Alger Horatio Jr.
Frank's Campaign; Or, The Farm and the Camp
CHAPTER I. THE WAR MEETING
The Town Hall in Rossville stands on a moderate elevation overlooking the principal street. It is generally open only when a meeting has been called by the Selectmen to transact town business, or occasionally in the evening when a lecture on temperance or a political address is to be delivered. Rossville is not large enough to sustain a course of lyceum lectures, and the townspeople are obliged to depend for intellectual nutriment upon such chance occasions as these. The majority of the inhabitants being engaged in agricultural pursuits, the population is somewhat scattered, and the houses, with the exception of a few grouped around the stores, stand at respectable distances, each encamped on a farm of its own.
One Wednesday afternoon, toward the close of September, 1862, a group of men and boys might have been seen standing on the steps and in the entry of the Town House. Why they had met will best appear from a large placard, which had been posted up on barns and fences and inside the village store and postoffice.
It ran as follows:
WAR MEETING!
The citizens of Rossville are invited to meet at the Town Hall, on Wednesday, September 24, at 3 P. M. to decide what measures shall be taken toward raising the town’s quota of twenty-five men, under the recent call of the President of the United States. All patriotic citizens, who are in favor of sustaining the free institutions transmitted to us by our fathers, are urgently invited to be present.
The Hon. Solomon Stoddard is expected to address the meeting.
Come one, come all.
At the appointed hour one hundred and fifty men had assembled in the hall. They stood in groups, discussing the recent call and the general management of the war with that spirit of independent criticism which so eminently characterizes the little democracies which make up our New England States.
“The whole thing has been mismanaged from the first,” remarked a sapient-looking man with a gaunt, cadaverous face, addressing two listeners. “The Administration is corrupt; our generals are either incompetent or purposely inefficient. We haven’t got an officer that can hold a candle to General Lee. Abraham Lincoln has called for six hundred thousand men. What’ll he do with ‘em when he gets ‘em? Just nothing at all. They’ll melt away like snow, and then he’ll call for more men. Give me a third of six hundred thousand, and I’ll walk into Richmond in less’n thirty days.”
A quiet smile played over the face of one of the listeners. With a slight shade of irony in his voice he said, “If such are your convictions, Mr. Holman, I think it a great pity that you are not in the service. We need those who have clear views of what is required in the present emergency. Don’t you intend to volunteer?”
“I!” exclaimed the other with lofty scorn. “No, sir; I wash my hands of the whole matter. I ain’t clear about the justice of warring upon our erring brethren at all. I have no doubt they would be inclined to accept overtures of peace if accompanied with suitable concessions. Still, if war must be waged, I believe I could manage matters infinitely better than Lincoln and his cabinet have done.”
“Wouldn’t it be well to give them the benefit of your ideas on the subject?” suggested the other quietly.
“Ahem!” said Mr. Holman, a little suspiciously.
“What do you mean, Mr. Frost?”
“Only this, that if, like you, I had a definite scheme, which I thought likely to terminate the war, I should feel it my duty to communicate it to the proper authorities, that they might take it into consideration.”
“It wouldn’t do any good,” returned Holman, still a little suspicious that he was quietly laughed at. “They’re too set in their own ways to be changed.”
At this moment there was a sharp rap on the table, and a voice was heard, saying, “The meeting will please come to order.”
The buzz of voices died away; and all eyes were turned toward the speaker’s stand.
“It will be necessary to select a chairman to preside over your deliberations,” was next heard. “Will any one nominate?”
“I nominate Doctor Plunkett,” came from a man in the corner.
The motion was seconded, and a show of hands resulted in favor of the nominee.
A gentlemanly-looking man with a pleasant face advanced to the speaker’s stand, and with a bow made a few remarks to this effect:
“Fellow citizens: This is new business to me, as you are doubtless aware. My professional engagements have not often allowed me to take part in the meetings which from time to time you have held in this hall. On the present occasion, however, I felt it to be my duty, and the duty of every loyal citizen, to show by his presence how heartily he approves the object which has called us together. The same consideration will not suffer me to decline the unexpected responsibility which you have devolved upon me. Before proceeding farther, I would suggest that a clerk will be needed to complete the organization.”
A young man was nominated and elected without opposition.
Doctor Plunkett again addressed the meeting: “It is hardly necessary,” he said, “to remind you of the object which has brought us together. Our forces in the field need replenishing. The Rebellion has assumed more formidable proportions than we anticipated. It is quite clear that we cannot put it down with one hand. We shall need both. Impressed with this conviction, President Lincoln has made an extraordinary levy upon the country. He feels that it is desirable to put down the Rebellion as speedily as possible, and not suffer it to drag through a series of years. But he cannot work single-handed. The loyal States must give their hearty cooperation. Our State, though inferior in extent and population to some others, has not fallen behind in loyal devotion. Nor, I believe, will Rossville be found wanting in this emergency. Twenty-five men have been called for. How shall we get them? This is the question which we are called upon to consider. I had hoped the Honorable Solomon Stoddard would be here to address you; but I regret to learn that a temporary illness will prevent his doing so. I trust that those present will not be backward in expressing their opinions.”
Mr. Holman was already on his feet. His speech consisted of disconnected remarks on the general conduct of the war, mingled with severe denunciation of the Administration.
He had spoken for fifteen minutes in this strain, when the chairman interfered–
“Your remarks are out of order, Mr. Holman. They are entirely irrelevant to the question.”
Holman wiped his cadaverous features with a red silk pocket-handkerchief, and inquired, sarcastically, “Am I to understand that freedom of speech is interdicted in this hall?”
“Freedom of speech is in order,” said the chairman calmly, “provided the speaker confines himself to the question under discussion. You have spoken fifteen minutes without once touching it.”
“I suppose you want me to praise the Administration,” said Holman, evidently thinking that he had demolished the chairman. He looked around to observe what effect his shot had produced.
“That would be equally out of order,” ruled the presiding officer. “We have not assembled to praise or to censure the Administration, but to consider in what manner we shall go to work to raise our quota.”
Holman sat down with the air of a martyr.
Mr. Frost rose next. It is unnecessary to report his speech. It was plain, practical, and to the point. He recommended that the town appropriate a certain sum as bounty money to volunteers. Other towns had done so, and he thought with good reason. It would undoubtedly draw in recruits more rapidly.
A short, stout, red-faced man, wearing gold spectacles, rose hastily.
“Mr. Chairman,” he commenced, “I oppose that suggestion. I think it calculated to work serious mischief. Do our young men need to be hired to fight for their country? I suppose that is what you call patriotism. For my part, I trust the town will have too much good sense to agree to any such proposition. The consequence of it would be to plunge us into debt, and increase our taxes to a formidable amount.”
It may be remarked that Squire Haynes, the speaker, was the wealthiest man in town, and, of course, would be considerably affected by increased taxation. Even now he never paid his annual tax-bill without an inward groan, feeling that it was so much deducted from the sum total of his property.
Mr. Frost remained standing while Squire Haynes was speaking, and at the close continued his speech:
“Squire Haynes objects that my proposition, if adopted, will make our taxes heavier. I grant it: but how can we expect to carry on this gigantic war without personal sacrifices? If they only come in the form of money, we may account ourselves fortunate. I take it for granted that there is not a man here present who does not approve the present war—who does not feel that we are waging it for good and sufficient reasons.”
Here Mr. Holman moved uneasily in his seat, and seemed on the point of interrupting the speaker, but for some reason forbore.
“Such being the case, we cannot but feel that the burden ought to fall upon the entire community, and not wholly upon any particular portion. The heaviest sacrifices must undoubtedly be made by those who leave their homes and peril life and limb on the battlefield. When I propose that you should lighten that sacrifice so far as it lies in your power, by voting them a bounty, it is because I consider that money will compensate them for the privations they must encounter and the perils they will incur. For that, they must look to the satisfaction that will arise from the feeling that they have responded to their country’s call, and done something to save from ruin the institutions which our fathers transmitted as a sacred trust to their descendants. Money cannot pay for loss of life or limb. But some of them leave families behind. It is not right that these families should suffer because the fathers have devoted themselves to the sacred cause of liberty. When our soldiers go forth, enable them to feel that their wives and children shall not lack for the necessaries of life. The least that those who are privileged to stay at home can do is to tax their purses for this end.”
“Mr. Chairman,” said Squire Haynes sarcastically, “I infer that the last speaker is intending to enlist.”
Mr. Frost’s face flushed at this insinuation.
“Squire Haynes chooses to impute to me interested motives. I need enter into no defense before an audience to whom I am well known. I will only inquire whether interested motives have nothing to do with his opposition to voting bounties to our soldiers?”
This was such a palpable hit that Squire Haynes winced under it, and his red face turned redder as he saw the smiles of those about him.
“Impudent puppy!” he muttered to himself; “he seems to forget that I have a mortgage of eight hundred dollars on his farm. When the time comes to foreclose it, I will show him no mercy. I’ll sell him out, root and branch!”
Mr. Frost could not read the thoughts that were passing through the mind of his creditor. They might have given him a feeling of uneasiness, but would not in the least have influenced his action. He was a man loyal to his own convictions of duty, and no apprehension of personal loss would have prevented his speaking in accordance with what he felt to be right.
The considerations which had been urged were so reasonable that the voters present, with very little opposition, voted to pay one hundred and fifty dollars to each one who was willing to enlist as one of the town’s quota. A list was at once opened, and after the close of the meeting four young men came forward and put down their names, amid the applause of the assembly.
“I wanted to do it before,” said John Drake, one of the number, to Mr. Frost, “but I’ve got a wife and two little children dependent upon me for support. I couldn’t possibly support them out of my thirteen dollars a month, even with the State aid. But your motion has decided me. I could do better by staying at home, even with that; but that isn’t the question. I want to help my country in this hour of her need; and now that my mind is at ease about my family, I shall cheerfully enter the service.”
“And I know of no one who will make a better soldier!” said Mr. Frost heartily.
CHAPTER II. THE PRIZE
A few rods distant from the Town Hall, but on the opposite side of the street, stood the Rossville Academy. It had been for some years under the charge of James Rathburn, A. M., a thorough scholar and a skilful teacher. A large part of his success was due to his ability in making the ordinary lessons of the schoolroom interesting to his scholars.
Some forty students attended the academy, mostly from the town of Rossville. Mr. Rathburn, however, received a few boarders into his family.
There were three classes in the Latin language; but the majority of those who had taken it up stopped short before they had gone beyond the Latin Reader. One class, however, had commenced reading the Aeneid of Virgil, and was intending to pursue the full course of preparation for college; though in regard to one member of the class there was some doubt whether he would be able to enter college. As this boy is to be our hero we will take a closer look at him.
Frank Frost is at this time in his sixteenth year. He is about the medium size, compactly made, and the healthful color in his cheeks is good evidence that he is not pursuing his studies at the expense of his health. He has dark chestnut hair, with a slight wave, and is altogether a fine-looking boy.
At a desk behind him sits John Haynes, the son of Squire Haynes, introduced in our last chapter. He is nearly two years older than Frank, and about as opposite to him in personal appearance as can well be imagined. He has a thin face, very black hair is tall of his age, and already beginning to feel himself a young man. His manner is full of pretension. He never forgets that his father is the richest man in town, and can afford to give him advantages superior to those possessed by his schoolfellows. He has a moderate share of ability but is disinclined to work hard. His affectation of Superiority makes him as unpopular among his schoolfellows as Frank is popular.
These two boys, together with Henry Tufts, constitute the preparatory class of Rossville Academy. Henry is mild in his manners, and a respectable student, but possesses no positive character. He comes from a town ten miles distant, and boards with the principal. Frank, though the youngest of the three, excels the other two in scholarship. But there is some doubt whether he will be able to go to college. His father is in moderate circumstances, deriving a comfortable subsistence from a small farm, but is able to lay by a very small surplus every year, and this he feels it necessary to hold in reserve for the liquidation of the mortgage held by Squire Haynes. Frank’s chance of attaining what he covets-a college education-seems small; but he is resolved at least to prepare for college, feeling that even this will constitute a very respectable education.
The reader is introduced to the main schoolroom of the Rossville Academy on the morning of the day of which the war meeting takes place.
At nine o’clock the bell rang, and the scholars took their seats. After the preliminary devotional exercise, Mr. Rathburn, instead of calling up the first class at once, paused a moment, and spoke as follows:
“Scholars, I need not remind you that on the first day of the term, with the design of encouraging you to aim at improvement in English composition, I offered two prizes-one for the best essay written by a boy over fourteen years of age; the other for the best composition by any one under that age. It gives me pleasure to state that in most of those submitted to me I recognize merit, and I should be glad if it were in my power to give three times as many prizes. Those of you, however, who are unsuccessful will feel repaid by the benefit you have yourselves derived from the efforts you have made for another end.”
During this address, John Haynes looked about him with an air of complacency and importance. He felt little doubt that his own essay on the “Military Genius of Napoleon” would win the prize. He did not so much care for this, except for the credit it would give him. But his father, who was ambitious for him, had promised him twenty-five dollars if he succeeded, and he had already appropriated this sum in imagination. He had determined to invest it in a handsome boat which he had seen for sale in Boston on his last visit to that city.
“After careful consideration,” continued the teacher, “I have decided that the prize should be adjudged to an essay entitled ‘The Duties of Boys on the Present National Crisis,’ written by Frank Frost.”
There was a general clapping of hands at this announcement. Frank was a general favorite, and even his disappointed rivals felt a degree of satisfaction in feeling that he had obtained the prize.
There was one exception, however. John Haynes turned pale, and then red, with anger and vexation. He scowled darkly while the rest of the boys were applauding, and persuaded himself that he was the victim of a great piece of injustice.
Frank’s face flushed with pleasure, and his eyes danced with delight. He had made a great effort to succeed, and he knew that at home they would be very happy to hear that the prize had been awarded to him.
“Frank Frost will come forward,” said Mr. Rathburn.
Frank left his seat, and advanced modestly. Mr. Rathburn placed in his hand a neat edition of Whittier’s Poem’s in blue and gold.
“Let this serve as an incentive to renewed effort,” he said.
The second prize was awarded to one of the girls. As she has no part in our story, we need say nothing more on this point.
At recess, Frank’s desk was surrounded by his schoolmates, who were desirous of examining the prize volumes. All expressed hearty good-will, congratulating him on his success, with the exception of John Haynes.
“You seem mighty proud of your books, Frank Frost,” said he with a sneer. “We all know that you’re old Rathburn’s favorite. It didn’t make much difference what you wrote, as long as you were sure of the prize.”
“For shame, John Haynes!” exclaimed little Harvey Grover impetuously. “You only say that because you wanted the prize yourself, and you’re disappointed.”
“Disappointed!” retorted John scornfully. “I don’t want any of old Rathburn’s sixpenny books. I can buy as many as I please. If he’d given ‘em to me, I should have asked him to keep ‘em for those who needed ‘em more.”
Frank was justly indignant at the unfriendly course which John chose to pursue, but feeling that it proceeded from disappointed rivalry, he wisely said nothing to increase his exasperation. He put the two books carefully away in his desk, and settled himself quietly to his day’s lessons.
It was not until evening that John and his father met. Both had been chafed—the first by his disappointment, the second by the failure of his effort to prevent the town’s voting bounties to volunteers. In particular he was incensed with Mr. Frost, for his imputation of interested motives, although it was only in return for a similar imputation brought against himself.
“Well, father, I didn’t get the prize,” commenced John, in a discontented voice.
“So much the worse for you,” said his father coldly. “You might have gained it if you had made an effort.”
“No, I couldn’t. Rathburn was sure to give it to his favorite.”
“And who is his favorite?” questioned Squire Haynes, not yet siding with his son.
“Frank Frost, to be sure.”
“Frank Frost!” repeated the squire, rapidly wheeling round to his son’s view of the matter. His dislike of the father was so great that it readily included the son. “What makes you think he is the teacher’s favorite?”
“Oh, Rathburn is always praising him for something or other. All the boys know Frank Frost is his pet. You won’t catch him praising me, if I work ever so hard.”
John did not choose to mention that he had not yet tried this method of securing the teacher’s approval.
“Teachers should never have favorites,” said the squire dogmatically. “It is highly detrimental to a teacher’s influence, and subversive of the principles of justice. Have you got your essay with you, John?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You may sit down and read it to me, and if I think it deserving, I will take care that you sha’n’t lose by the teacher’s injustice.”
John readily obeyed. He hurried up to his chamber, and, opening his writing-desk, took out a sheet of foolscap, three sides of which were written over. This he brought down-stairs with him. He began to hope that he might get the boat after all.
The squire, in dressing-gown and slippers, sat in a comfortable armchair, while John in a consequential manner read his rejected essay. It was superficial and commonplace, and abundantly marked with pretension, but to the squire’s warped judgment it seemed to have remarkable merit.
“It does you great credit, John,” said he emphatically. “I don’t know what sort of an essay young Frost wrote, but I venture to say it was not as good. If he’s anything like his father, he is an impertinent jackanapes.”
John pricked up his ears, and listened attentively.
“He grossly insulted me at the town meeting to-day, and I sha’n’t soon forget it. It isn’t for his interest to insult a man who has the power to annoy him that I possess.”
“Haven’t you got a mortgage on his farm?”
“Yes, and at a proper time I shall remind him of it. But to come back to your own affairs. What was the prize given to young Frost?”
“A blue-and-gold copy of Whittier’s Poems, in two volumes.”
“Plain binding, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. The next time I go to Boston, I will buy you the same thing bound in calf. I don’t intend that you shall suffer by your teacher’s injustice.”
“It wasn’t so much the prize that I cared for,” said John, who felt like making the most of his father’s favorable mood, “but you know you promised me twenty-five dollars if I gained it.”
“And as you have been defrauded of it, I will give you thirty instead,” said the squire promptly.
John’s eyes sparkled with delight. “Oh, thank you, sir!” he said. “I wouldn’t change places with Frank Frost now for all his prize.”
“I should think not, indeed,” said the squire pompously. “Your position as the son of a poor farmer wouldn’t be quite so high as it is now.”
As he spoke he glanced complacently at the handsome furniture which surrounded him, the choice engravings which hung on the walls, and the full-length mirror in which his figure was reflected. “Ten years from now Frank Frost will be only a common laborer on his father’s farm—that is,” he added significantly, “if his father manages to keep it; while you, I hope, will be winning distinction at the bar.”
Father and son were in a congenial mood that evening, and a common hatred drew them more closely together than mutual affection had ever done. They were very much alike—both cold, calculating, and selfish. The squire was indeed ambitious for his son, but could hardly be said to love him, since he was incapable of feeling a hearty love for any one except himself.
As for John, it is to be feared that he regarded his father chiefly as one from whom he might expect future favors. His mother had been a good, though not a strong-minded woman, and her influence might have been of advantage to her son; but unhappily she had died when John was in his tenth year, and since then he had become too much like his father.
