“Tom Somers! Tom Somers!” shouted several of his comrades, as soon as they recognized him.
“Three cheers for Tom Somers!” shouted Bob Dornton.
The soldier boy was a favorite in the company, and his return was sufficient to justify such a proceeding. The cheers, therefore, were given with tremendous enthusiasm.
“Tom, I’m glad to see you!” said old Hapgood, with extended hand, while his eyes filled with tears. “I was afeared we should never see you again.”
The fugitive shook hands with every member of the company who was present. His reception was in the highest degree gratifying to him, and he was determined always to merit the good will of his companions in arms.
“Now, fellows, tell us what the news is,” said Tom, as he seated himself on a camp stool before the tent of his mess.
“There are letters for you, Tom, in the hands of the orderly,” added one of his friends. “I suppose you have got a bigger story to tell than any of us, but you shall have a chance to read your letters first.”
These precious missives from the loved ones at home were given to him, and the soldier boy opened them with fear and trembling, lest he should find in them some bad news; but his mother and all the family were well. One of them was written since the battle, and it was evidently penned with deep solicitude for his fate, of which nothing had been heard.
Hapgood, who sat by him while he read his letters, assured him that his mother must know, by this time, that he was not killed, for all the men had written to their friends since the battle. The captain who had escaped from Sudley church had reported him alive and well, but he had no information in regard to his escape.
“We are all well, and every thing goes on about the same as usual in Pinchbrook,” wrote one of his older sisters. “John is so bent upon going to sea in the navy, that it is as much as mother can do to keep him at home. He says the country wants him, and he wants to go; and what’s more, he must go. We haven’t heard a word from father since he left home; but Captain Barney read in the paper that his vessel had been sunk in the harbor of Norfolk to block up the channel. We can only hope that he is safe, and pray that God will have him in his holy keeping.
“Squire Pemberton was dreadful mad because his son went into the army. He don’t say a word about politics now.”
In a letter from John, he learned that Captain Barney had advanced the money to pay the interest on the note, and that Squire Pemberton had not said a word about foreclosing the mortgage. His brother added that he was determined to go into the navy, even 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.
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