The Soldier Boy; or, Tom Somers in the Army: A Story of the Great Rebellion, - [story reading .TXT] 📗

if he had to run away. He could get good wages, and he thought it was a pity that he should not do his share towards supporting the family.

Tom finished his letters, and was rejoiced to find that his friends at home were all well and happy; and in a few days more, a letter from him would gladden their hearts with the intelligence of his safe return to the regiment.

“All well—ain’t they?” asked Hapgood, as Tom folded up the letters and put them in his pocket; and the veteran could not fail to see, from the happy expression of his countenance, that their contents were satisfactory.

“All well,” replied Tom. “Where is Fred Pemberton? I haven’t seen him yet.”

“In the hospital: he’s sick, or thinks he is,” answered Hapgood. “Ben Lethbridge is in the guard house. He attempted to run away while we were coming over from Shuter’s Hill.”

“Who were killed, and who were wounded? I haven’t heard a word about the affair, you know,” asked Tom.

“Sergeant Bradford was wounded and taken prisoner. Sergeant Brown was hit by a shell, but not hurt much. The second lieutenant was wounded in the foot, and—”

A loud laugh from the men interrupted the statement.

“What are you laughing at?” demanded Tom.

“He resigned,” added Bob Dornton, chuckling.

“You said he was wounded?”

“I didn’t say so; the lieutenant said so himself, and hobbled about with a big cane for a week; but as soon as his resignation was accepted, he threw away his stick, and walked as well as ever he could.”

The boys all laughed heartily, and seemed to enjoy the joke prodigiously. Tom thought it was a remarkable cure, though the remedy was one which no decent man would be willing to adopt.

“How’s Captain Benson?”

“He’s better; he felt awful bad because he wasn’t in that battle. The colonel has gone home, sick. He has more pluck than body. He was sun-struck, and dropped off his horse, like a dead man, on the field. It’s a great pity he hasn’t twice or three times as much body; if he had, he’d make a first-rate officer.”

It was now Tom’s turn to relate his adventures; and he modestly told his story. His auditors were deeply interested in his narrative, and when he had finished, it was unanimously voted that Tom was a “trump;” which I suppose means nothing more than that he was a smart fellow—a position which no one who has read his adventures will be disposed to controvert.

A long period of comparative inactivity for the regiment followed the battle of Bull Run. General McClellan had been called from the scene of his brilliant operations in Western Virginia, to command the army of the Potomac, and he was engaged in the arduous task of organizing the vast body of loyal troops that rushed forward to sustain the government in this dark hour of peril.

While at Bladensburg the —th regiment with three others were formed into a brigade, the command of which was given to Hooker—a name then unknown beyond the circle of his own friends.

About the first of November the brigade was sent to Budd’s Ferry, thirty miles below Washington, on the Potomac, to watch the rebels in that vicinity. The enemy had, by this time, closed the river against the passage of vessels to the capital, by erecting batteries at various places, the principal of which were at Evansport, Shipping Point, and Cockpit Point. Budd’s Ferry was a position in the vicinity of these works, and the brigade was employed in picketing the river, to prevent the enemy on the other side from approaching, and also to arrest the operations of the viler traitors on this side, who were attempting to send supplies to the rebels.

It was not a very exciting life to which the boys of our regiment were introduced on their arrival at Budd’s Ferry, though the rebel batteries at Shipping Point made a great deal of noise and smoke at times. As the season advanced the weather began to grow colder, and the soldiers were called to a new experience in military life; but as they were gradually inured to the diminishing temperature, the hardship was less severe than those who gather around their northern fireside may be disposed to imagine. Tom continued to be a philosopher, which was better than an extra blanket; and he got along very well.

It was a dark, cold, and windy night, in December, when Tom found himself doing picket duty near the mouth of Chickamoxon Creek. Nobody supposed that any rebel sympathizer would be mad enough to attempt the passage of the river on such a night as that, for the Potomac looked alive with the angry waves that beat upon its broad bosom. Hapgood and Fred Pemberton were with him, and the party did the best they could to keep themselves comfortable, and at the same time discharge the duty assigned to them.

“Here, lads,” said old Hapgood, who, closely muffled in his great-coat, was walking up and down the bank of the creek to keep the blood warm in his veins.

“What is it, Hapgood?” demanded Fred, who was coiled up on the lee side of a tree, to protect him from the cold blast that swept down the creek.

“Hush!” said Hapgood. “Don’t make a noise; there’s a boat coming. Down! down! Don’t let them see you.”

Tom and Fred crawled upon the ground to the verge of the creek, and placed themselves by the side of the veteran.

“I don’t see any boat,” said Tom.

“I can see her plain enough, with my old eyes. Look up the creek.”

“Ay, ay! I see her.”

“So do I,” added Fred. “What shall we do?”

“Stop her, of course.” replied Tom.

“That’s easy enough said, but not so easily done. We had better send word up to the battery, and let them open upon her,” suggested Fred.

“Open upon the man in the moon!” replied Tom, contemptuously. “Don’t you see she is under sail, and driving down like sixty? We must board her!”

Tom spoke in an emphatic whisper, and pointed to a small boat, which lay upon the shore. The craft approaching was a small schooner apparently about five tons burden. The secessionists of Baltimore or elsewhere had chosen this dark and tempestuous night to send over a mail and such supplies as could not be obtained, for love or money, on the other side of the Potomac. Of course, they expected to run the risk of a few shots from the Union pickets on the river; but on such a night, and in such a sea, there was very little danger of their hitting the mark.

Up the creek the water was comparatively smooth; but the little schooner was driving furiously down the stream, with the wind on her quarter, and the chances of making a safe and profitable run to the rebel line, those on board, no doubt, believed were all in their favor.

“We have no time to lose,” said Hapgood, with energy, as he pushed off the boat, which lay upon the beach. “Tumble in lively, and be sure your guns are in good order.”

“Mine is all right,” added Tom, as he examined the cap on his musket, and then jumped into the boat.

“So is mine,” said Fred; “but I don’t much like this business. Do you know how many men there are in the schooner?”

“Don’t know, and don’t care,” replied Tom.

“Of course they are armed. They have revolvers, I’ll bet my month’s pay.”

“If you don’t want to go, stay on shore,” answered Hapgood, petulantly. “But don’t make a noise about it.”

“Of course I’ll go, but I think we are getting into a bad scrape.”

Tom and Hapgood held a hurried consultation, which ended in the former’s taking a position in the bow of the boat, while the other two took their places at the oars. The muskets were laid across the thwarts, and the rowers pulled out to the middle of the creek, just in season to intercept the schooner. Of course they were seen by the men on board of her, who attempted to avoid them.

“Hallo!” said Tom, in a kind of confidential tone. “On board the schooner there! Are you going over?”

“Yes. What do you want?” answered one of the men on board the vessel.

“We want to get over, and are afraid to go in this boat. Won’t you take us over?”

“Who are you?”

“Friends. We’ve got a mail bag.”

“Where did you get it?”

“In Washington.”

By this time, the schooner had luffed up into the wind, and Tom directed his companions to pull again. In a moment the boat was alongside the schooner, and the soldier boy was about to jump upon her half-deck, when the rebel crew, very naturally, ordered him to wait till they had satisfied themselves in regard to his secession proclivities.

There were five men in the schooner, all of whom were seated near the stern. Tom did not heed the protest of the traitors, but sprang on board the schooner, followed by his companions.

“Now, tell us who you are before you come any farther,” said one of the men.

“Massachusetts soldiers! Surrender, or you are a dead man,” replied Tom, pointing his gun.

Chapter XXV. In the Hospital.

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The night was very dark, so that the rebels in the boat could not distinguish the uniform of those who had applied for a passage on the schooner. Perhaps Tom Somers’s experience in the Blue Ridge and on the Shenandoah had improved his strategic ability, so that his words and his manner seemed plausible. But as strategy and cunning always owe their success to the comparative stupidity of the victims, Tom and his companions gained the half-deck of the schooner more by the palpable blundering of her crew than through the brilliancy of their own scheme.

Tom did not stop, in the midst of the exciting enterprise, to determine the particular reason of his success, as we, his humble biographer, have done. He was on the enemy’s ground, and confronting the enemy’s forces, and logic was as much out of place as rebellion in a free republican country. He was closely followed by Hapgood, and at a later period by Fred Pemberton. The nerves of the latter were not remarkably steady, and as he stepped on board the schooner, he neglected to take the painter with him; and the consequence was, that the boat went adrift. It is good generalship to keep the line of retreat open; and Fred’s neglect had deprived them of all means of retiring from the scene of action. The only alternative was to fight their way through, and find safety in success.

To Tom’s reply, that the party were Massachusetts soldiers, the rebel who had acted as spokesman for the crew, uttered a volley of oaths, expressive of his indignation and disgust at the sudden check which had been given to their prosperous voyage.

“Surrender!” repeated Tom, in energetic tones.

Two of the rebels at the stern discharged their pistols in answer to the summons—a piece of impudence which our Massachusetts soldiers could not tolerate; and they returned the fire. The secessionists evidently carried revolvers; and a turn of the barrel enabled them to fire a second volley, which the soldiers were unable to do, for they had no time to load their guns.

“O!” groaned Fred, as he sunk down upon the half-deck. “I’m hit.”

“We can’t stand this, Hapgood,” said Tom, fiercely, as he leaped into the midst of the party in the standing room. “Let’s give them the bayonet.”

“Give it to ’em, Tom!” replied the veteran, as he placed himself by the side of his young companion.

“Will you surrender?” demanded Tom, as he thrust vigorously with his bayonet.

“We surrender,” replied one of the men; but it was not the one who had spoken before, for he had dropped off his seat upon the bottom of the boat.

“Give up your pistols, then,” added Hapgood. “You look out for the boat, Tom, and I will take care of these fellows.”

Tom sprang to the position which had been occupied by the spokesman of the party, and grasping the foresheet and the tiller of the boat, he soon brought her up to the wind. Seating himself in the stern, he assumed the management of the schooner, while Hapgood busied himself in taking the pistols from the hands of the rebels, and exploring their pockets, in search of other dangerous weapons.

“How are you, Fred?” shouted Tom, when the pressing business of the moment had been disposed of. “Are you much hurt?”

“I’m afraid my time’s most up,” replied he, faintly.

“Where are you hit?”

“In the face; the ball went through my head, I suppose,” he added, in tones that were hardly audible, in the warring of the December blast.

“Keep up a good heart, Fred, and we will soon be ashore. Have you got an easy place?”

“No, the water dashes over me.”

“Can’t you move him aft, Hapgood?”

“Pretty soon; when I get these fellows fixed,” replied the veteran, who had cut the rope nearest to his hands, and was securing the arms of the prisoners behind them.

“There is