"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 unb.u.t.toned 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 a.s.surance 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 Ma.s.sachusetts, and countersigned and sealed in proper form.

Tom was astounded at the purport of the doc.u.ment. 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 x.x.xIII.

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 b.l.o.o.d.y field, to feel some pride in the laurels he had earned. Not that Tom was proud or vain; but he was moved by a lofty and n.o.ble ambition. It is quite likely he wondered what the people of Pinchbrook would say when he appeared there with the straps upon his shoulders.

Of course he thought what his father would say, what his mother would say, and he could see the wrinkled face of gran'ther Greene expand into a genial smile of commendation. It is quite possible that he had even more interest in his reception at No ---- Rutland Street, when he should present himself to the author and finisher of those marvellous socks, which had wielded such an immense influence upon their wearer in camp and on the field. Perhaps it was a weakness on the part of the soldier boy, but we are compelled to record the fact that he had faithfully conned his speech for that interesting occasion. He had supposed every thing she would say, and carefully prepared a suitable reply to each remark, adorned with all the graces of rhetoric within his reach.

With the furlough in his pocket, Tom obtained his order for transportation, and with a light heart, full of pleasant antic.i.p.ations, started for home. As he was still dressed in the faded and shattered uniform of a non-commissioned officer, he did not attract any particular notice on the way. He was enabled to pa.s.s through Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, without being bored by a public reception, which some less deserving heroes have not been permitted to escape. But the people did not understand that Tom had a second lieutenant's commission in his pocket, and he was too modest to proclaim the fact, which may be the reason why he was suffered to pa.s.s through these great emporiums of trade without an escort, or other demonstration of respect and admiration.

Tom's heart jumped with strange emotions when he arrived at Boston, perhaps because he was within a few miles of home; possibly because he was in the city that contained Lilian Ashford, for boys will be silly in spite of all the exertions of parents, guardians, and teachers, to make them sober and sensible. Such absurdities as "the air she breathes," and other rhapsodies of that sort, may have flitted through his mind; but we are positive that Tom did not give voice to any such nonsense, for every body in the city was a total stranger to him, so far as he knew. Besides, Tom had no notion of appearing before the original of the photograph in the rusty uniform he wore; and as he had to wait an hour for the Pinchbrook train, he hastened to a tailor's to order a suit of clothes which would be appropriate to his new dignity.

He ordered them, was duly measured and had given the tailor his promise to call for the garments at the expiration of five days, when the man of shears disturbed the serene current of his meditations by suggesting that the lieutenant should pay one half of the price of the suit in advance.

"It is a custom we adopt in all our dealings with strangers," politely added the tailor.

"But I don't propose to take the uniform away until it is paid for," said Tom, blushing with mortification; for it so happened that he had not money enough to meet the demand of the tailor.

"Certainly not," blandly replied Shears; "but we cannot make up the goods with the risk of not disposing of them. They may not fit the next man who wants such a suit."

"I have not the money, sir;" and Tom felt that the confession was an awful sacrifice of dignity on the part of an officer in the army of the Potomac, who had fought gallantly for his country on the b.l.o.o.d.y fields of Williamsburg and Bull Run.

"I am very sorry, sir. I should be happy to make up the goods, but you will see that our rule is a reasonable one."

Tom wanted to tell him that this lack of confidence was not a suitable return of a stay-at-home for the peril and privation he had endured for him; but he left in disgust, hardly replying to the flattering request of the tailor that he would call again. With his pride touched, he walked down to the railroad station to await the departure of the train. He had hardly entered the building before he discovered the familiar form of Captain Barney, to whom he hastened to present himself.

"Why, Tom, my hearty!" roared the old sea captain, as he grasped and wrung his hand. "I'm glad to see you. Shiver my mainmast, but you've grown a foot since you went away. But you don't look well, Tom."

"I'm not very well, sir; but I'm improving very rapidly."

"How's your wound?"

"O, that's almost well."

"Sit down, Tom. I want to talk with you," said Captain Barney, as he led the soldier boy to a seat.