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

by Jr. Horatio Alger

  CHAPTER IX. THE LAST EVENING AT HOME

  Three weeks passed quickly. October had already reached its middlepoint. The glory of the Indian summer was close at hand. Too quicklythe days fled for the little family at the farm, for they knew that eachbrought nearer the parting of which they could not bear to think.

  Jacob Carter, who had been sent for to do the heavy work on the farm,had arrived. He was a man of forty, stout and able to work, but hadenjoyed few opportunities of cultivating his mind. Though a faithfullaborer, he was destitute of the energy and ambition which might erethis have placed him in charge of a farm of his own. In New England fewarrive at his age without achieving some position more desirable andindependent than that of farm laborer. However, he looked pleasant andgood-natured, and Mr. Frost accounted himself fortunate in securing hisservices.

  The harvest had been got in, and during the winter months there wouldnot be so much to do as before. Jacob, therefore, "hired out" for asmaller compensation, to be increased when the spring work came in.

  Frank had not been idle. He had accompanied his father about the farm,and received as much practical instruction in the art of farming asthe time would admit. He was naturally a quick learner, and now feltimpelled by a double motive to prepare himself as well as possible toassume his new responsibilities. His first motive was, of course, tomake up his father's loss to the family, as far as it was possible forhim to do so, but he was also desirous of showing Mrs. Roxana Mason andother ill-boding prophets that they had underrated his abilities.

  The time came when Mr. Frost felt that he must leave his family. He hadenlisted from preference in an old regiment, already in Virginia, somemembers of which had gone from Rossville. A number of recruits were tobe forwarded to the camp on a certain day, and that day was now close athand.

  Let me introduce the reader to the farmhouse on the last evening formany months when they would be able to be together. They were allassembled about the fireplace. Mr. Frost sat in an armchair, holdingCharlie in his lap--the privileged place of the youngest. Alice,with the air of a young woman, sat demurely by her father's side on acricket, while Maggie stood beside him, with one hand resting on hisknee. Frank sat quietly beside his mother, as if already occupying theplace which he was in future to hold as her counselor and protector.

  Frank and his mother looked sober. They had not realized fully untilthis evening what it would be to part with the husband and father--howconstantly they would miss him at the family meal and in the eveningcircle. Then there was the dreadful uncertainty of war. He might neverreturn, or, if spared for that, it might be with broken constitution orthe loss of a limb.

  "If it hadn't been for me," Frank could not help thinking, "father wouldnot now be going away. He would have stayed at home, and I could stillgo to school. It would have made a great difference to us, and the lossof one man could not affect the general result."

  A moment after his conscience rebuked him for harboring so selfish athought.

  "The country needs him more even than we do," he said to himself. "Itwill be a hard trial to have him go, but it is our duty."

  "Will my little Charlie miss me when I am gone?" asked Mr. Frost of thechubby-faced boy who sat with great, round eyes peering into the fire,as if he were deeply engaged in thought.

  "Won't you take me with you, papa?" asked Charlie.

  "What could you do if you were out there, my little boy?" asked thefather, smiling.

  "I'd shoot great big rebel with my gun," said Charlie, waxing valiant.

  "Your gun's only a wooden one," said Maggie, with an air of superiorknowledge. "You couldn't kill a rebel with that."

  "I'd kill 'em some," persisted Charlie earnestly, evidently believingthat a wooden gun differed from others not in kind, but in degree.

  "But suppose the rebels should fire at you," said Frank, amused. "Whatwould you do then, Charlie?"

  Charlie looked into the fire thoughtfully for a moment, as if thiscontingency had not presented itself to his mind until now. Suddenlyhis face brightened up, and he answered. "I'd run away just as fast as Icould."

  All laughed at this, and Frank said: "But that wouldn't be acting like abrave soldier, Charlie. You ought to stay and make the enemy run."

  "I wouldn't want to stay and be shooted," said Charlie ingenuously.

  "There are many older than Charlie," said Mr. Frost, smiling, "whowould doubtless sympathize entirely with him in his objection to beingshooted, though they might not be quite so ready to make confession ashe has shown himself. I suppose you have heard the couplet:

  "'He who fights and runs away May live to fight another day.'"

  "Pray don't speak about shooting," said Mrs. Frost, with a shudder. "Itmakes me feel nervous."

  "And to-night we should only admit pleasant thoughts," said her husband."Who is going to write me letters when I am gone?"

  "I'll write to you, father," said Alice.

  "And so will I," said Maggie.

  "I, too," chimed in Charlie.

  "Then, if you have so many correspondents already engaged, you willhardly want to hear from Frank and myself," said his wife, smiling.

  "The more the better. I suspect I shall find letters more welcome thananything else. You must also send me papers regularly. I shall have manyhours that will pass heavily unless I have something to read."

  "I'll mail you Harper's Weekly regularly, shall I, father?" asked Frank.

  "Yes, I shall be glad enough to see it. Then, there is one good thingabout papers--after enjoying them myself, I can pass them round toothers. There are many privations that I must make up my mind to, but Ishall endeavor to make camp-life as pleasant as possible to myself andothers."

  "I wish you were going out as an officer," said Mrs. Frost. "You wouldhave more indulgences."

  "Very probably I should. But I don't feel inclined to wish myself betteroff than others. I am: willing to serve my country in any capacity inwhich I can be of use. Thank Heaven, I am pretty strong and healthy, andbetter fitted than many to encounter the fatigues and exposures whichare the lot of the private."

  "How early must you start to-morrow, father?" inquired Frank.

  "By daylight. I must be in Boston by nine o'clock, and you know it is afive-mile ride to the depot. I shall want you to carry me over."

  "Will there be room for me?" asked Mrs. Frost. "I want to see the lastof you."

  "I hope you won't do that for a long time to come," said Mr. Frost,smiling.

  "You know what I mean, Henry."

  "Oh, yes, there will be room. At any rate, we will make room for you.And now it seems to me it is time for these little folks to go to bed.Charlie finds it hard work to keep his eyes open."

  "Oh, papa, papa, not yet, not yet," pleaded the children; and with thethought that it might be many a long day before he saw their sweet youngfaces again, the father suffered them to have their way.

  After the children had gone to bed Frank and his father and mother satup for a long time. Each felt that there was much to be said, but noone of them felt like saying much then. Thoughts of the approachingseparation swallowed up all others. The thought kept recurring thatto-morrow would see them many miles apart, and that many a longto-morrow must pass before they would again be gathered around the fire.

  "Frank," said his father, at length, "I have deposited in the BrandonBank four hundred dollars, about half of which I have realized fromcrops sold this season. This you will draw upon as you have need, forgrocery bills, to pay Jacob, etc. For present purposes I will hand youfifty dollars, which I advise you to put under your mother's care."

  As he finished speaking, Mr. Frost drew from his pocketbook a roll ofbills and handed them to Frank.

  Frank opened his portemonnaie and deposited the money therein.

  He had never before so large a sum of money in his possession, andalthough he knew it was not to be spent for his own benefit--at least,no considerable part of it--he felt a sense of importance and evenwealth in be
ing the custodian of so much money. He felt that hisfather had confidence in him, and that he was in truth going to be hisrepresentative.

  "A part of the money which I have in the bank," continued his father,"has been saved up toward the payment of the mortgage on the farm."

  "When does it come due, father?"

  "On the first of July of next year."

  "But you won't be prepared to meet it at that time?"

  "No, but undoubtedly Squire Haynes will be willing to renew it. I alwayspay the interest promptly, and he knows it is secured by the farm, andtherefore a safe investment. By the way, I had nearly forgotten to saythat there will be some interest due on the first of January. Of course,you are authorized to pay it just as if you were myself."

  "How much will it be?"

  "Twenty-four dollars--that is, six months' interest at six per cent. oneight hundred dollars."

  "I wish the farm were free from encumbrance," said Frank.

  "So do I; and if Providence favors me it shall be before many years arepast. But in farming one can't expect to lay by money quite as fast asin some other employments."

  The old clock in the corner here struck eleven.

  "We mustn't keep you up too late the last night, Henry," said Mrs.Frost. "You will need a good night's sleep to carry you throughto-morrow."

  Neither of the three closed their eyes early that night. Thoughts ofthe morrow were naturally in their minds. At last all was still.Sleep--God's beneficent messenger--wrapped their senses in oblivion, andthe cares and anxieties of the morrow were for a time forgotten.