When the war broke out，he and his invalid aunt and his father were living near Baton Rouge，on a great and rich plantation which had been in the family for fifty years.The father was a Union man.He was persecuted in all sorts of ways，but clung to his principles.At last one night masked men burned his mansion down，and the family had to fly for their lives.They were hunted from place to place，and learned all there was to know about poverty，hunger，and distress.The invalid aunt found relief at last:misery and exposure killed her；she died in an open field，like a tramp，the rain beating upon her and the thunder booming overhead.Not long afterward the father was captured by an armed band；and while the son begged and pleaded the victim was strung up before his face.［At this point a baleful light shone in the youth's eyes and he said with the manner of one who talks to himself:“If I cannot be enlisted，no matter—I shall find a way—I shall find a way.”］As soon as the father was pronounced dead，the son was told that if he was not out of that region within twenty-four hours it would go hard with him.That night he crept to the riverside and hid himself near a plantation landing.By and by the Duncan F.Kenner stopped there，and he swam out and concealed himself in the yawl that was dragging at her stern.Before day-light the boat reached the Stock Landing and he slipped ashore.He walked the three miles which lay between that point and the house of an uncle of his in Good-Children Street，in New Orleans，and then his troubles were over for the time being.But this uncle was a Union man，too，and before very long he concluded that he had better leave the South.So he and young Wicklow slipped out of the country on board a sailing-vessel，and in due time reached New York.They put up at the Astor House.Young Wicklow had a good time of it for a while，strolling up and down Broadway，and observing the strange Northern sights；but in the end a change came—and not for the better.The uncle had been cheerful at first，but now he began to look troubled and despondent；moreover，he became moody and irritable；talked of money giving out，and no way to get more—“not enough left for one，let alone two.”Then，one morning，he was missing—did not come to breakfast.The boy inquired at the office，and was told that the uncle had paid his bill the night before and gone away—to Boston，the clerk believed，but was not certain.
The lad was alone and friendless.He did not know what to do，but concluded he had better try to follow and find his uncle.He went down to the steamboat landing：learned that the trifle of money in his pocket would not carry him to Boston；however，it would carry him to New London；so he took passage for that port，resolving to trust to Providence to furnish him means to travel the rest of the way.He had now been wandering about the streets of New London three days and nights，getting a bite and a nap here and there for charity's sake.But he had given up at last；courage and hope were both gone.If he could enlist，nobody could be more thankful；if he could not get in as a soldier，couldn't he be a drummer-boy？Ah，he would work so hard to please，and would be so grateful!
Well，there's the history of young Wicklow，just as he told it to me，barring details.I said：
“My boy，you are among friends now—don't you be troubled any more.”How his eyes glistened!I called in Sergeant John Rayburn—he was from Hartford；lives in Hartford yet；maybe you know him—and said，“Rayburn，quarter this boy with the musicians.I am going to enroll him as a drummer-boy，and I want you to look after him and see that he is well treated.”
Well，of course，intercourse between the commandant of the post and the drummer-boy came to an end now；but the poor little friendless chap lay heavy on my heart just the same.I kept on the lookout，hoping to see him brighten up and begin to be cheery and gay；but no，the days went by，and there was no change.He associated with nobody；he was always absent-minded，always thinking；his face was always sad.One morning Rayburn asked leave to speak to me privately.Said he：
“I hope I don't offend，sir；but the truth is，the musicians are in such a sweat it seems as if somebody's got to speak.”
“Why，what is the trouble？”
“It's the Wicklow boy，sir.The musicians are down on him to an extent you can't imagine.”
“Well，go on，go on.What has he been doing？”
“Prayin'，sir.”
“Praying!”
“Yes，sir；the musicians haven't any peace in their life for that boy's prayin'.First thing in the mornin'he's at it；noons he's at it；and nights—well，nights he just lays into ‘em like all possessed!Sleep？Bless you，they can't sleep:he's got the floor，as the sayin'is，and then when he once gets his supplication-mill agoin'there just simply ain't any let-up to him.He starts in with the band-master，and he prays for him；next he takes the head bugler，and he prays for him；next the bass drum，and he scoops him in；and so on，right straight through the band，givin'them all a show，and takin'that amount of interest in it which would make you think he thought he warn't but a little while for this world，and believed he couldn't be happy in heaven without he had a brass-band along，and wanted to pick ‘em out for himself，so he could depend on ‘em to do up the national tunes in a style suitin'to the place.Well，sir，heavin'boots at him don't have no effect；it's dark in there；and，besides，he don't pray fair，anyway，but kneels down behind the big drum；so it don't make no difference if they rain boots at him，he don't give a dern—warbles right along，same as if it was applause.They sing out，‘Oh，dry up!'‘Give us a rest!'‘Shoot him!'‘Oh，take a walk!'and all sorts of such things.But what of it？It don't faze him.He don't mind it.”After a pause:“Kind of a good little fool，too；gits up in the mornin'and carts all that stock of boots back，and sorts ‘em out and sets each man's pair where they belong.And they've been throwed at him so much now that he knows every boot in the band—can sort ‘em out with his eyes shut.”
