upon the bastions of the great slumbering fortress. At a late
hour, Frank, with his eyes full of beauty and his ears full of music,
went below, crept into his berth, and thought of home, and of the great
world he was beginning to see, until he fell asleep.

The next day the fleet still lay in Hampton Roads. There were belonging
to the expedition over one hundred and twenty-five vessels of all
classes, freighted with troops, horses, forage, and all the paraphernalia
of war. And this was the last morning which was to behold that
magnificent and powerful armada entire and unscattered.

At night the fleet sailed. Once at sea, the sealed orders, by which each
vessel was to shape its course, were opened, and Hatteras Inlet was found
to be its first destination.

The next day was Sunday, January 12. The morning was densely foggy.
Frank, who had been seasick all night, went on deck to breathe the fresh
sea air. The steamer, still towing the Schooner, was just visible in the
fog, at the other end of the great sagging hawser. And the sea was
rolling, rolling, rolling. And the ship was tossing, tossing, tossing.
And Frank's poor stomach, not satisfied with its convulsive efforts to
turn him wrong side out the night before, recommenced heaving, heaving,
heaving. He clung to the rail of the schooner, and every time it went
down, and every time it came up, he seemed to grow dizzier and sicker
than ever. He consoled himself by reflecting that he was only one of
hundreds on hoard, who were, or had been, in the same condition; and when
he was sickest he could not help laughing at Seth Tucket's inexhaustible
drollery.

"Well, try again, ef ye want to," said that poetical private, addressing
his stomach. "Be mean, and stick to it. Keep heaving, and be darned!"

Stomach took him at his word, and for a few minutes he leaned heavily by
Frank's side.

"There!" he said to it, triumphantly, "ye couldn't do any thing, and I
told ye so. Now I hope ye'll keep quiet a minute. Ye won't? Going at it
again? Very well; do as you please; it's none o' my business--by
gosh!"--lifting up his head with a bitter grin; "that inside of me is
like Milton's chaos, in Paradise Lost. 'Up from the bottom turned by
raging wind and furious assault!'--Here it goes again!"

Frank had been scarcely less amused by the misery of Jack Winch, who
declared repeatedly that he should die, that he wished he was dead, and
so forth, with groanings unutterable.

But Fran