Randy always became restless when he had to tag along with his parents on tours of old houses, for he would rather be out tramping in the woods, slogging along in the muck beside a river, or peering curiously into the musty dimness of an old barn. In the darkness of the visitor center where tourists were viewing the film, he had seized his chance to slip away. Perhaps, he could even melt back into the group as they came outside later. Meanwhile he was off in search of adventure.
“This house was purchased by John Jamieson of Scotland, who served as a drummer boy in McClellan’s army fifty years ago,” intoned the film’s narrator. “In 1927 the plantation was inherited by his son, Malcolm, and together with his wife, Grace, they are responsible for the extensive restoration seen today.
“Window frames, floors, and masonry as well as America’s finest pediment roof, are all original. Much of the furniture came from Westover Plantation, and the English silver, Waterford glass, and Chinese porcelain are authentic to the period. The famous Adams woodwork was installed in 1790. Berkeley’s five terraces between the house and the James River were dug by hand, using oxcarts and wheelbarrows, before the Revolution.”
Outdoors, Randy had already reached the third terrace and was contemplating which part of the plantation he wanted to explore first. His parents continued to watch the film, unaware that he was no longer with them. “Today, the soybean and small grain crops that occupy more than a thousand acres of this working plantation are harvested with the latest in farm equipment. So, welcome home, Americans, to a plantation where history lives today. We hope you enjoy your visit,” said the narrator.
Julie and her parents filed out with the rest of the audience. She was just about to tell them that Randy was gone when they saw friends. Everyone began talking and when Julie found that their daughter of her age was with them, she forgot all about Randy’s defection. While they had been in the house, there had been a summer storm; the sky had become quite dark, though it was not yet midday.
Randy had decided in favor of the riverbank. He, as usual, had forgotten the time, and he paid no attention to the darkening sky or even the first drops of rain. Over his head, thunder crashed like colliding freight cars, and flashes of lightning were all around him.
He was not easily frightened, but he couldn’t help but think of the story of how, long ago, Benjamin Harrison and his son had been lowering one of the windows upstairs, when the boy was struck and killed by lightning. Mr. Jamieson had said that often when he was relating the story of the boy being killed at the window, a noisy crash would be heard, and everyone would hurry upstairs to discover that the open window had slammed closed.
Then Randy saw a red-headed boy a few yards away beckoning to him. In a moment the pair stood together in a sheltered place where no rain was falling.
“This is a real cloudburst,” said the boy.
“It’s the lightning that bothers me,” admitted Randy.
“I’ll bet you’re thinking about that story of Mr. Harrison’s son being killed at the window.”
“I guess I was.”
“I used to think about it, too, when we were here and a bad storm would wake me up at night. A tent never seemed like much protection.”
“You’ve camped out here beside the river?”
“Yes, many a night. My name is John. What is yours?
“I’m Randy. Say, you’ve got a nice drum there. Did it take you long to learn to play it?”
“No. You can’t tune it, but I like the rhythm. Reminds me of my father when he used to play the bagpipes. Of course, they carry a tune, but there is a rhythm about their music, and drums have it, too.”
“I wish my father could play the bagpipes. Do you come out here to camp often?”
“The camping? Oh, that was a long time ago.” By now the rain had stopped.
“I could come and camp sometime, maybe, if I asked my dad.”
And that reminded Randy that he had better get back to the house quickly. He turned to say goodbye to his drummer friend, but the red-headed boy was gone. He would get his father and together they would find him.
An excited Randy appeared just as his family was almost ready to go into the little restaurant that Berkeley maintains for visitors.
“Dad, I want you to come and meet my new friend!”
His parents were taking some pictures of the front of the house and Randy tugged at his father’s arm to get his attention.
“Oh, all right,” said his dad. “Where is this boy?”
“Near the river.”
“Your mother would like to have lunch while we are here, but she can probably look around in the gift shop for a few minutes. Let’s go find him.”
The pair took a path that led off toward the left, Randy chattering away.
“Dad, he was wearing a uniform and carrying a drum.”
“Some of the people around here are dressed in costume, I suppose.”
“He must be hot in that uniform.”
“He’s probably used to it.” They searched until his father was impatient to go to the restaurant, but they could not find Randy’s new friend.
When dusk falls across the emerald fields of Berkeley and the last tourist has left, Berkeley’s real inhabitants return. Although Randy did not know it, among McClellan’s troops there was a lad born in Scotland, not old enough to fight in a war, but spunky enough to want to go. This brave twelve-year-old became a drummer boy, practicing until the alternate double strokes of the sticks upon his field drum produced a rhythmic, stirring call to battle. Its rumble could be heard through the trees like distant thunder.
Randy is not the only one to
