Frank's Campaign; Or, The Farm and the Camp

“He shall not whip you, Pomp,” said Frank quietly. As he spoke he stepped to the tree and faced John intrepidly.

John, in a moment of less passion, would not have ventured to attack a boy so near his own size. Like all bullies, he was essentially a coward, but now his rage got the better of his prudence.

“I’ll flog you both!” he exclaimed hoarsely, and sprang forward with upraised stick.

Frank was about half a head shorter than John, and was more than a year younger, but he was stout and compactly built; besides, he was cool and collected, and this is always an advantage.

Before John realized what had happened, his stick had flown from his hand, and he was forcibly pushed back, so that he narrowly escaped falling to the ground.

“Gib it to him, Mass’ Frank!” shouted little Pomp. “Gib it to him!”

This increased John’s exasperation. By this time he was almost foaming at the mouth.

“I’ll kill you, Frank Frost,” he exclaimed, this time rushing at him without a stick.

Frank had been in the habit of wrestling for sport with the boys of his own size. In this way he had acquired a certain amount of dexterity in “tripping up.” John, on the contrary, was unpractised. His quick temper was so easily roused that other boys had declined engaging in friendly contests with him, knowing that in most cases they would degenerate into a fight.

John rushed forward, and attempted to throw Frank by the strength of his arms alone. Frank eluded his grasp, and, getting one of his legs around John’s, with a quick movement tripped him up. He fell heavily upon his back.

“This is all foolish, John,” said Frank, bending over his fallen foe. “What are you fighting for? The privilege of savagely whipping a poor little fellow less than half your age?”

“I care more about whipping you, a cursed sight!” said John, taking advantage of Frank’s withdrawing his pressure to spring to his feet. “You first, and him afterward!”

Again he threw himself upon Frank; but again coolness and practice prevailed against blind fury and untaught strength, and again he lay prostrate.

By this time Pomp had freed himself from the string that fettered his wrists, and danced in glee round John Haynes, in whose discomfiture he felt great delight.

“You’d better pick up your pail and run home,” said Frank. He was generously desirous of saving John from further humiliation. “Will you go away quietly if I will let you up, John?” he asked.

“No, d– you!” returned John, writhing, his face almost livid with passion.

“I am sorry,” said Frank, “for in that case I must continue to hold you down.”

“What is the trouble, boys?” came from an unexpected quarter.

It was Mr. Maynard, who, chancing to pass along the road, had been attracted by the noise of the struggle.

Frank explained in a few words.

“Let him up, Frank,” said the old man. “I’ll see that he does no further harm.”

John rose to his feet, and looked scowlingly from one to the other, as if undecided whether he had not better attack both.

“You’ve disgraced yourself, John Haynes,” said the old farmer scornfully. “So you would turn negro-whipper, would you? Your talents are misapplied here at the North. Brutality isn’t respectable here, my lad. You’d better find your way within the rebel lines, and then perhaps you can gratify your propensity for whipping the helpless.”

“Some day I’ll be revenged on you for this,” said John, turning wrathfully upon Frank. “Perhaps you think I don’t mean it, but the day will come when you’ll remember what I say.”

“I wish you no harm, John,” said Frank composedly, “but I sha’n’t stand by and see you beat a boy like Pomp.”

“No,” said the farmer sternly; “and if ever I hear of your doing it, I’ll horsewhip you till you beg for mercy. Now go home, and carry your disgrace with you.”

Mr. Maynard spoke contemptuously, but with decision, and pointed up the road.

With smothered wrath John obeyed his order, because he saw that it would not be safe to refuse.

“I’ll come up with him yet,” he muttered to himself, as he walked quietly toward home. “If he doesn’t rue this day, my name isn’t John Haynes.”

John did not see fit to make known the circumstances of his quarrel with Frank, feeling, justly, that neither his design nor the result would reflect any credit upon himself. But his wrath was none the less deep because he brooded over it in secret. He would have renewed his attempt upon Pomp, but there was something in Mr. Maynard’s eye which assured him that his threat would be carried out. Frank, solicitous for the little fellow’s safety, kept vigilant watch over him for some days, but no violence was attempted. He hoped John had forgotten his threats.

CHAPTER XII. A LETTER FROM THE CAMP

The little family at the Frost farm looked forward with anxious eagerness to the first letter from the absent father.

Ten days had elapsed when Frank was seen hurrying up the road with something in his hand.

Alice saw him first, and ran in, exclaiming, “Mother, I do believe Frank has got a letter from father. He is running up the road.”

Mrs. Frost at once dropped her work, no less interested than her daughter, and was at the door just as Frank, flushed with running, reached the gate.

“What’ll you give me for a letter?” he asked triumphantly.

“Give it to me quick,” said Mrs. Frost. “I am anxious to learn whether your father is well.”

“I guess he is, or he wouldn’t have written such a long letter.”

“How do you know it’s long?” asked Alice. “You haven’t read it.”

“I judge from the weight. There are two stamps on the envelope. I was tempted to open it, but, being directed to mother, I didn’t venture.”

Mrs. Frost sat down, and the children gathered round her, while she read the following letter:

                    “CAMP –, Virginia.

“DEAR MARY: When I look about me, and consider the novelty and strangeness of my surroundings, I can hardly realize that it is only a week since I sat in our quiet sitting-room at the farm, with you and our own dear ones around me. I will try to help your imagination to a picture of my present home.

“But first let me speak of my journey hither.

“It was tedious enough, traveling all day by rail. Of course, little liberty was allowed us. Military discipline is rigid, and must be maintained. Of its necessity we had a convincing proof at a small station between Hartford and New Haven. One of our number, who, I accidentally learned, is a Canadian, and had only been tempted to enlist by the bounty, selected a seat by the door of the car. I had noticed for some time that he looked nervous and restless, as if he had something on his mind.

“At one of our stopping-places—a small, obscure station—he crept out of the door, and, as he thought, unobserved, dodged behind a shed, thinking, no doubt, that the train would go off without him. But an officer had his eye upon him, and a minute afterward he was ignominiously brought back and put under guard. I am glad to say that his case inspired no sympathy. To enlist, obtain a bounty, and then attempt to evade the service for which the bounty was given, is despicable in the extreme. I am glad to know that no others of our company had the least desire to follow this man’s example.

“We passed through New York, Philadelphia, and Washington, but I can give you little idea of either of these cities. The time we passed in each was mostly during the hours of darkness, when there was little opportunity of seeing anything.

“In Washington I was fortunate enough to see our worthy President. We were marching down Pennsylvania Avenue at the time. On the opposite side of the street we descried a very tall man, of slender figure, walking thoughtfully along, not appearing to notice what was passing around him.

“The officer in command turned and said: ‘Boys, look sharp. That is Abraham Lincoln, across the way.’

“Of course, we all looked eagerly toward the man of whom we had heard so much.

“I could not help thinking how great a responsibility rests upon this man—to how great an extent the welfare and destinies of our beloved country depend upon his patriotic course.

“As I noticed his features, which, plain as they are, bear the unmistakable marks of a shrewd benevolence, and evince also, as I think, acute and original powers of mind, I felt reassured. I could not help saying to myself: ‘This man is at least honest, and if he does not carry us in safety through this tremendous crisis, it will not be for the lack of an honest determination to do his duty.’

“And now let me attempt to give you a picture of our present situation, with some account of the way we live.

“Our camp may appropriately be called ‘Hut Village.’ Imagine several avenues lined with square log huts, surmounted by tent-coverings. The logs are placed transversely, and are clipped at the ends, so as to fit each other more compactly. In this way the interstices are made much narrower than they would otherwise be. These, moreover, are filled in with mud, which, as you have probably heard, is a staple production of Virginia. This is a good protection against the cold, though it does not give our dwellings a very elegant appearance.

“Around most of our huts shallow trenches are dug, to carry off the water, thus diminishing the dampness. Most of the huts are not floored, but mine, fortunately, is an exception to the general rule. My comrades succeeded in obtaining some boards somewhere, and we are a little in advance of our neighbors in this respect.

“Six of us are lodged in a tent. It is pretty close packing, but we don’t stand upon ceremony here. My messmates seem to be pleasant fellows. I have been most attracted to Frank Grover; a bright young fellow of eighteen. He tells me that he is an only son, and his mother is a widow.

“‘Wasn’t your mother unwilling to have you come out here?’ I asked him one day.

“‘No,’ he answered, ‘not unwilling. She was only sorry for the necessity. When I told her that I felt it to be my duty, she told me at once to go. She said she would never stand between me and my country.’

“‘You must think of her often,’ I said.

“‘All the time,’ he answered seriously, a thoughtful expression stealing over his young face. ‘I write to her twice a week regular, and sometimes oftener. For her sake I hope my life may be spared to return.’

“‘I hope so, too,’ I answered warmly. Then after a minute’s silence, I added from some impulse: ‘Will you let me call you Frank? I have a boy at home, not many years younger than you. His name is Frank also—it will seem to remind me of him.’

“‘I wish you would,’ he answered, his face lighting up with evident pleasure. ‘Everybody calls me Frank at home, and I am tired of being called Grover.’

“So our compact was made. I shall feel a warm interest in this brave boy, and I fervently hope that the chances of war will leave him unscathed.

“I must give you a description of Hiram Marden, another of our small company, a very different kind of person from Frank Grover. But it takes all sorts of characters to make an army, as well as a world, and Marden is one of the oddities. Imagine a tall young fellow, with a thin face, lantern jaws, and long hair ‘slicked’ down on either side. Though he may be patriotic, he was led into the army from a different cause. He cherished an attachment for a village beauty, who did not return his love. He makes no concealment of his rebuff, but appears to enjoy discoursing in a sentimental way upon his disappointment. He wears such an air of meek resignation when he speaks of his cruel fair one that the effect is quite irresistible, and I find it difficult to accord him that sympathy which his unhappy fate demands. Fortunately for him, his troubles, deep-seated as they are, appear to have very little effect upon his appetite. He sits down to his rations with a look of subdued sorrow upon his face, and sighs frequently between the mouthfuls. In spite of this, however, he seldom leaves anything upon his tin plate, which speaks well for his appetite, since Uncle Sam is a generous provider, and few of us do full justice to our allowance.

“You may wonder how I enjoy soldier’s fare. I certainly do long sometimes for the good pumpkin and apple pies which I used to have at home, and confess that a little apple sauce would make my hardtack a little more savory. I begin to appreciate your good qualities as a housekeeper, Mary, more than ever. Pies can be got of the sutler, but they are such poor things that I would rather do without than eat them, and I am quite sure they would try my digestion sorely.

“There is one very homely esculent which we crave in the camp—I mean the onion. It is an excellent preventive of scurvy, a disease to which our mode of living particularly exposes us. We eat as many as we can get, and should be glad of more. Tell Frank he may plant a whole acre of them. They will require considerable care, but even in a pecuniary way they will pay. The price has considerably advanced since the war began, on account of the large army demand, and will doubtless increase more.

“As to our military exercises, drill, etc., we have enough to occupy our time well. I see the advantage of enlisting in a veteran regiment. I find myself improving very rapidly. Besides my public company drill, I am getting my young comrade, Frank Grover, who has been in the service six months, to give me some private lessons. With the help of these, I hope to pass muster creditably before my first month is out.

“And now, my dear Mary, I must draw my letter to a close. In the army we are obliged to write under difficulties. I am writing this on my knapsack for a desk, and that is not quite so easy as a table. The constrained position in which I am forced to sit has tired me, and I think I will go out and ‘limber’ myself a little. Frank, who has just finished a letter to his mother, will no doubt join me. Two of my comrades are sitting close by, playing euchre. When I joined them I found they were in the habit of playing for small stakes, but I have succeeded in inducing them to give up a practice which might not unlikely lead to bad results.

“In closing, I need not tell you how much and how often I think of you all. I have never before been separated from you, and there are times when my longing to be with you again is very strong. You must make up for your absence by frequent and long letters. Tell me all that is going on. Even trifles will serve to amuse us here.

“Tell Frank to send me Harper’s Weekly regularly. Two or three times a week I should like to have a daily paper forwarded. Every newspaper that finds its way into camp goes the rounds, and its contents are eagerly devoured.

“I will write you again very soon. The letters I write and receive from home will be one of my principal sources of pleasure. God bless you all, is the prayer of your affectionate husband and father,

“HENRY FROST.”

It is hardly necessary to say that this letter was read with eager interest. That evening all the children, including little Charlie, were busy writing letters to the absent father. I have not room to print them all, but as this was Charlie’s first epistolary effort, it may interest some of my youthful readers to see it. The mistakes in spelling will be excused on the score of Charlie’s literary inexperience. This is the way it commenced:

“DEER FARTHER: I am sorry you hav to live in a log hous stuck up with mud. I shud think the mud wood cum off on your close. I am wel and so is Maggie. Frank is agoin to make me a sled—a real good one. I shal cal it the egle. I hope we shal soon hav sum sno. It will be my berth day next week. I shal be seven years old. I hope you cum back soon. Good nite.

“from CHARLIE.”

Charlie was so proud of his letter that he insisted on having it enclosed in a separate envelope and mailed by itself—a request which was complied with by his mother.

CHAPTER XIII. MISCHIEF ON FOOT

As may be supposed, John Haynes was deeply incensed with Frank Frost for the manner in which he had foiled him in his attack upon Pomp. He felt that in this whole matter he had appeared by no means to advantage. After all his boasting, he had been defeated by a boy younger and smaller than himself. The old grudge which he had against Frank for the success gained over him at school increased and added poignancy to his mortification. He felt that he should never be satisfied until he had “come up” with Frank in some way. The prospect of seeing him ejected from the farm was pleasant, but it was too far off. John did not feel like waiting so long for the gratification of his revengeful feelings. He resolved in the meantime to devise some method of injuring or annoying Frank.

He could not at once think of anything feasible. Several schemes flitted across his mind, but all were open to some objection. John did not care to attempt anything which would expose him, if discovered, to a legal punishment. I am afraid this weighed more with him than the wrong or injustice of his schemes.

At last it occurred to him that Mr. Frost kept a couple of pigs. To let them out secretly at night would be annoying to Frank, as they would probably stray quite a distance, and thus a tedious pursuit would be made necessary. Perhaps they might never be found, in which case John felt that he should not grieve much.

Upon this scheme John finally settled as the one promising the most amusement to himself and annoyance to his enemy, as he chose to regard Frank. He felt quite averse, however, to doing the work himself. In the first place, it must be done by night, and he could not absent himself from the house at a late hour without his father’s knowledge. Again, he knew there was a risk of being caught, and it would not sound very well if noised abroad that the son of Squire Haynes had gone out by night and let loose a neighbor’s pigs.

He cast about in his mind for a confederate, and after awhile settled upon a boy named Dick Bumstead.

This Dick had the reputation of being a scape-grace and a ne’er-do-well. He was about the age of John Haynes, but had not attended school for a couple of years, and, less from want of natural capacity than from indolence, knew scarcely more than a boy of ten. His father was a shoemaker, and had felt obliged to keep his son at home to assist him in the shop. He did not prove a very efficient assistant, however, being inclined to shirk duty whenever he could.

It was upon this boy that John Haynes fixed as most likely to help him in his plot. On his way home from school the next afternoon, he noticed Dick loitering along a little in advance.

“Hold on, Dick,” he called out, in a friendly voice, at the same time quickening his pace.

Dick turned in some surprise, for John Haynes had a foolish pride, which had hitherto kept him very distant toward those whom he regarded as standing lower than himself in the social scale.

“How are you, John?” he responded, putting up the knife with which he had been whittling.

“All right. What are you up to nowadays?”

“Working in the shop,” said Dick, shrugging his shoulders. “I wish people didn’t wear shoes, for my part. I’ve helped make my share. Pegging isn’t a very interesting operation.”

“No,” said John, with remarkable affability. “I shouldn’t think there’d be much fun in it.”

“Fun! I guess not. For my part, I’d be willing to go barefoot, if other people would, for the sake of getting rid of pegging.”

“I suppose you have some time to yourself, though, don’t you?”

“Precious little. I ought to be in the shop now. Father sent me down to the store for some awls, and he’ll be fretting because I don’t get back. I broke my awl on purpose,” said Dick, laughing, “so as to get a chance to run out a little while.”

“I suppose your father gives you some of the money that you earn, doesn’t he?’ inquired John.

“A few cents now and then; that’s all. He says everything is so high nowadays that it takes all we can both of us earn to buy food and clothes. So if a fellow wants a few cents now and then to buy a cigar, he can’t have ‘em.”

John was glad to hear this. He felt that he could the more readily induce Dick to assist him in his plans.

“Dick!” he said abruptly, looking round to see that no one was within hearing-distance, “wouldn’t you like to earn a two-dollar bill?”

“For myself?” inquired Dick.

“Certainly.”

“Is there much work in it?” asked indolent Dick cautiously.

“No, and what little there is will be fun.”

“Then I’m in for it. That is, I think I am. What is it?”

“You’ll promise not to tell?” said John.

“Honor bright.”

“It’s only a little practical joke that I want to play upon one of the boys.”

“On who?” asked Dick, unmindful of his grammar.

“On Frank Frost.”

“Frank’s a pretty good fellow. It isn’t going to hurt him any, is it?”

“Oh, no, of course not.”

“Because I wouldn’t want to do that. He’s always treated me well.”

“Of course he has. It’s only a little joke, you know.”

“Oh, well, if it’s a joke, just count me in. Fire away, and let me know what you want done.”

“You know that Frank, or his father, keeps pigs?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to go some night—the sooner the better—and let them out, so that when morning comes the pigs will be minus, and Master Frank will have a fine chase after them.”

“Seems to me,” said Dick, “that won’t be much of a joke.”

“Then I guess you never saw a pig-chase. Pigs are so contrary that if you want them to go in one direction they are sure to go in another. The way they gallop over the ground, with their little tails wriggling behind them, is a caution.”

“But it would be a great trouble to Frank to get them back.”

“Oh, well, you could help him, and so get still more fun out of it, he not knowing, of course, that you had anything to do with letting them out.”

“And that would take me out of the shop for a couple of hours,” said Dick, brightening at the thought.

“Of course,” said John; “so you would get a double advantage. Come, what do you say?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Dick, wavering. “You’d pay me the money down on the nail, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” said John. “I’ll show you the bill now.”

He took from his pocketbook a two-dollar greenback, and displayed it to Dick.

“You could buy cigars enough with this to last you some time,” he said insinuatingly.

“So I could. I declare, I’ve a good mind to take up your offer.”

“You’d better. It’s a good one.”

“But why don’t you do it yourself?” asked Dick, with sudden wonder.

“Because father’s very strict,” said John glibly, “and if I should leave the house at night, he’d be sure to find it out.”

“That’s where I have the advantage. I sleep downstairs, and can easily slip out of the window, without anybody’s being the wiser.”

“Just the thing. Then you agree?”

“Yes, I might as well. Are you particular about the night?”

“No, take your choice about that. Only the sooner the better.”

The two boys separated, John feeling quite elated with his success.

CHAPTER XIV. A RAID UPON THE PIG-PEN

The more Dick thought of the enterprise which he had undertaken, the more he disliked it. He relished fun as much as any one, but he could not conceal from himself that he would be subjecting Frank to a great deal of trouble and annoyance. As he had told John, Frank had always treated him well, and this thought made the scheme disagreeable to him.

Still, John had promised him two dollars for his co-operation, and this, in his circumstances, was an important consideration. Unfortunately, Dick had contracted a fondness for smoking—a habit which his scanty supply of pocket-money rarely enabled him to indulge. This windfall would keep him in cigars for some time. It was this reflection which finally turned the wavering scale of Dick’s irresolution, and determined him to embrace John’s offer.

The moon was now at the full, and the nights were bright and beautiful. Dick decided that it would be best to defer the accomplishment of his purpose till later in the month, when darker nights would serve as a screen, and render detection more difficult.

By and by a night came which he thought suitable. A few stars were out, but they gave only a faint glimmer of light, not more than was necessary.

Dick went to bed at nine o’clock, as usual. By an effort he succeeded in keeping awake, feeling that if he once yielded to drowsiness, he should probably sleep on till morning. At half-past nine all in the house were abed. It was not till eleven, however, that Dick felt it safe to leave the house. He dressed himself expeditiously and in silence, occasionally listening to see if he could detect any sound in the room above, where his parents slept. Finally he raised the window softly, and jumped out. He crept out to the road, and swiftly bent his steps toward Mr. Frost’s house.