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.

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