"'Rattling, crashing, thrashing, thunder down!'" screamed Seth Tucket, his ruling passion, poetry, strong even in battle. The man, pitching forwards in his fearful somerset, had fallen within a few feet of Frank. The boy recovering from his astonishment at the awful sight, felt a strange curiosity to see if he was dead. He looked over the log. There lay the wretch, a hideous heap, the face of him upturned and recognizable. Where had Frank seen that grim countenance, that short, stiff, iron-gray hair? Somewhere, surely. He looked again, trying to fix his memory. "I swan to man, ef it ain't old Buckley!" Seth was right. It was the Maryland secessionist whose turkeys the boys had stolen, and who, in consequence, had made haste to avenge his wrongs by joining the confederate army. A strange, sickening sensation came over Frank at the discovery. Thus the evil he had done followed him. But for that wild freak of plundering the poor man's poultry-yard, he might be plodding now on his Maryland farm, and Atwater would not be lying there so white and still with a bullet in his breast. XXXI. "VICTORY OR DEATH." Where all this time was the old drum-major? He too had disappeared from the ambulance corps to assume, like Frank, a position of still more arduous service and greater danger. Shortly after Frank left him, word came that the battery of boat-howitzers, which, from a curve in the road that commanded the rebel works, had been doing splendid execution, was suffering terribly, and getting short of hands. It must soon withdraw unless reinforced. But who would volunteer to help work the guns? The old man had been familiar with artillery practice. At the thought of the service and the peril his spirit grew proud within him. But his heart yearned for Frank. "Where is Manly?" he inquired of Ellis. "I believe he has gone into the fight with our company," said the wounded volunteer. The truth flashed upon the veteran. Yes, the boy he loved had gone before him into danger. He no longer hesitated, or lost any time in getting leave to report himself to the commander of the battery. "What can you do?" was the hurried question put to him, as he stood in the thick powder-smoke, calmly asking for work. Just then, a gunner was taken off his feet by a cannon-ball. "I can take this fellow's place, sir," said the old man, grimly. "Take it!" replied the officer. The wounded sailor was borne away, and the old drummer, springing to the howitzer, assisted in working it until, its ammunition exhausted, the battery was ordered to withdraw. During the severest part of the action Mr. Sinjin had observed a person in citizen's dress, with his coat off, briskly handling the cannon-balls. Their work done, he turned to speak with him. "You are a friend of my young drummer boy, I believe," said the old man. "Yes, and a friend of all his friends!" cordially answered the white-sleeved civilian.