Frank did not understand how it could be, and the old man did not inform him. It was now very late. The rain poured dismally. Frank lay nestled in the old man's bosom, like a child. For a long time he did not speak. Then the veteran bent forward so that he could look in his face. The boy was fast asleep.
"How much he looks like his mother! Her brow, her mouth! God bless the lad, God bless him!"
And the old man sat and watched whilst the drummer boy slept.
THE SKIRMISH.
The night and the storm passed, and day dawned on Roanoke Island.
No reveillé roused up the soldiers. Silently from their drenched, cold beds, they arose and prepared for the rough day's work before them.
The morning was chill and wet, the rain still dripping from the trees. Far in the cypress swamps the lone birds piped their matin songs—the only sounds in those dim solitudes, so soon to be filled with the roar of battle.
Ten thousand men had been landed from the fleet; and now ten thousand hearts were beating high in anticipation of the conflict.
The line of advance lay along the road, which run in a northerly direction through the centre of the island. Across this road the rebels had erected their most formidable battery, with seemingly impenetrable swamps on either side, an ample space cleared for the play of their guns in front, and felled trees all around.