It was Sunday, and the exciting news had been circulated about the usually quiet village of Pinchbrook Harbor. Men’s lips were compressed, and their teeth shut tight together. They were indignant, for traitors had fired upon the flag of the United States. Men, women, and children were roused by the indignity offered to the national emblem. The cannon balls that struck the walls of Sumter seemed at the same time to strike the souls of the whole population of the North, and never was there such a great awakening since the Pilgrim Fathers first planted their feet upon the rock of Plymouth.
“Fort Sumter has surrendered!” shouted the indignant young patriot again, as his mother looked up from the blessed volume.
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mrs. Somers, as she closed the Bible, and removed her spectacles.
“Yes, mother. The infernal rebels hammered away at the fort for two days, and at last we had to give in.”
“There’ll be terrible times afore long,” replied the old lady, shaking her head with prophetic earnestness.
“The President has called for seventy-five thousand volunteers, and I tell you there’ll be music before long!” continued the youth, so excited that he paced the room with rapid strides.
“What’s the matter, Thomas?” asked a feeble old gentleman, entering the room at this moment.
“Fort Sumter has surrendered, gran’ther,” repeated Thomas, at the top of his lungs, for the aged man was quite deaf; “and the President has called for seventy-five thousand men to go down and fight the traitors.”
“Sho!” exclaimed the old man, halting, and gazing with earnestness into the face of the boy.
“It’s a fact, gran’ther.”
“Well, I’m too old to go,” muttered gran’ther Greene; “but I wa’n’t older’n you are when I shouldered my firelock in 1812. I’m too old and stiff to go now.”
“How old were you, gran’ther, when you went to the war?” asked Thomas, with more moderation than he had exhibited before.
“Only sixteen, Thomas; but I was as tall as I am now,” replied the patriarch, dropping slowly and cautiously into the old-fashioned high-back chair, by the side of the cooking stove.
“Well, I’m sixteen, and I mean to go.”
“You, Thomas! You are crazy! You shan’t do any thing of the kind,” interposed Mrs. Somers. “There’s men enough to go to the war, without such boys as you are.”
“You ain’t quite stout enough to make a soldier, Thomas. You ain’t so big as I was, when I went off to York state,” added gran’ther Greene.
“I should like to go any how,” said Thomas, as he seated himself in a corner of the room, and began to think thoughts big enough for a full-grown man.
“Fort Sumter has surrendered,” shouted John Somers, rushing into the house as much excited as his brother had been.
“We’ve heard all about it, John,” replied his mother.
“The President has called for seventy-five thousand men, and in my opinion the rebels will get an awful licking before they are a fortnight older. I should like to go and help do it.”
The exciting news was discussed among the members of the Somers family, as it was in thousands of other families, on that eventful Sunday. Thomas and John could think of nothing, speak of nothing, but Fort Sumter, and the terrible castigation which the rebels would receive from the insulted and outraged North. They were loyal even to enthusiasm; and when they retired to their chamber at night, they ventured to express to each other their desire to join the great army which was to avenge the insult offered to the flag of the union.
They were twin brothers, sixteen years of age; but they both thought they were old enough and strong enough to be soldiers. Their mother, however, had promptly disapproved of such suggestions, and they had not deemed it prudent to discuss the idea in her presence.
On Monday, the excitement instead of subsiding, was fanned to a fever heat; Pinchbrook Harbor was in a glow of patriotism. Men neglected their usual occupations, and talked of the affairs of the nation. Every person who could procure a flag hung it out at his window, or hoisted it in his yard, or on his house. The governor had called out a portion of the state militia, and already the tramp of armed men was heard in the neighboring city of Boston.
Thomas Somers was employed in a store in the village, and during the forenoon he mechanically performed the duties of his position; but he could think of nothing but the exciting topic of the day. His blood was boiling with indignation against those who had trailed our hallowed flag in the dust. He wanted to do something to redeem the honor of his country—something to wipe out the traitors who had dared to conspire against her peace. On his way home to dinner, he met Fred Pemberton, who lived only a short distance from his own house.
“What do you think now, Fred?” said Thomas.
“What do I think? I think just as I always did—the North is wrong, and the South is right,” replied Fred.
“Who fired upon Fort Sumter? That’s the question,” said Thomas, his eyes flashing with indignation.
“Why didn’t they give up the fort, then?”
“Give up the fort! Shall the United States cave in before the little State of South Carolina. Not by a two chalks!”
“I think the North has been teasing and vexing the South till the Southerns can’t stand it any longer. There’ll be war now.”
“I hope there will! By gracious, I hope so!”
“I hope the South will beat!”
“Do you? Do you, Fred Pemberton?” demanded Tom, so excited he could not stand still.
“Yes, I do. The South has the rights of it. If we had let their niggers alone, there wouldn’t have been any trouble.”
“You are as blind as a bat, Fred. Don’t you see this isn’t a quarrel between the North and the South, but between the government and the rebels?”
“I don’t see it. If the North had let the South alone, there wouldn’t have been any fuss. I hope the North will get whipped, and I know she will.”
“Fred, you are a traitor to your country!”
“No, I’m not!”
“Yes, you are; and if I had my way, I’d ride you on a rail out of town.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Yes, I would. I always thought you were a decent fellow; but you are a dirty, low-lived traitor.”
“Better be careful what you say, Tom Somers!” retorted the young secessionist, angrily.
“A fellow that won’t stand by his country ain’t fit to live. You are an out-and-out traitor.”
“Don’t call me that again, Tom Somers,” replied Fred, doubling up his fist.
“I say you are a traitor.”
“Take that, then.”
Tom did take it, and it was a pretty hard blow on the side of his head. Perhaps it was fortunate for our young patriot that an opportunity was thus afforded him to evaporate some of his enthusiasm in the cause of his country, for there is no knowing what might have been the consequence if it had remained longer pent up in his soul. Of course, he struck back; and a contest, on a small scale, between the loyalty of the North and the treason of the South commenced. How long it might have continued, or what might have been the result, cannot now be considered; for the approach of a chaise interrupted the battle, and the forces of secession were reënforced by a full-grown man.
The gentleman stepped out of his chaise with his whip in his hand, and proceeded to lay it about the legs and body of the representative of the union side. This was more than Tom Somers could stand, and he retreated in good order from the spot, till he had placed himself out of the reach of the whip.
“What do you mean, you young scoundrel?” demanded the gentleman who had interfered.
Tom looked at him, and discovered that it was Squire Pemberton, the father of his late opponent.
“He hit me first,” said Tom.
“He called me a traitor,” added Fred. “I won’t be called a traitor by him, or any other fellow.”
“What do you mean by calling my son a traitor, you villain?”
“I meant just what I said. He is a traitor. He said he hoped the South would beat.”
“Suppose he did. I hope so too,” added Squire Pemberton.
The squire thought, evidently, that this ought to settle the question. If he hoped so, that was enough.
“Then you are a traitor, too. That’s all I’ve got to say,” replied Tom, boldly.
“You scoundrel! How dare you use such a word to me!” roared the squire, as he moved towards the blunt-spoken little patriot.
For strategic reasons, Tom deemed it prudent to fall back; but as he did so, he picked up a couple of good-sized stones.
“I said you were a traitor, and I say so again,” said Tom.
“Two can play at that game,” added Fred, as he picked up a stone and threw it at Tom.
The union force returned the fire with the most determined energy, until one of the missiles struck the horse attached to the chaise. The animal, evidently having no sympathy with either party in this miniature contest, and without considering how much damage he might do the rebel cause, started off at a furious pace when the stone struck him. He dashed down the hill at a fearful rate, and bounded away over the plain that led to the Harbor.
Squire Pemberton and his son had more interest in the fate of the runaway horse than they had in the issue of the contest, and both started at the top of their speed in pursuit. But they might as well have chased a flash of lightning, or a locomotive going at the rate of fifty miles an hour.
Tom Somers came down from the bank which he had ascended to secure a good position. He had done rather more than he intended to do; but on the whole he did not much regret it. He watched the course of the spirited animal, as he dashed madly on to destruction. The career of the horse was short; for in the act of turning a corner, half a mile from the spot where Tom stood, he upset the chaise, and was himself thrown down, and, being entangled in the harness, was unable to rise before a stout man had him by the head.
“I wish that chaise had been the southern confederacy,” said Tom to himself, philosophically, when he saw the catastrophe in the distance. “Well, it served you right, old Secesh; and I’ll bet there ain’t many folks in Pinchbrook Harbor that will be willing to comfort the mourners.”
With this consoling assurance, Tom continued on his way home. At dinner, he gave the family a faithful account of the transaction.
“You didn’t do right, Thomas,” said his mother.
“He hit me first.”
“You called him a traitor.”
“He is a traitor, and so is his father.”
“I declare, the boys are as full of fight as an egg is of meat,” added gran’ther Greene.
“You haven’t seen the last of it yet, Thomas,” said the prudent mother.
“No matter, Tom; I’ll stand by you,” added John.
After dinner, the two boys walked down to the Harbor together.
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