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 look at the brave soldier, and envy him.

He remembered how, not long ago, when his mother's wishes were more to him than they had been of late, he had desired to read his Testament for her sake, but had not dared to do so openly, fearing the sneers of his comrades. And his mother, in every letter, repeated her injunction, "My son, read your Testament;"--which had become to him as the idle wind. For never now, either by stealth or openly, did he read that book.

Yet here was this plain, honest soldier,--many called him dull,--for whom a word from one he loved was sufficient; he took the book as if that word were law. And the looks, the jests, which Frank had feared, were nothing to him.

Ashamed, remorseful, angry with himself, the boy lay thinking what he should do. A few bitter moments only. Then, opening his knapsack, he took out his Testament, and sitting in his bunk so that the light would shine on the page, opened it and read. His companions saw, and were surprised enough. But n.o.body jeered. What was the reason, I wonder?

And this was what Frank read. Written on a blank leaf, with a pencil, in his 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 pa.s.s 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 saw something besides the words there written. He saw himself once more a boy at home, the evening before his enlistment; pencil in hand, writing that solemn promise; his mother watching near; the bright face of his sister Helen yonder, shadowed by the thought of his going; the little invalid Hattie on the lounge, her sad face smiling very much as he saw it smiling out just now from the flowers in the coffin.

He saw his mother also, pencil in hand, writing that prayer,--her countenance full of anxious love and tears, her gentle lips tremulous with blessings. He saw her come to his bed in the moonlight night, when last he slept there with little Willie at his side, as maybe he will never sleep again. And he heard her counsels and entreaties, as she knelt there beside him; and felt her kisses; and lived over once more the thoughts of that night after she was gone, and when he lay sleepless with the moonlight on his bed.

But here he was now--not away there in the room at home, but here, among soldiers, on shipboard. And the pure, innocent Frank of that night lived no more. And all those promises had been broken, one by one. And he knew not what to do, he was so miserable.

Yet--the sudden thought warmed and thrilled his breast--he might be pure as then, he might be innocent as then, and all the stronger for having known what temptation was, and fallen, and risen again. And he might keep those promises in a higher and n.o.bler sense than he dreamed of when he made them; and his mother's prayer might, after all, be answered.

"Frank," said the voice of Captain Edney. He had come to visit the quarters of his company, and, seeing the boy sitting there so absorbed, his young face charged with thought and grief, had stopped some moments to regard him, without speaking.

Frank started, almost like a guilty person, and gave the military salute rather awkwardly as he got upon his feet. He had been secretly dreading Captain Edney's displeasure, and now he thought he was to be called to an account.

"I have something for you in my room," said the officer, with a look of serious reserve, unlike the cheerful, open, brotherly glance with which he formerly regarded the drummer boy.

Frank accompanied him, wondering what that something was. A reproof for his drunkenness, or for gambling away the watch, he expected more than any thing else; and his heart was heavy by the way.

"Did you know a mail came on board to-day?" said the captain, as they entered his stateroom.

Frank remembered hearing At.w.a.ter say he had that day got a letter from his wife. But his mind had been too much agitated by other things to consider the subject then.

"No, sir, I didn't know it."

"How happens that? You are generally one of the most eager to receive letters."

Frank hung his head. What answer could he make? That he was intoxicated in his berth when the mail arrived? A sweat of shame covered him. He was silent.

"Well, well, my boy!"--Captain Edney patted him gently on the shoulder,--"you are forgiven this time. I am sure you did not mean to get drunk."

"O, sir!" began Frank, but stopped there, over whelmed by the captain's kindness.

"I know all about it," said Captain Edney. "Tucket a.s.sures me that he and the 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 any thing of the kind again. I trust you. And here, my boy, are your letters."

He put half a dozen into Frank's hands. And Frank, as he took them, felt his very heart melt within him with grat.i.tude and contrition. He was not thinking 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 always told you I knew nothing about the watch? I did not give it to you, nor do I know what generous friend did."

"It is true, then?" Frank looked up with a half-glad, half-disappointed expression. He was disappointed to know that so good a friend was not the donor of the watch, and yet glad that he had not wronged _him_ by gambling it away. "Then, Captain Edney, I wish you would tell me what to do. 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 with deep concern. He had all along felt a sense of responsibility for the boy Mrs. Manly had intrusted to him, as well as a genuine affection for him; he had therefore double cause to be pained by this unexpected development.

"Frank," said he, "I am glad I did not first hear this story from any body else; and I am glad that the proof of your thorough repentance accompanies the confession. That breaks the pain of it. To-morrow I will see 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 winning it back with cards."

"Then how shall I ever get it?" asked Frank, in despair. For he did not wish his mother to know of the circ.u.mstances; and to buy the watch back when he was paid off again, would be to withhold money which he felt belonged to her.

Captain Edney could not solve the difficulty; and with that burden upon his mind, Frank returned to his bunk with his letters.

He bent over them with doubt and foreboding. The first he selected was from 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 sc.r.a.pe by the most downright lying. He gives the story so circ.u.mstantially 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 them tight, like a person struggling against some insupportable pain. His sister so ill? That was Hattie. He saw the name written farther back. "He says,"--"according to his account,"--who was it sending home such stories about 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 be charged 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 instantly upon that wretched youth, and choke the unmanly life out of him. John was at that moment writing a letter under the lantern, probably filling it with more tales about him;--and couldn't he tell some great ones now!--grinning, too, as he wrote; quite unaware what a tiger was watching him, athirst for his blood.

Yes. Winch had got letters to-day, and, learning what a lively sensation his stories of Frank created, had set to work to furnish the sequel to them; giving interesting particulars up to latest dates.

N. B. He was writing on the head of Frank's drum, which he had borrowed for the purpose. He had written his previous letters on the same. It was a good joke, he thought, to get the boy he was abusing to contribute some needful a.s.sistance towards the work; it added a flavor to treachery. But Frank did not so much enjoy the pleasantry. He was wild to be beating the tattoo, not on the said drum, but on the head of the rogue who was writing on the drum, and with his fist for drumsticks.

But he reflected, "I shall only be getting deeper into trouble, if I pitch into him. Besides, he is a good deal bigger than I,"--a powerful argument in favor of forbearance. "I'll wait; but I'll be revenged on him some way."

Little did he know--and as little did Winch surmise--how that revenge was to be accomplished. But it was to be, and soon.

For the present, Frank had other things to think of. He read of Hattie's fading away; of her love for him; and the tender messages she sent,--perhaps the last she would ever send to him. And he remembered his wonderful vision of her that evening. And tears came to cool and soften his heart.

And so we quit him for the night, leaving him alone with his letters, his grief, and his remorse.

XIX.

SETH GETS "RILED."