THE DRUMMER-BOY ON SILVER WAVE.

211

full. (I dealt them out carefully). This simple remedy arrested his disease, and fitted him to travel homeward, where proper care and good nursing would complete the

cure.

On the Silver Wave, I became acquainted with a noblelooking boy, fourteen years of age, who was detailed to assist. the clerk in filling requisitions. He was so neat, orderly, quiet and diligent, that he was a universal favorite. He followed me closely, and seemed to cling to me as a mother. He was a drummer-boy, and had left home with the consent of his mother. I noticed him in the evening, reading his Testament and hymn-book, and had much interesting conversation with him. On one occasion he said, "Would you like to see my mother's, parting note, to be always carried about me, she said; so that if I fell in battle, my name might be known?" On a delicate sheet of paper the following note was written, in an exquisite chirography:

"Arthur W. C

Musician,

"A

Со., Онто.

Regiment.

"Should my precious child fall wounded among strangers, I hope and trust he will find some kind person to love him for his mother.

"MARY W. C—

October 21st, 1862."

I said, "Arthur, tell your mother, though you have not fallen wounded, you have found a friend to love you for your mother." "I will," he said, carefully folding his note, as tears filled his fine dark eyes; "no money could buy it from me." William and his mother will pardon me for the mention of this fact, honorable alike to both.

CHAPTER XIII.

February 22 at Young's Point.-Naval salute.-Southern sun and rain.-Gunboat fleet.-Capt. MacMillan of Silver Wave.-Midnight scare. Visit to Admiral Porter and flag-ship.-Rebel boy-gunner. -Army pets.-Visit to naval hospital.-Naval regatta.-Southern

sunset.

A LETTER of my own, dated Young's Point, February 22, 1863, recalls a host of thrilling memories, of one of the most eventful days of a three years' war-life. When it dawned, I had been a week at Young's Point, enduring the trying scenes and discomforts of a thorough visitation of the hospitals, after days and nights of rain, that knew neither hindrance nor abatement, but fell continuously in solid sheets, as though the windows of heaven were opened, and all nature muttering and moaning in dismay or discontent.

As if to avenge himself for the veiled glories of these latter days, "up rose the powerful king of day, rejoicing in the east," bathing the earth, transports and camps, in a flood of glory. Even the audacious rebel city, ensconced on the hill-side, saucily daring our veterans, looked radiant. Every dome, steeple or window, reflected or refracted the sun's rays, and shed a fictitious and prismatic beauty over the battered and clumsy brick walls of the south-western strong

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hold of treason. I never realized the exquisite beauty of a southern sun and sky, till I beheld on that day the blue of the canopy that spanned the Union camp and the rebel city, and the sun that "shone alike on the just, and on the unjust."

The contrast to the previous gloom, doubly enhanced its charms. Things animate and inanimate seemed infused with new life. The hitherto dripping tents of the camp, looked white and picturesque for the first time; the flies of the tents were lifted to welcome the balmy air and brilliant sunlight; the pale faces and bowed forms of hundreds of our soldiers, could be seen cautiously emerging from them, testing the soil, lest they might share the fate of the old cow, stalled in the mud, and dying, within sight of our boat, because she could not be extricated. The levee swarmed with blue coats; and every pole, rope or tree was in requisition, covered with blankets, shirts and drawers, "to dry off the mould, and cure the rheumatism." Shouts, songs and jests rang from group to group. Even the poor fellows who "stuck," joined in the chorus.

Half a mile from the mouth of the Yazoo, a short distance from the transports, lay the fleet of iron-clads, with their broad, flat, tortoise-like backs, ready to paddle in obedience to orders. The rainbow radiance of the sunlight, the gay flaunting Stars and Stripes, and the brilliant signals spread out on the Black Hawk, the flag-ship of the fleet, relieved their sombre, sleepy look. Some of them, from their outlines, and surroundings of long lines of red, white, and blue clothing, appeared in the distance, through the trees, draped with the graceful but funereal moss, like Swiss cottages on a plane of glass.

Around the bend of the Mississippi, in the swamp below the levee, lay Grant's army, whose name is the synonym of courage, endurance, bravery unsurpassed. As yet, they had not won their brightest laurels; but their unmurmuring patience and indomitable will were developed, tested, and strengthened, by the painful trials and privations they were enduring at that time. But to my story.

The booming of a hundred guns ushered in this memorable day. The roar from their iron throats, that belched forth smoke and flame, through every open port-hole, made the celebration guns at home seem like playthings, and explained the soldiers' merriment, when the old six-pounders of their native towns were brought out to welcome the returning heroes. I remember many regiments thus welcomed, and have keenly enjoyed the sly jests of the boys, and their、 unsuccessful efforts to look impressed. As the salute continued, fleecy clouds of smoke rolled upwards in graceful evolutions, disclosing the grim monsters that had made the uproar, and spreading over the cerulean sky a veil of gossamer, so inimitably soft and delicate, that it robbed the warlike scene of its fierceness, and poetized the skeleton, battered, and begrimed fleet of transports, fringing the riverbanks. In the centre of the stream lay anchored the threedecked flag-ship of Admiral Porter, the Black Hawk; her 20-pounder Parrots and howitzers discoursing loud music from the open port-holes. The great flag and brilliant signals, likea flock of tropical birds, gleamed through the rising smoke. .As we gazed upon this sublime scene, we were told we had seen all that is apt to be seen of a naval action. Strange fact that we were celebrating Washington's birthday in an

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enemy's country. Vicksburg was tongue-tied that day. The night before, a United States steamer had passed her batteries, and they belched forth brimstone and iron hail, and "painted hell on the sky."

On the 22d of February, 1863, they were grum and silent. They did not add a hallelujah to the pæan that arose from the loyal army to the memory of George Washington, "first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen." What more stern rebuke could these internal enemies of our beneficent government have received, than the prophetic wisdom of the "Father of his Country," uttered in his "farewell address?" "The unity of the government is a main pillar in the edifice of your real independence, the support of your tranquillity at home, your peace abroad, of your safety, of your prosperity, of that very liberty which you so highly prize." And again: "The very idea of the right of the people to establish government, presupposes the duty of every individual to obey the established government." These utterances explain the silence of the rebellion on the great gala-day of the Republic.

The Silver Wave, the United States' sanitary-boat, on which we lived at Young's Point, was one of the first transports of Grant's fleet that ran the batteries at Vicksburg. Her intrepid captain, John MacMillan, of Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, sat beside the smoke-stack in his old arm-chair, composedly smoking his pipe, while shot and shell, thunder and lightning, played around him. On the same day of which I write, before his heroism had won the admiration of our military officers, he accompanied us to visit Admiral Porter, at his headquarters on the Black Hawk.