After another pause，which I forebore to interrupt：
“But the roughest thing about it is that when he's done prayin'—when he ever does get done—he pipes up and begins to sing.Well，you know what a honey kind of a voice he's got when he talks；you know how it would persuade a cast-iron dog to come down off of a door-step and lick his hand.Now if you'll take my word for it，sir，it ain't a circumstance to his singin'!Flute music is harsh to that boy's singin'.Oh，he just gurgles it out so soft and sweet and low，there in the dark，that it makes you think you are in heaven.”
“What is there ‘rough'about that？”
“Ah，that's just it，sir.You hear him sing
‘Just as I am—poor，wretched，blind'—
just you hear him sing that once，and see if you don't melt all up and the water come into your eyes!I don't care what he sings，it goes plum straight home to you—it goes deep down to where you live—and it fetches you every time!Just you hear him sing
‘Child of sin and sorrow，filled with dismay，
Wait not till to-morrow，yield thee to-day；
‘Grieve not that love
Which，from above'—
and so on.It makes a body feel like the wickedest，ungratefulest brute that walks.And when he sings them songs of his about home，and mother，and childhood，and old memories，and things that's vanished，and old friends dead and gone，it fetches everything before your face that you've ever loved and lost in all your life—and it's just beautiful，it's just divine to listen to，sir—but，Lord，Lord，the heartbreak of it!The band—well，they all cry—every rascal of them blubbers，and don't try to hide it，either；and first you know，that very gang that's been slammin'boots at that boy will skip out of their bunks all of a sudden，and rush over in the dark and hug him!Yes，they do—and slobber all over him，and call him pet names，and beg him to forgive them.And just at that time，if a regiment was to offer to hurt a hair of that cub's head，they'd go for that regiment，if it was a whole army corps!”
Another pause.
“Is that all？”said I.
“Yes，sir.”
“Well，dear me，what is the complaint？What do they want done？”
“Done？Why，bless you，sir，they want you to stop him from singin'.”
“What an idea!You said his music was divine.”
“That's just it.It's too divine.Mortal man can't stand it.It stirs a body up so；it turns a body inside out；it racks his feelin's all to rags；it makes him feel bad and wicked，and not fit for any place but perdition.It keeps a body in such an everlastin'state of repentin'，that nothin'don't taste good and there ain't no comfort in life.And then the cryin'，you see—every mornin'they are ashamed to look one another in the face.”
“Well，this is an odd case，and a singular complaint.So they really want the singing stopped？”
“Yes，sir，that is the idea.They don't wish to ask too much；they would like powerful well to have the prayin'shut down on，or leastways trimmed off around the edges；but the main thing's the singin'.If they can only get the singin'choked off，they think they can stand the prayin'，rough as it is to be bullyragged so much that way.”
I told the sergeant I would take the matter under consideration.That night I crept into the musicians'quarters and listened.The sergeant had not overstated the case.I heard the praying voice pleading in the dark；I heard the execrations of the harassed men；I heard the rain of boots whiz through the air，and bang and thump around the big drum.The thing touched me，but it amused me，too.By and by，after an impressive silence，came the singing.Lord，the pathos of it，the enchantment of it!Nothing in the world was ever so sweet，so gracious，so tender，so holy，so moving.I made my stay very brief；I was beginning to experience emotions of a sort not proper to the commandant of a fortress.
Next day I issued orders which stopped the praying and singing.Then followed three or four days which were so full of bounty-jumping excitements and irritations that I never once thought of my drummer-boy.But now comes Sergeant Rayburn，one morning，and says：
“That new boy acts mighty strange，sir.”
“How？”
“Well，sir，he's all the time writin'.”
“Writing？What does he write—letters？”
“I don't know，sir；but whenever he's off duty，he is always pokin'and nosin'around the fort，all by himself—blest if I think there's a hole or corner in it he hasn't been into—and every little while he outs with pencil and paper and scribbles somethin'down.”
This gave me a most unpleasant sensation.I wanted to scoff at it，but it was not a time to scoff at anything that had the least suspicious tinge about it.Things were happening all around us in the North then that warned us to be always on the alert，and always suspecting.I recalled to mind the suggestive fact that this boy was from the South—the extreme South，Louisiana—and the thought was not of a reassuring nature，under the circumstances.Nevertheless，it cost me a pang to give the orders which I now gave to Rayburn.I felt like a father who plots to expose his own child to shame and injury.I told Rayburn to keep quiet，bide his time，and get me some of those writings whenever he could manage it without the boy's finding it out.And I charged him not to do anything which might let the boy discover that he was being watched.I also ordered that he allow the lad his usual liberties，but that he be followed at a distance when he went out into the town.
