FROM HEADQUARTERS
ODD TALES
PICKED UP IN THE VOLUNTEER SERVICE
BY
JAMES ALBERT FRYE
BOSTON
ESTES AND LAURIAT
1893
Copyright, 1892
BY
JAMES ALBERT FRYE
TO THE
FIRST INFANTRY
M.V.M.
PREFACE.
In the odd though truthful tales here brought together--of which, by
the way, some already have been in print--there is not the slightest
attempt at pen portraiture, nor is there any pretence to the accuracy
of the military historian; in other words, this is a collection of
chance yarns, and not a portrait gallery--and no one is asked to
believe that either the Nineteenth Army Corps or the "Old Regiment"
ever were found in any situations like those in which they here find
themselves placed.
This book, perhaps, may fall into the hands of one of those--and
they are far too many--whose habit it is to scoff at the volunteer
service, and to look askance at all who enter it. I sincerely trust
that it may, for I wish to say--and in all earnestness--that the
militia of today is not the militia of thirty, twenty, or even ten
years ago; that nowadays the incompetent and the vicious are allowed
to remain in civil life, and are not given places in the ranks of the
volunteers; and that those who take the solemn oath of enlistment do
so with the full understanding that they will be required to devote
their time, their money, and their best energies to the service, and
that they have assumed an obligation to fit themselves carefully and
intelligently for the duties of a soldier.
The volunteer service of the present time means, to those who find
themselves enrolled in it, something more than a mere pastime; and
if those who hold it in small esteem could but know of the faithful,
conscientious, and untiring work that, from year's end to year's end,
is being done in armory and camp, they would leave unsaid, it seems
to me, the half-contemptuous words that too often come to the ears of
the hard-working, long-suffering, and unrewarded citizen-soldier.
It has been said that the best is none too good for the service of the
Commonwealth. If this be true,--and who can question it?--the stigma
of whatever blemishes have been found in the militia must be borne by
those men of ability and position who, while ever ready to point out
weaknesses and faults, negligently have left to hands less competent,
or, it may be, less worthy, the work which they themselves were in
honor bound to do.
J. A. F.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE PLUCK OF CAPTAIN PENDER, C.S.N. 1
ONE RECORD ON THE REGIMENTAL ROLLS 37
OUR HORSE "ACME" 65
FROM BEYOND THE PYRAMIDS 91
THE HYMN THAT HELPED 121
THE SEVENTH MAJOR 153
CONCERNING THE VALUE OF SLEEP 185
THE PLUCK
OF
CAPTAIN PENDER, C.S.N.
THE PLUCK
OF
CAPTAIN PENDER, C.S.N.
Well up town, something above quarter of a mile beyond the massive,
battlemented armory in which we of the Third Infantry have our
headquarters, a side street, branching off from one of the main
thoroughfares, ambitiously stretches away until it finds its farther
progress barred by a high, stone-capped, brick wall. There it stops.
Beyond lie the quadruple tracks of a railway, over which, all day
long--and, for that matter, all night, too--thunder the coming and
going trains, with such an outpouring of smoke and downpouring of
cinders that it is small wonder that a quiet street, such as this one
pretends to be, should have lost all desire to continue its course in
that direction.
A few paces from the end of the _cul-de-sac_ formed by the halting
street and the obstructing wall, and facing a lamp-post which
awkwardly rears itself up from the curbstone to present for inspection
a glass panel lettered "Battery Court," there is--in one of the long
row of houses--an opening which looks like the entrance to a tunnel.
In point of fact, it _is_ the entrance to a tunnel, for, in order to
reach the court which lies hidden beyond, one has to grope through
fifty feet of brick-bound darkness. And even when that venture has
been made, the change from shade to light is not a startling one,
for the court is small and entirely surrounded by lofty buildings,
so that one standing in it and looking up at the patch of blue sky
overhead feels much as if he had landed at the bottom of a well, and
instinctively glances about in search of a rope by which to climb up
and out again.
It is an odd corner--and oddly utilized. All around it stretch streets
of dwellings, but in this silent and dim court the few structures are
plainly and solidly built, and heavily shuttered with iron, for they
all are devoted to storage. It was the lack of breathing space, I
dare say, and the close proximity of the railway that made this nook
undesirable for any other purpose; and in all probability "Battery
Court" would be unknown to-day if we had not happened to stumble upon
it in our search for a place where we could pitch our tent, without
being forced to pitch after it a king's ransom in the shape of rent.
Facing the dark passageway which offers the only avenue for escape
to the street beyond, and entirely filling one end of the court,
there looms up a five-storied warehouse. For four stories it bears a
perfect family resemblance to its companions on either hand, and up
to that height its dull, red bricks and rusty, red iron entitle it to
no distinction whatever. But the _fifth_ story is altogether another
story, and though from an architect's point of view it might seem
wofully incongruous, yet to our eyes it is supremely satisfying--_for
we did it_.
Yes, the fifth story of that old warehouse asserts itself like a
diamond pin in a soiled and rumpled scarf, for the mansard roof
with its galvanized-iron trimmings, which once made it appear
no more respectable than it ought to be, has given place to a
long, well-glazed, dormer window, finished on the outside with
heavy timbering and rough plaster work, and fitted with swinging
sashes through whose many panes the southern sun may shine without
let or hinderance, save when, in summer months, a wide, striped
awning parries the hottest rays. In every sense of the word it is
a great window, and--as I and many another officer of the Third
can testify--the comfortable, cushioned seat which runs its entire
length has many attractions for a lazy, tobacco-loving man. Above
the window, and crowning glory of all, a straight and slender spar
points skyward, from which, on sunny days, floats a great, white flag,
bearing in mid-field the blue Maltese cross, on which the figure "3"
is displayed: for the present Third is the successor of a "fighting
regiment," and we proudly preserve the old corps' device and the
traditions that go with it.
So much for the _outside_ of our nightly gathering-place.
Within-doors the effect is even more surprising, for the four long
and dusty flights of dimly-lighted stairs give no hint of the
cheery quarters up to which they lead the way. Once they had their
termination in a loft--a bare, rough, unfinished loft; but we have
changed all that, and now it would be hard to find at any club in town
a cosier spot. Thirty feet from side to side the great room stretches,
and twice that from front to rear; ample room, yet none too much for
our needs, for our friends are many, and the times are not infrequent
when we find even these quarters crowded. At the southern end, almost
from wall to wall, extends the long window, with its softly cushioned
seat--a vantage point that never lacks for tenants. Midway of one side
wall the great fireplace yawns, waiting for the sharp, cold nights
when the load of logs upon its iron fire-dogs shall be called upon
to send the smoke wreathing and curling up the chimney's broad and
blackened throat.
Above the wide mantel-shelf are crossed two faded colors, hanging
motionless from their staves, save when some stray current of air
idly stirs their tarnished, golden fringes: "Old Glory," with its
stripes and star-sown field, is one; the other, the white banner of
the Commonwealth, beneath whose crest the ever-watchful Indian stands
guard. In a long, glittering row, below the mantel, hang the polished
pewter mugs, swinging expectantly, each upon its hook, and seeming to
say--as they flash back the sunbeams, or reflect the light of the fire
below--"Come, fill us, empty us: and have done with the worries of the
day!"
Furniture? Yes, there's a plenty. Fronting the hospitable fireplace
a long, oaken table stands sturdily upon its solid legs, as indeed
it _must_--for often and often, when the fire is crackling, it has
to bear a load of lazy soldiers, who delight to roost along its edge
and match the logs in smoking: chairs enough there are to be sure,
but somehow there comes a greater sense of comfort and ease to one
who perches on a table's edge. Beneath a trophy of Arab swords and
spears stands the bookcase, on whose shelves the literature ranges
from Tibdall, Upton, and the long and ever-lengthening series of
solemn black "Reports," to the crazy yarns of Lever, and the books
whose backs bear the names of Captain King and Kipling. In one corner
the upright piano, in its ebony case, has its station--and here our
lieutenant-colonel holds command undisputed, for his touch upon the
ivory keys can make the rafters ring with the airs that we all know
and like the best; not far away, a pillowed lounge stands waiting
for an occupant; and all about are scattered small tables, ready for
the whist players. A few rugs and half a dozen deer-skins litter the
floor; while here and there, along the walls, are fixed the heads
and horns of elk and mountain sheep--for there are two among us who
spend their leaves each year far in the West, amid the big game.
Everywhere there are pictures: engravings, etchings, colored prints,
and, last and most of all, photographs by the dozen, and almost by
the hundred--for we of the Third always have borne a reputation for
unflinchingly facing the camera.
This is "The Battery."
Yes, this is The Battery, and here you may drop in on any night with
the certainty of finding a pipe and a mug, and good fellows in plenty
with whom to pass the time of day and pick to bits the latest thing in
the way of general orders.
What gave it the name? I cannot tell. I only know that we always have
spoken of it thus, perhaps because of the shining brass howitzers
that stand on end, one on either side of the chimney-piece. At odd
times, to be sure, we have talked of giving the old sky-parlor some
more high-sounding title, but the years have gone by without ever our
getting to it, and the name which first was thrown at the place has
stuck to it. And now, since Pollard, our junior major, has used his
influence in municipal politics to have the name of the court changed
to correspond, the chances are that "The Battery" it will be, so long
as the Third stands _first_ in the service--which, we fondly hope,
will be always.
One night in December we had been having a battalion drill at the
armory, and--an occurrence by no means uncommon--a goodly array of
officers from other regiments had come over to see our work, and
openly congratulate us upon the beauty of it, while secretly hugging
to their hearts the conviction that _they_ could do the same things
twice as well. When the armory part of the programme had been put out
of the way, we all adjourned to The Battery, and there--after Sam had
relieved the visitors of their heavy, military coats, which he folded
and stacked upon a chair, like so many cheap ulsters in a ready-made
clothing store--our guests went 'round the room on the usual tour of
inspection, while those of us who had not detailed ourselves to act as
guides helped Sam to load the long table with pewters.
Presently all the mugs had been filled with beer, and at a glance
from the colonel we gathered about him. "Gentlemen of the Third,"
he said, raising his froth-capped mug, "our guests!"--and upon this
hint we drank heartily, and very willingly indeed, to the visiting
officers whom we had with us. Then Major Wilson, the senior of our
guests, proposed _our_ healths, and with the conclusion of this simple
ceremony we laid aside all formality, and scattered ourselves over the
room, while Sam passed around the tray of pipes and the great Japanese
jar of cut-plug.
Each equipped with corn-cob and mug--for our tastes are not luxurious,
and beer and tobacco amply satisfy them--we split up into groups, and
as the smoke-cloud became more dense the talk grew louder, until the
clatter of mugs, the humming monotone of many voices, and the frequent
bursts of laughter combined to drown the sound of the hissing and
crackling logs in the fireplace.
"Is that one of your trophies, Major?" asked Kenryck, of the brigade
staff, speaking to Sawin, our surgeon, and nodding up at a huge pair
of moose horns upon the wall above the mantel.
"No, that's a contribution from the colonel," replied Sawin, _alias_
"Bones," setting down his mug and wiping his mustache as he spoke.
"Langforth and I plead guilty to the slaughter of most of these horns
and hides, for we're the 'mighty hunters' of this aggregation, but
_that_ pair of antlers fell to someone else's rifle. Splendid pair,
eh? There's a sort of story goes with 'em, too. Ask the colonel."
"Yes, there _is_ a story connected with that pair," said Colonel
Elliott, who, from his side of the table, overheard the doctor's
suggestion. He rose, transferred his chair and mug to a position
next Kenryck, and continued: "In fact, when we began to fit up this
place, we made it a rule not to admit among the decorations anything
which didn't have a history of some sort. So, you see, The Battery
is rather an interesting establishment, and if any of us had time or
taste for that sort of thing we could get up a good-sized book without
having to go outside these walls to hunt for material."
"It's a mighty interesting outfit--the whole of it," said Kenryck,
glancing up and down the long room, and noting the collection of odds
and ends upon the walls and in every nook and corner. "We're pretty
well fixed, up at _our_ headquarters, but we've nothing so homelike
as this. The general often says that he enjoys nothing more than an
inspection of the Third, with a 'wind-up' afterwards up here. Possibly
you've noticed that, on occasions of that sort, his whole staff is apt
to come with him."
"Yes," said the colonel dryly, remembering the extra cases of beer
which have to be laid in against such emergencies as an official visit
from the brigade staff; "yes, I've noticed it. It's very flattering to
us, I'm sure."
Kenryck must have been aware of something in the colonel's tone, for
he promptly drew upon his reserve supply of tact and said, "Do you
mind telling me the story of those horns? It's worth hearing, I know,
for Sawin put me up to asking for it."
"It's an old story to 'Bones,'" said the colonel, adding, as Sam
passed him, "Break into another case, Sam, and then chuck a couple
more sticks into the fire."
"It must be a good one, then, or he never would have let me in for
it," remarked Kenryck.
"I wouldn't be too sure of that," said the colonel, laughing; "the
doctor's capable of almost anything inhuman, and he may be paying
off an old score, for all _you_ know, by letting you in for a
twenty-minute bore. 'Bones,' what's your grudge against Kenryck?"--but
the surgeon had joined a group at another table, and so the colonel,
getting no reply to his question, went on: "Do you see that little
ivory plate fastened to the shield on which the horns are mounted?
Well, that bears an inscription something like this:
John Harnden Pender, C.S.N.,
to
Henry Elliott, U.S.N.
Jan'y 29th, 1871.
"And the story is not a long one:
"My father was interested in shipping, and at the breaking out of the
war he owned quite a respectable little fleet of vessels. Most of them
were employed in coastwise trade, but he had something like three
or four square-riggers winging it back and forth between here and
England--and sometimes, though rarely, one of his vessels would make a
longer voyage, to Bombay, or 'round the Horn to Frisco. Ah, those were
the good old days! when the harbor was crowded with shipping, and at
least every other ship flew the stars and stripes," and the colonel
raised his mug to his lips, as if drinking to the past glories of our
merchant marine.
"It must have been a pleasant sight," said Kenryck, in the pause
incident to this operation. "I'm a young man, and can't remember that
time, but now-days it's sort of pathetic to see the harbor filled with
huge steamers under foreign bunting, while here and there along the
docks a few wretched little schooners represent our maritime dignity."
"Yes, it's pathetic enough," said the colonel, "but it's more
humiliating than pathetic. However, we can't go into the discussion
of what knocked in the head our ocean carrying trade without running
foul of politics, and politics are barred, up here in The Battery.
"Well, to get back to my story: my father naturally had quite an
acquaintance among Englishmen, and in Liverpool there was an old party
named McClintock, with whom, in particular, he had very extensive
dealings. In course of time he and my governor became great chums,
and finally it got so that once in two years, and sometimes oftener,
one or the other of them would cross the pond, nominally on business,
but really for a visit. Lord! how well I can remember old David
McClintock--'Mac,' my governor used to call him. Square-built and
stocky, hearty and bluff, intellectually sure, but _awfully_ slow--he
certainly was a man to make an impression, for he represented a type
with which we are not over-familiar on this side the water. I can't
forget how he used to laugh at the governor's yarns: ten minutes would
go by without any sign of comprehension from him; then he would begin
to shake; and finally the spasm would pass away, leaving him gasping
for breath, and scarlet in the face. Really, Kenryck, I used to worry
about old Mac, at those times, for his internal mirth was something
awful, and it made me fear for his blood-vessels."
"I know a man like that," put in Kenryck, "and it makes me nervous to
be near him when anything amuses him. But somehow, Colonel, he seems
to get more satisfaction from his silent way of laughing than most men
do who laugh out loud."
"The last time that McClintock came over to this side," continued
the colonel, after a glance at the antlers and the faded colors
crossed below them, "was in '60. He brought his daughter with him--a
pretty girl, too; about eighteen at that time. I'm not making any
official statement, Kenryck, but I've always thought that the two old
gentlemen had put their heads together with an idea of arranging an
international marriage, in which one of the leading parts was to have
been assigned to me. It may be, though, that my suspicions have been
unfounded, for there certainly never was anything _said_ about it.
Anyway, if either old Mac or my governor had been indulging in any
schemes of that sort, they were destined to disappointment, because,
firstly, I had reasons for thinking that a certain little Boston girl
was about the proper thing for me, and secondly--and a clincher on
obstacle number one--little Bess McClintock took a strong dislike to
me. Never quite understood _why_," said the colonel, meditatively
tugging at his mustache, "and don't yet. I thought that most girls
rather liked me, in those days. Probably she saw through the whole
business--for she was a level-headed little chap--and got huffed at
the idea of being 'managed.'"
"Yes?" said Kenryck, with a rising inflection which hinted at a
lack of any very lively interest in what was being said, and led
the colonel to continue: "Well, all this is neither here nor there,
Kenryck, and you must pardon me for getting away from my yarn. But
a pipe and a good listener always tempt me to talk along rather
aimlessly.
"When old Mac and his daughter came for their visit, we had with
us a young fellow named Pender, from Charleston. He was the son of
a man with whom my father, in the course of his southern trade,
had a very considerable amount of business, and he had come north
to settle up some matter or other--_just_ what, I forget. Gad! but
he was a hot-headed little chap! At that time, you know, feeling
was beginning to run pretty high, and I had to do some pretty sharp
manoeuvering in order to keep peace in our house, for my father
was uncompromisingly patriotic, and even went so far as to favor
abolition, while Pender--well, Pender was a southerner to the
core, and went in, neck-or-nothing, for the 'Sacred Institution,'
and States' Rights, and all those things over which later we went
to fighting. It was a cheerful day for me when he finished up his
business and went back home, for though in some ways I liked him well
enough, yet while he was at our house I never sat down to a meal
without an uncomfortable feeling that at any minute some chance remark
might fire a train that would bring about a general explosion.
"It always seems strange to me, when I remember the radical difference
in temperament, but old McClintock developed quite a liking for
Pender. To be sure, he didn't fall in with all of his ideas, but
he had a certain amount of sympathy for the southern view of the
situation, and he used to reply to my governor's criticisms of Pender
with, 'Eh, but he's a spirited lad, ye know--a spirited lad. Bide a
wee, Elliott, bide a wee. Years will give the boy more wisdom.'
"Well, in due time old Mac and his daughter went, and the war came,"
went on Colonel Elliott, after a pause which lessened by half a pint
the contents of his mug. "I went out with the 'Old Regiment,' and
for the better part of four years I was a stranger to this part of
the country. When finally I came home for good and all, I found my
father retired from business, and in feeble health. His little fleet
had disappeared. For some of the vessels which once composed it the
_Alabama_ could have accounted, and the general feeling of insecurity
in shipping circles had caused him to sell the rest. In '66 the
governor died, and about a month afterwards I received a letter from
old Mac, in which he expressed the deepest sorrow, and said that I
must come to see him in Liverpool, since he had determined never again
to visit the States.
"Pender I had lost sight of, and almost had forgotten, for with my
father's retirement from business I lost touch with many of our old
friends and acquaintances, and besides, the war rather cleaned the
slate of our southern connections."
"There must have been a funny state of affairs in business, right
after the war," observed Kenryck, making a gallant attempt to conceal
a yawn, and, by the aid of his sheltering mug, succeeding in his
effort.
"There _was_," said the colonel, "and for some time afterwards, too.
It took more than one year for northern business men to forget some
slight irregularities which showed themselves in the course of trade
about that period.
"Well, after I'd hung up my sword, had my commission and discharge
properly framed, and told my war stories to everyone who could be
induced to listen to them, I began to look about for an occupation. I
ended up by drifting into marine insurance.
"One forenoon, early in '71--the 29th of January, according to that
little plate up there on the horns--I was sitting in my office and
wrestling with the question whether I should lunch at half-past
twelve or wait until one. Business happened to be quiet then, you see,
and so I was able to give a good deal of thought to minor details
like that. I had just decided in favor of half-past twelve, when a
messenger came in and informed me that a certain Captain Pender was
very desirous of having me come to the county jail to see him. Beyond
this bald statement I could get no information except that the man who
had sent for me was locked up on a pretty serious charge--just what,
or how grave, the messenger didn't know.
"This bit of information made me forget all about the lunch question,
and I wasted no time in getting over to the jail. And there, safely
tucked away behind the bars, I found my Charleston acquaintance of
'60--fuming and boiling with rage, and with the maddest kind of
rage, too. Why, Pender was no lamb, at best, but when I got to him,
that day, it was an even chance whether he'd kick down the walls
of his cell or bite off the iron bars of the grated door. And his
_language_--oh, it was sublime! I was in active service for four
years, Kenryck, and gained some knowledge of the power of words; I've
stood by and listened to an army teamster's remarks to a team of
balky mules; I've even had occasion myself to make brief addresses to
company skulkers whom I've caught modestly stealing to the rear; but
I _never_ knew how much could be got out of our mother tongue until I
stood outside of that cell door, and heard Pender tell what he thought
of the man who had managed to get him shut up there."
"Well, what had he done?" asked Kenryck, as the colonel paused to
signal for Sam, by rapping with his empty mug upon the table. "Had he
shot that moose out of season?"
"Bah! no, he was in for a worse shooting affair than _that_," replied
the colonel, still smiling at the remembrance of Pender's outburst.
"After he'd cursed himself out of breath, and had been compelled, from
sheer exhaustion, to seat himself upon the edge of his cot, I managed
to get at the story of the whole trouble. It ran something like this:
"When the 'late unpleasantness' began, Pender, as you may have
guessed, lost no time in taking a hand in the game, and as his
tastes led him in that direction he entered the confederate naval
service--such as it was. He was a capable officer, without any doubt,
and promotion came rapidly in his case, for, a little over two years
after the war had begun, he had reached the rank of captain. Now the
other side never was very strong in the naval branch of the service,
and after a time Pender--who never was any _too_ patient--began to
fidget and fuss because he couldn't seem to get a vessel that suited
him, and, what was worse, could see no prospect of having one provided
for him. Well, what do you suppose he did? You've heard of the
_Halifax_ affair?"
"No," said Kenryck, "can't say that I have--or, if I have, I don't
recall it now."
"It was as plucky an exhibition as was put up by either side during
the whole war--about the same sort of exploit that some of our fellows
performed when they captured the locomotive inside the confederate
lines," said the colonel, taking the replenished mug which Sam had
brought him. "Pender, as I have said, wanted a ship,--and wanted it
badly,--so, as the confederacy wasn't _building_ many at that time,
he calmly sat down and gave his brains a chance, and ended up by
figuring out that it would be comparatively easy, and superlatively
cheap, to come up north and help himself to one.
"And he _did_ it, too, by Jove!" said the colonel, bringing his fist
down with a thump upon the oaken table. "He just took his pick among
the officers whom he knew, and selected an even half-dozen, besides
himself, to work out his little idea. One by one they slipped inside
our lines, and finally they all got together safely up here in Boston.
It must have been nuts for Pender--the secret and solemn conspirators'
meetings, the planning and plotting of when and how, and the stiff
seasoning of danger which gave spice to the whole undertaking. He
told me himself that he gladly would give ten years of his life to go
through with it again.
"At that time there was a line of steamers running between this
port and the 'Provinces,' and the vessels composing it were all
first-class, seaworthy craft; for, as probably you know, there's
pretty nasty weather to be met, off there to the east'ard. Now, of
the whole lot the _Halifax_ was the best, and our government had
had an eye on her for some time, for she had in her the making of
a good gun-boat, and would have come up very handily to blockading
requirements. But Pender's eye was just as keen as Uncle Sam's, and
Pender's motions were a great deal more sudden, and so the _Halifax_
never attained the dignity of a place in our navy; for, when she
left her dock to begin her last voyage 'Down East,' she bore upon
her passenger-list seven ornamentally fictitious names, under cover
of which travelled Captain John Harnden Pender, C.S.N., and the six
choice spirits whom he had chosen to back him up."
"So he stole her, did he?" exclaimed Kenryck, at last beginning to
take a little interest in the story.
"_Stole_ her! no, indeed," said Colonel Elliott, in a tone of
rebuke. "That's hardly a gentlemanly way to put it. In war you don't
steal things: you _capture_ them. Identity in ideas, you know, but
dissimilarity in terms. Pender would be hurt if he should happen to
hear his exploit classed as larceny. Well, the _Halifax_ went churning
along on her course, and until she was well outside the bay there was
nothing unusual in the conduct of her passengers. But when she had a
good offing, there came a transformation scene; and, all of a sudden,
the men in the pilot-house and engine-room found themselves looking
into the barrels of a very respectable number of navy revolvers.
"There wasn't much chance for argument. One of the engineers tried it
on, but he only got shot for his pains--and the results in his case
seemed to discourage the others. In short, the job was done neatly and
in a thoroughly workmanlike way, and it took, all told, not much over
half an hour to change the course of the _Halifax_ from a northerly to
a southerly one. Sounds easy, doesn't it? Well, it _was_."
"So they got clean away with her?" said the colonel's listener. "It
hardly seems possible!"
"Yes, at first they played in luck, and got away with her right
enough," said Colonel Elliott; "but their luck failed to hold, and off
the coast of the Carolinas they had to go blundering plump into the
blockading squadron. Sandy as Pender was, he couldn't fight his ship
with Colt's revolvers, so, when he found himself in a fair way to be
pocketed by two or three of our cruisers, he made the best of a bad
mess, headed the poor old _Halifax_ for the shore, sent her, head
on and at full speed, upon the sands, and left her there ablaze from
stem to stern. I don't know what he said during the operation, but I'd
bet something that if his words were put into print they'd have to be
bound in asbestos or some other non-inflammable material. Well, it
_was_ hard luck, and--Union veteran though I am--I'm damned if I can
help feeling sorry that Pender didn't get away with his ship! I'd have
liked to see what he'd have done with her."
The colonel reached for the tobacco-jar, filled a corn-cob, lighted
it, and then went on: "After this unsuccessful experiment of his, he
failed to get many more chances, for in some scrimmage or other he
managed to get badly used up, and didn't get fairly into shape until
the war was nearly over. When finally the Confederacy went down he was
one of those who couldn't philosophically accept the result of the
struggle, and in an aimless sort of way he drifted over to England.
There he brought up at Liverpool, and in the course of events happened
again upon old David McClintock. Well, after this he had everything
his own way, for the old man completely surrendered to him. First, he
went to stay at Mac's house; next, he went into business with him; and
finally he made love to Bess and married her. He couldn't have wasted
much time over it all, either, for it all had taken place when he
showed up, here in Boston, in '71. But that was Pender all over. 'Eh,
but he was a spirited lad, ye know.'"
Kenryck laughed at this application of old McClintock's words, and the
colonel, who had stopped to pack more closely the tobacco in his pipe,
continued: "He had come to Boston on a matter of business, and was
about to look me up when he found himself put behind the bars, almost
as soon as he had stepped off the New York train. How did _that_
come about? Very simply. It seems that he had met, at some hotel in
Liverpool, a Boston man who still was rabid on the war question. The
fellow wasn't a veteran, but was one of those who staid at home and
_shouted_ for the Union--and they are the ones who keep the hatchet
longest unburied. Somehow he managed to get into a discussion with
Pender, and displayed such a lamentable lack of tact that, before
he half knew it, the little ex-rebel had knocked him flat, and had
repeated the operation twice running. It was a sort of argument to
which he was unaccustomed, and he seemed offended at it."
"A bit put out, eh?" said Kenryck, with a grin at the matter-of-fact
way in which Colonel Elliott made this latter statement.
"More _knocked_ out," replied the colonel, with an answering smile.
"I'm not wasting much sympathy over him, for he wasn't exactly the
style of man I like. Why, Kenryck, instead of getting up and going for
Pender, he slunk off quietly and, all by himself, hatched up a dirty
little scheme for squaring the account without running further risk of
getting a black eye.
"In some way he'd got hold of Pender's war record, and, learning that
he shortly was to come across to this side, he made off, post-haste,
for Boston, where he set to work very industriously to arrange a
proper reception for the man who had presumed to punch his patriotic
nose. I must admit that he did his work very nicely, and the first
results probably were quite gratifying to him, for about as soon as
Pender set foot in this town he was arrested under a warrant charging
piracy, and murder on the high seas, and pretty much every cheerful
sort of crime and misdemeanor, all on account of his little escapade
on the _Halifax_, eight years before. It was at this stage of the game
that I was called upon to take a hand."
"Why, I'm blessed if I can see--" began Kenryck.
"How the charges could be supported, eh?" said the colonel, finishing
his question for him. "Well, they couldn't be, and weren't. The case
never came to trial, for we were able to show the facts of the matter
in the proper light, and with less trouble than I had dared hope. But
I had to trot up bail to the amount of fifteen thousand before I could
put Pender into more congenial quarters, and, first and last, I wasted
the better part of a week in getting the complications disentangled."
"And _then_ what happened?" asked Kenryck, with a grin of
anticipation. "I suppose Pender took the first chance to knock the
head off his man?"
"_Wouldn't_ he have!" said Colonel Elliott, with something like a sigh
of relief at the thought that his peppery little southerner was safe
in Liverpool again, and unlikely ever to cause him further trouble.
"Why, Kenryck, I honestly thought he'd be back again in jail inside
of a week, and for _real_ murder, too. But, luckily, our friend the
informer found it convenient to leave town as soon as he saw the turn
affairs were taking, and so the gutters didn't run with blood, after
all.
"Well, things calmed down, and in time Pender cooled off sufficiently
to attend to his business. But he worried the life half out of me
by thanking me over and over again, at all sorts of times and in
all sorts of places, for what he was pleased to call my 'soldierly
magnanimity.' At last, and just as he was beginning to become rather
a bore, he took himself off on a hunting trip, somewhere up Canada
way, and that was the last I saw of him, for he went back to England
by way of Montreal. But after he'd been gone about three weeks I had
a reminder of him, in the shape of that pair of horns, which, with
his card attached, came to me by express. I had them mounted on the
shield, and put that plate upon them, partly because they recall
rather an odd experience, and partly to keep myself in mind that the
war is over."
"Now, that's quite a story," said Kenryck, as the colonel paused. "I
should think, though, that you would keep the horns at home. They are
a splendid pair, and the story makes them doubly valuable."
"I had them in my hall for years," said the colonel, "but when we
set out to fit up The Battery here, I chipped them in as part of my
contribution, for that space of wall, in there between the colors,
seemed made on purpose for them. But those antlers are not my only
reminder of Pender's gratitude," he continued, taking out his
pocket-book and extracting from it a photograph of a bald-headed,
pudgy-faced infant, "for here's a picture of a young Liverpool citizen
who rejoices in the name of Henry Elliott Pender. He's Pender's third,
and he's bound to grow up into a terrible little rebel, for his father
is still unreconstructed. Doesn't look very formidable, does he? I'm
ready, though, to bet my commission against a corporal's warrant that,
one of these days, I'll have a namesake in either Her Majesty's army
or navy, for the little rascal comes of fighting stock, and blood
will tell."
"Apparently the doctor _didn't_ have a grudge to settle," said
Kenryck, handing back the photograph. Then, after disposing of what
little beer was left in his pewter, he got upon his feet, saying,
"Well, Colonel, I hope I'll have the luck to get up here often, for I
want to hear the stories that go with the rest of these odds and ends."
"Hello!" said Colonel Elliott, glancing at the clock. "Is it so late
as _that_! Trust I've not bored you; you're too good a listener to
frighten away."
Kenryck went to rescue his overcoat from the fast diminishing pile
upon the chair, while the colonel, pipe in hand, took up a position
near the door, to bid good-night to our departing guests. By twos
and threes our visitors left us, and then the colonel, as the last
descending footfall echoed faintly up the long staircase, turned and
glanced at the disorderly array of empty mugs. "I venture to assert,"
he said, with a laugh, "that there are worse places for story-telling
than The Battery. Judging by appearances, I think it doubtful if
there's been a _dry_ yarn told to-night, up here."
"Twenty-two, twenty-four, twenty-six," counted Sam, as he made the
rounds of the deserted tables. "Twenty-six mugs t' clean an' shine
up! Wal, 'twan't sich a bad evenin' a'ter all." And we left him
gathering up the tarnished pewters, and swearing strange, New England
oaths--"B'gosh!" and "I swan!" and "Gol darn!"--at the prospect of the
morrow's polishing.
ONE RECORD
ON THE
REGIMENTAL ROLLS
ONE RECORD
ON THE
REGIMENTAL ROLLS.
"Very pretty," said the colonel, "very pretty, indeed. Quite up to
_our_ standard, eh, Jack? Guard looks small, though,--doesn't it?--to
one who's used to seeing twenty-four files paraded." The colonel and
I had got leave for a couple of weeks to run down to Old Point to see
the heavy gun practice, and now we stood watching the new guard as it
marched away to relieve the old details.
Yes, it _was_ pretty, all of it,--very pretty indeed,--and I felt
repaid for the early breakfast we had taken in order to get over to
the fort in time for the ceremony. The surroundings made a fitting
frame for the picture: before us lay the broad, green floor of the
level parade, its carpet of short-cropped turf still glistening with
the morning dew; the angular lines of the great, ungainly barracks
somehow looked less harsh in the warm sunshine; and the officers'
quarters, half hidden beneath the scrubby oaks and overhanging
willows, looked cosey and comfortable--and almost too homelike for
such a place.
While the gray, sod-capped walls of the old fort still were ringing
with the quickstep played by the four smart trumpeters who led the
guard in its march, we turned and left the parade, loitering for a
moment at the place where the old guns--relics of Yorktown, Saratoga,
and many another by-gone siege and battle--lie sullen and dumb,
while the green mould of long years gathers ever more thickly upon
cascabel, chase, and trunnion. "Back numbers," said the colonel, half
to himself, as he stooped to read the inscription deeply graven in the
metal of an old field-piece, "back numbers, all of them. 'Captured at
Yorktown'--and that was more than a hundred years ago! Well, those who
won and those who lost are under ground now, and the old gun's dead,
too. It has said its last word."
We sauntered away, through the echoing archway, and across the
drawbridge which spans the green and quiet water of the wide ditch;
and as we slowly walked past the water battery, with its long row of
grim, black Rodmans frowning out upon the bay--each in its vaulted
casemate--like so many kennelled watch-dogs, the colonel broke the
silence with, "Do you know, Jack, I don't care particularly about
watching the firing to-day? The pounding we got yesterday was
infernal. I hope this country can steer clear of war until we've
perfected the pneumatic gun."
"Well, I don't know," said I. "Wouldn't that seem too much like
fighting with bean-blowers?"
"It wouldn't much resemble the fighting in the old days--and that's a
fact," replied the colonel, kicking into the ditch a pebble from the
gravelled roadway, and smiling at the sudden scattering of a school of
little fish, caused by the unexpected splash. "I'm not so sure, after
all, that I'm in a hurry for the time to arrive when some fellow,
ten miles or so away, can free a lot of compressed air, and by means
of it drop half a barrel of dynamite in my vicinity--without even so
much as a puff of smoke to show which way I ought to turn to bow my
acknowledgments. I've an idea, old man, that a little occurrence of
that sort would scatter even the gallant Third about as completely and
expeditiously as my pebble disorganized those minnows."
A few steps more brought us beyond the last of the curving line of
casemates, and as we turned towards the hotel the colonel said, "I
feel that I'm growing old, for now-a-days even a little heavy gun
firing makes my ears ache, and anything _over_ a little bores me.
Thirty years ago I didn't mind it so much as I do now. _Thirty years
ago?_ Why, Jack, I can't realize it! But it must be that: yes, '61
from '91; that makes it--and it makes me an old man, too."
"Nonsense!" said I, laughing, for in all the Third there is no
younger-hearted man than the colonel who commands it. "It makes you
nothing of the sort. In '61 you were nineteen; add thirty to that--and
it leaves you still on the sunny side of fifty. See here, Colonel; on
our rolls we have seven hundred men, and some few over--how many are
there among them who could down you to-day?"
"Not many, if I _do_ say it," replied the colonel, with his usual
modesty, drawing himself up and stretching out one long arm, to gaze
contemplatively at the sinewy wrist and compact bunch of knuckles
with which it terminated. "But all that only goes to show how well
preserved I am, for I _am_ an old man, in spite of what you say.
Confound you, Jack! Can't you let a veteran have the satisfaction of
_feeling_ venerable and antique?"
"All right," I replied, laughing again. "You're my commanding officer,
and if you order me to consider you a relic, why, I must, I suppose.
Perhaps it may comfort you to know that the boys conversationally
refer to you as 'the old man.'"
"There, enough of that," said the colonel, as we stepped upon the
planking of the long piazza. "What's the use of discussing my
infirmities? Now, how shall we kill time this forenoon? Billiards?
No, hardly; it's too good a day to waste indoors. I'll tell you what
we'll do, my boy: we'll go over to Hampton and take a look at the old
fellows in the 'Home.' Which shall it be, drive or walk?"
"Walk," said I promptly, as I felt the fresh, salt breeze come
stealing in from off the water; "yes, we'll walk, unless at your
advanced age you don't feel quite up to the exertion."
"Walk it is, then," said the colonel, ignoring my attempt to pay
proper deference to his accumulated years. "Just wait a second,
though; I must fill my pockets before we start. I like to lay a trail
of cigars when I go among the old boys," and with this he disappeared
into the hotel, from which he emerged a moment later, bearing a paper
of weeds which, he explained, were not rankly poisonous for open-air
smoking, though they might involve some unpleasant consequences if
lighted within-doors.
We set off at a swinging gait along the road, and in something less
than half an hour found ourselves at the entrance of the well-kept
grounds in which are clustered the buildings of the Soldiers' Home.
It is a beautiful place, that quiet spot by the southern sea, and I
never could tire of strolling along its flower-bordered walks, and
among its sunny nooks and corners. And yet, even in the midst of the
brightest sunshine, one cannot escape the thought that the hundreds
upon hundreds of gray-haired, feeble men who throng these grounds have
come here, after all, only to _die_, and are waiting--waiting until it
shall be their turn to be carried out to the great graveyard which,
with its acres and acres of white headstones, lies but a few short
steps outside the gates. It is a thought that somehow seems to dim the
sunshine a little, and though the place is wonderfully picturesque,
and wears an outward air of ease and comfort, yet I, for one, never
can be there without feeling almost awe-stricken at the remembrance of
what it all means.
"Now, Jack," said the colonel, as we walked leisurely along the broad,
hard roadway, which runs parallel with the blue waters of Hampton
Roads, "keep an eye out for 'blue Maltees,' for that's the particular
breed of cats we're after."
"All right," I replied, interpreting this command to mean that I was
to be on the watch for veterans wearing the badge of the old 19th Army
Corps--the blue Maltese cross; a device which we of the Third still
retain, in memory of the days when the "Old Regiment" won its renown.
"White diamonds, red crescents, and stars of every color seem to be
plenty, Colonel, but, so far as I can see, 'Maltees' are at a premium."
"Oh, we shall find one," said the colonel, "we surely shall find one.
There are rows upon rows of them lying quietly over yonder," with a
nod towards the flag floating above the cemetery, "but they are not
yet all mustered out. There's one now, over on that bench. See him?"
Yes, I saw him; a short, wiry man; a man with whitened hair, keen gray
eyes, a sharply-pointed nose, and a clean-shaven face whose every line
and wrinkle betokened shrewdness and native wit. At the first brief
glance I knew him for a Yankee, a thoroughbred old New Englander.
He was sitting alone upon the bench, with one knee drawn up and held
by his clasped hands. Upon his cap he wore the blue Maltese cross
we had been seeking, and on the breast of his faded and loosely
fitting army blouse hung a simple medal of bronze. Into one corner
of his mouth was stuck a quaintly carved, briar-wood pipe, and as
he tranquilly sat there, blowing from his thin lips an occasional
puff of smoke, he seemed contented with himself and the world in
general--and I somehow thought that in his expression I saw something
different from the air of hopelessness which had been so sadly common
to the many old soldiers we had passed before we happened upon him.
"Hello, comrade," said the colonel, walking towards the bench on which
the old fellow sat, and throwing open his coat to bring into view the
enamelled corps badge pinned upon his waistcoat, "how goes it with
you?"
"Fust-rate," replied the veteran, without bothering to remove his
pipe from its resting place. "How be ye?" he went on, speaking with a
sharp, nasal twang which at once opened my heart to him--for he _was_
a Yankee, and I love the honest, hardy old stock that comes from among
the New England hills and valleys. "I see _you_ was in th' ol' 19th,
too," said he, moving over to the end of the seat. "Set ye down an' be
comf'table."
"Yes, I went out with the --th Massachusetts and saw the thing
through," said the colonel, seating himself next his new-found
friend and leaving vacant for me one end of the bench. "What was your
regiment?"
"Burdett's Batt'ry, New Hampshire," replied the old fellow, with
a critical side-glance at the colonel; "an' if ye was in th'
Massachusetts --th ye won't have no trouble in rememberin' how our
guns use'ter sound, neither."
"Lord! I should _say_ not," said the colonel, turning to me with,
"This comes to pretty much the same thing as meeting an old
acquaintance, Jack, for Burdett's Battery was one of the best in our
division, and the 'Old Regiment' has supported it more times than
one. Yes, indeed," he went on, as he reached into his pocket for his
cigars, "I've listened to your music many a day. Good music, too,
it was. The infantry does the work--but sometimes guns are mighty
comforting companions."