring his treason, which he had derived from his father, was highly esteemed by those who knew him. The only stain that had ever rested upon his character was removed, and he and Tom were as good friends as ever they had been. His motive in joining the army, however, could not be applauded. He thought all his friends were going off to the South upon a kind of frolic, spiced with a little of peril and hardship to make it the more exciting, and he did not like the idea of being left behind. To the sentiment of patriotism, as developed in the soul of Tom Somers and many of his companions, he was an entire stranger. He was going to the war to participate in the adventures of the —th regiment, rather than to fight for the flag which had been insulted and dishonored by treason.
Every day the steamers brought crowds of visitors to the fort to see their friends in the regiments quartered there, or to witness the drills and parades which were constantly succeeding each other. Among them came many of the people of Pinchbrook, and Tom was delighted by a visit from his whole family. His mother found him so comfortable and contented that she returned with half the heavy burden on her soul removed.
While the Pinchbrook boys were generally rejoiced to see their friends from home, there was one in the company who was in constant dread lest he should recognize a too familiar face in the crowds which the steamers daily poured into the fort. Fred Pemberton did not wish to see his nearest friends; but after he had been in the company some ten days, just as the boys had been dismissed from the forenoon drill, he discovered at a distance the patriarchal form of his father.
“My pipe’s out, Tom,” said Fred, as he rushed into the casemate where a group of his companions were resting from the fatigues of the morning.
“What’s the matter now, Fred?”
“The old man has just come into the fort.”
“Has he?”
“Yes—what shall I do?”
“Keep a stiff upper lip, Fred, and we will put you through all right,” said Sergeant Porter.
“What shall I do?” demanded Fred, who, whatever his views in regard to the justice or injustice of coercion, did not wish to be taken from the company.
“Come with me,” said the sergeant, as he led the way into an adjoining casemate. “No; nobody else will come,” added he, motioning back other members of the mess who was disposed to follow.
In the casemate to which Sergeant Porter conducted Fred, there was a pile of boxes, in which the muskets of one of the regiments had been packed. The fugitive from his father’s anxious search was directed to get into one of these boxes, from which the sergeant removed the gun rests. He obeyed; his confederate put on the lid so as to permit him to receive a plentiful supply of air, and other boxes were placed upon that containing the runaway.
Squire Pemberton presented himself before Captain Benson, and demanded his son. Fred was sent for, but could not be found. Sergeant Porter kept out of the way, and not another man in the company knew anything about him. The boys were very willing to assist the indignant father in his search, but all their efforts were unavailing. The squire examined every casemate, and every nook and corner upon the island, but without effect.
“I want my son, sir,” said the squire, angrily, to the captain. “I require you to produce him.”
“I don’t know where he is,” replied Captain Benson.
“You have concealed him, sir.”
“I have not.”
The squire appealed to the colonel, but obtained no satisfaction, and was obliged to leave without accomplishing his purpose. As soon as he had gone, Fred appeared, and the boys laughed for a week over the affair.