The other party was magnanimous, and declared that he too was satisfied; and old Hapgood thought they had better proceed no further with the affair, for both of them might be arrested for disorderly conduct.
“I am satisfied, Ben; but if you ever call me a baby or a calf again, it will all have to be settled over again,” said Tom, as he laid aside his musket, which he had been cleaning during the conversation.
“I don’t want to quarrel with you, Tom,” replied Ben, “but I wish you would be a little more like the rest of the fellows.”
“What do you mean by that? I am like the rest of the fellows.”
“You wouldn’t play cards.”
“Yes, I will play cards, but I won’t gamble; and there isn’t many fellows in the company that will.”
“That’s so,” added Hapgood. “I know all about that business. When I went to Mexico, I lost my money as fast as I got it, playing cards. Don’t gamble, boys.”
“I won’t, for one,” said Tom, with emphasis.
“Are you going to set up for a soldier-saint, too?” sneered Ben, turning to the old man.
“I’m no saint, but I’ve larned better than to gamble.”
“I think you’d better stop drinking too,” added Ben.
“Come, Ben, you are meaner than dirt,” said Tom, indignantly.
Old Hapgood was a confirmed toper. The people in Pinchbrook said he was a good man, but, they used to add, with a shrug of the shoulders, “pity he drinks.” It was a sad pity, but he seemed to have no power over his appetite. The allusion of Ben to his besetting sin was cruel and mortifying, for the old man had certainly tried to reform, and since the regiment left Boston, he had not tasted the intoxicating cup. He had declared before the mess that he had stopped drinking; so his resolution was known to all his companions, though none of them had much confidence in his ability to carry it out.
“I didn’t speak to you, Tom Somers,” said Ben, sharply.
“You said a mean thing in my presence.”
“By and by we shall be having a prayer meeting in our tent every night.”
“If you are invited I hope you will come,” added Tom, “for if prayers will do any body any good, they won’t hurt you.”
“If you will take care of yourself, and let me alone, it’s all I ask of you.”
“I’m agreed.”
This was about the last of the skirmishing between Tom and Ben. The latter was a little disposed to be bully; and from the time the company left Pinchbrook, he had been in the habit of calling Tom a baby, and other opprobrious terms, till the subject of his sneers could endure them no longer. Tom had come to the conclusion that he could obtain respectful treatment only by the course he had adopted. Perhaps, if he had possessed the requisite patience, he might have attained the same result by a less repulsive and more noble policy.
The regiment remained in Washington about a fortnight. The capital was no longer considered to be in danger. A large body of troops had been massed in and around the city, and the rebels’ boast that they would soon capture Washington was no longer heeded. Fear and anxiety had given place to hope and expectation. “On to Richmond!” was the cry sounded by the newspapers, and repeated by the people. The army of newly-fledged soldiers was burning with eagerness to be led against the rebels. “On to Richmond!” shouted citizens and soldiers, statesmen and politicians. Some cursed and some deprecated the cautious slowness of the old general who had never been defeated.
“On to Richmond!” cried the boys in Tom’s regiment, and none more earnestly than he.
“Don’t hurry old Scott. He knows what he is about. I know something about this business, for I’ve seen old Scott where the bullets flew thicker’n snow flakes at Christmas,” was the oft-repeated reply of Hapgood, the veteran of Company K.
The movement which had been so long desired and expected was made at last, and the regiment struck its tents, and proceeded over Long Bridge into Virginia. The first camp was at Shuter’s Hill, near Alexandria.
“Now we are in for it,” said Tom Somers, when the mess gathered in their tent after the camp was formed. “I hope we shall not remain here long.”
“Don’t be in a hurry, my brave boy,” said old Hapgood. “We may stop here a month.”
“I hope not.”
“Don’t hope anything about it, Tom. Take things as they come.”
But the impatience of the soldier boy was soon relieved; for at daylight on the morning of the 16th of July, the regiment was routed out, the tents were struck, and at nine o’clock they took up the line of march to the southward. It was “on to Richmond,” in earnest, now, and merrily marched the men, who little knew what trials and sufferings, what scenes of blood and death, lay in their path.
The little colonel’s command had been put in Franklin’s brigade, which formed a part of Heintzelman’s division; but little did Tom or his fellow-soldiers know of anything but their own regiment. The “sacred soil” of Virginia seemed to be covered with Federal soldiers, and whichever way he turned, columns of troops might be seen, all obedient to the one grand impulse of the loyal nation—“On to Richmond.”
The great wagons, gun carriages, and caissons rolling slowly along, the rattling drums, with here and there the inspiring strains of a band, the general officers, with their staffs, were full of interest and excitement to the soldier boy; and though the business before him was stern and terrible, yet it seemed like some great pageant, moving grandly along to celebrate, rather than win, a glorious triumph.
The novelty of the movement, however, soon wore away, and it required only a few hours to convince the inexperienced soldiers in our regiment that it was no idle pageant in which they were engaged. The short intervals of rest which were occasionally allowed were moments to be appreciated. All day long they toiled upon their weary way, praying for the night to come, with its coveted hours of repose. The night did come, but it brought no rest to the weary and footsore soldiers.
Tom was terribly fatigued. His knapsack, which had been light upon his buoyant frame in the morning, now seemed to weigh two hundred pounds, while his musket had grown proportionally heavy. Hour after hour, in the darkness of that gloomy night, he trudged on, keeping his place in the ranks with a resolution which neither the long hours nor the weary miles could break down.
“I can’t stand this much longer,” whined Ben Lethbridge. “I shall drop pretty soon, and die by the roadside.”
“No, you won’t,” added Hapgood. “Stick to it a little while longer; never say die.”
“I can’t stand it.”
“Yes, you can. Only think you can, and you can,” added the veteran.
“What do they think we are made of? We can’t march all day and all night. I wish I was at home.”
“I wish I hadn’t come,” said Fred Pemberton.
“Cheer up! cheer up, boys. Stick to it a little longer,” said the veteran.
It was three o’clock the next morning before they were permitted to halt, when the boys rolled themselves up in their blankets, and dropped upon the ground. It was positive enjoyment to Tom, and he felt happy; for rest was happiness when the body was all worn out. A thought of the cottage and of his mother crossed his mind, and he dropped asleep to dream of the joys of home.
Short and sweet was that blessed time of rest; for at four o’clock, after only one brief hour of repose, the regiment was turned out again, and resumed its weary march to the southward. But that short interval of rest was a fountain of strength to Tom, and without a murmur he took his place by the side of his grumbling companions. Ben and Fred were disgusted with the army, and wanted to go back; but that was impossible.
Again, for weary hours, they toiled upon the march. They passed Fairfax, and encamped near the railroad station, where a full night’s rest was allowed them. By the advice of Hapgood, Tom went to a brook, and washed his aching feet in cold water. The veteran campaigner gave him other useful hints, which were of great service to him. That night he had as good reason to bless the memory of the man who invented sleep as ever Sancho Panza had, and every hour was fully improved.
At six o’clock, the next morning, the regiment marched again. Tom’s legs were stiff, but he felt so much better than on the preceding day, that he began to think that he could stand any thing. In the early part of the afternoon his ears were saluted by a new sound—one which enabled him more fully than before to realize the nature of the mission upon which he had been sent. It was the roar of cannon. On that day was fought the battle of Blackburn’s Ford; and when the regiment reached its halting-place at Centreville, the story of the fight was told by enthusiastic lips. Massachusetts men had stood firm and resolute before the artillery and musketry of the rebels, and every man who heard the story was proud that he hailed from the Old Bay State, and panted for the time when he might show himself worthy of his origin, and true to the traditions of the past.
The regiment lay in camp the two following days, and the men had an opportunity to recover in some measure from the fatigues of their first severe march. Visions of glory and victory were beginning to dawn upon them. They had listened to the cannon of the enemy, and they knew that the rebels were not many miles distant in front of them. A few days, perhaps a few hours, would elapse before the terrible conflict would commence. Some of those manly forms must soon sleep in the soldier’s grave; some of those beating hearts must soon cease to beat forever; but still the brave and the true longed for the hour that would enable them to “strike home” for the nation’s salvation.
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