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

to the fresh legions.

Poor Tom was tenderly carried by the wiry veteran and his friends to the surgeon’s quarters in the rear. There were tears in the eyes of the old man as he laid the silent form of his protégé upon the wet ground. There he sat by his charge, sorrowful beyond expression, till tremendous shouts rent the air. Tom opened his eyes.

“Glory and Victory!” shouted he, in husky tones, as he sprang to his feet.

Chapter XXXII. Honorable Mention.

The surgeon examined Tom’s wound, and found that he had been struck by a bullet over the left temple. The flesh was torn off, and if the skull was not fractured, it had received a tremendous hard shock. It was probably done at the instant when he turned to rally the men of Company K, and the ball glanced under the visor of his cap, close enough to scrape upon his skull, but far enough off to save his brains. Half an inch closer, and the bullet would have wound up Tom’s earthly career.

The shock had stunned him, and he had dropped like a dead man, while the profusion of blood that came from the wound covered his face, and his friends could not tell whether he was killed or not. He was a pitiable object as he lay on the ground by the surgeon’s quarters; but the veteran soon assured himself that his young charge was not dead.

Hapgood washed the gore from his face, and did what he could in his unscientific manner; and probably the cold water had a salutary effect upon the patient, for when Hancock and Kearney had completed their work, and the cry of victory rang over the bloody field, he was sufficiently revived to hear the inspiring tones of triumph. Leaping to his feet, faint and sick as he was, he took up the cry, and shouted in unison with the victors upon the field.

But he had scarcely uttered the notes of glory and victory before his strength deserted him, and he would have dropped upon the ground if he had not been caught by Hapgood. He groaned heavily as he sank into the arms of his friend, and yielded to the faintness and exhaustion of the moment.

The surgeon said the wound was not a very bad one, but that the patient was completely worn out by the excessive fatigues of march and battle. In due time he was conveyed to the college building in Williamsburg, where hundreds of his companions in arms were suffering and dying of their wounds. He received every attention which the circumstances would permit. Hapgood, by sundry vigorous applications at headquarters, was, in consideration of his own and his protégé’s good conduct on the battle field, permitted to remain with the patient over night.

The sergeant’s skull, as we have before intimated, was not very badly damaged, as physical injuries were measured after the bloody battle of that day. But his wound was not the only detriment he had experienced in the trying ordeal of that terrible day. His constitution had not yet been fully developed; his muscles were not hardened, and the fatigues of battle and march had a more serious effect upon him than the ounce of lead which had struck him on the forehead.

The surgeon understood his case perfectly, and after dressing his wound, he administered some simple restoratives, and ordered the patient to go to sleep. On the night of the 3d of May, he had been on guard duty; on that of the 4th, he had obtained but three hours’ sleep; and thus deprived of the rest which a growing boy needs, he had passed through the fearful scenes of the battle, in which his energies, mental and physical, had been tasked to their utmost. He was completely worn out, and in spite of the surroundings of the hospital, he went to sleep, obeying to the letter the orders of the surgeon.

After twelve hours of almost uninterrupted slumber, Tom’s condition was very materially improved, and when the doctor went his morning round, our sergeant buoyantly proposed to join his regiment forthwith.

“Not yet, my boy,” said the surgeon, kindly. “I shall not permit you to do duty for at least thirty days to come,” he added, as he felt the patient’s pulse.

“I feel pretty well, sir,” replied Tom.

“No, you don’t. Your regiment will remain here, I learn, for a few days, and you must keep quiet, or you will have a fever.”

“I don’t feel sick, and my head doesn’t pain me a bit.”

“That may be, but you are not fit for duty. You did too much yesterday. They say you behaved like a hero, on the field.”

“I tried to do my duty,” replied Tom, his pale cheek suffused with a blush.

“Boys like you can’t stand much of such work as that. We must fix you up for the next battle; and you shall go into Richmond with the rest of the boys.”

“Must I stay in here all the time?”

“No, you may go where you please. I will give you a certificate which will keep you safe from harm. You can walk about, and visit your regiment if you wish.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

Hapgood had been compelled to leave the hospital before his patient waked, and Tom had not yet learned any thing in regard to the casualties of the battle. Armed with the surgeon’s certificate, he left the hospital, and walked to the place where the steward told him he would find his regiment. Somewhat to his astonishment he found that he was very weak; and before he had accomplished half the distance to the camp, he came to the conclusion that he was in no condition to carry a knapsack and a musket on a long march. But after resting himself for a short time, he succeeded in reaching his friends.

He was warmly received by his companions, and the veteran of the company had nearly hugged him in his joy and admiration.

“Honorable mention, Tom,” said Hapgood. “You will be promoted as true as you live.”

“O, I guess not,” replied Tom, modestly. “I didn’t do any more than any body else. At any rate, you were close by my side, uncle.”

“Yes, but I followed, and you led. The commander of the division says you shall be a lieutenant. He said so on the field, and the colonel said so to-day.”

“I don’t think I deserve it.”

“I do; and if you don’t get a commission, then there ain’t no justice left in the land. I tell you, Tom, you shall be a brigadier if the war lasts only one year more.”

“O, nonsense, uncle!”

“Well, if you ain’t, you ought to be.”

“I’m lucky to get out alive. Whom have we lost, uncle?”

“A good many fine fellows.” replied Hapgood, shaking his head, sadly.

“Poor Ben dropped early in the day.”

“Yes, I was afraid he’d got most to the end of his chapter afore we went in. Poor fellow! I’m sorry for him, and sorry for his folks.”

“Fred Pemberton said he should be killed, and Ben said he should not, you remember.”

“Yes, and that shows how little we know about these things.”

“Bob Dornton was killed, too.”

“No, he’s badly hurt, but the surgeon thinks he will git over it. The cap’n was slightly wounded.” And Hapgood mentioned the names of those in the company who had been killed or wounded, or were missing.

“It was an awful day,” sighed Tom, when the old man had finished the list. “There will be sad hearts in Pinchbrook when the news gets there.”

“So there will, Tom; but we gained the day. We did something handsome for ‘Old Glory,’ and I s’pose it’s all right.”

“I would rather have been killed than lost the battle.”

“So would I; and betwixt you and me, Tom, you didn’t come very fur from losing your number in the mess,” added the veteran, as he thrust his little fingers into a bullet hole in the breast of Tom’s coat. “That was rather a close shave.”

“I felt that one, but I hadn’t time to think about it then, for it was just as we were repelling that flank movement,” replied Tom, as he unbuttoned his coat, and thrust his hand into his breast pocket. “Do you suppose she will give me another?” he added, as he drew forth the envelope which contained the letter and the photograph of the author of his socks.

A minie ball had found its way through the envelope, grinding a furrow through the picture, transversely, carrying away the chin and throat of the young lady. The letter was mangled and minced up beyond restoration. Tom had discovered the catastrophe when he waked up in the hospital, for his last thought at night, and his first in the morning, had been the beautiful Lilian Ashford. He was sad when he first beheld the wreck; but when he thought what a glorious assurance this would be of his conduct on the field, he was pleased with the idea; and while in his heart he thanked the rebel marksman for not putting the bullet any nearer to the vital organ beneath the envelope, he was not ungrateful for the splendid testimonial he had given him of his position during the battle.

“Of course she’ll give you another. Won’t she be proud of that picture when she gets it back?”

“If I had been a coward, I couldn’t have run away with those socks on my feet.”

Tom remained with the regiment several hours, and then, in obedience to the surgeon’s orders, returned to the hospital, where he wrote a letter to his father, containing a short account of the battle, and another to Lilian Ashford, setting forth the accident which had happened to the picture, and begging her to send him another.

I am afraid in this last letter Tom indulged in some moonshiny nonsense; but we are willing to excuse him for saying that the thought of the beautiful original of the photograph and the beautiful author of his socks had inspired him with courage on the battle field, and enabled him faithfully to perform his duty, to the honor and glory of the flag beneath whose starry folds he had fought, bled, and conquered, and so forth. It would not be unnatural in a young man of eighteen to express as much as this, and, we are not sure that he said any more.

The next day Tom was down with a slow fever, induced by fatigue and over-exertion. He lay upon his cot for a fortnight, before he was able to go out again; but he was frequently visited by Hapgood and other friends in the regiment. About the middle of the month, the brigade moved on, and Tom was sad at the thought of lying idle, while the glorious work of the army was waiting for true and tried men.

Tom received “honorable mention” in the report of the colonel, and his recommendation, supported by that of the general of the division, brought to the hospital his commission as second lieutenant.

“Here’s medicine for you,” said the chaplain, as he handed the patient a ponderous envelope.

“What is it, sir?”

“I don’t know, but it has an official look.”

The sergeant opened it, and read the commission, duly signed by the governor of Massachusetts, and countersigned and sealed in proper form. Tom was astounded at the purport of the document. He could hardly believe his senses; but it read all right, and dated from the day of the battle in which he had distinguished himself. This was glory enough, and it took Tom forty-eight hours thoroughly to digest the contents of the envelope.

Lieutenant Somers! The words had a queer sound, and he could not realize that he was a commissioned officer. But he came to a better understanding of the subject the next day, when a letter from Lilian Ashford was placed in his hands. It was actually addressed to “Lieutenant Thomas Somers.” She had read of his gallant conduct and of his promotion on the battle field in the newspapers. She sent him two photographs of herself, and a sweet little letter, begging him to return the photograph which had been damaged by a rebel bullet.

Of course Tom complied with this natural request; but, as the surgeon thought his patient would improve faster at home than in the hospital, he had procured a furlough of thirty days for him, and the lieutenant decided to present the photograph in person.

Chapter XXXIII. Lieutenant Somers and Others.

Tom Somers had been absent from home nearly a year; and much as his heart was in the work of putting down the rebellion, he was delighted with the thought of visiting, even for a brief period, the loved ones who thought of and prayed for him in the little cottage in Pinchbrook. I am not quite sure that the well-merited promotion he had just received did not have some influence upon him, for it would not have been unnatural for a young man of eighteen, who had won his shoulder-straps by hard fighting on a bloody field,