More Samples of Charles King Writing:
King Excerpts II

ERB's Commandant at the Michigan Military Academy
King was a role model for the young cadet
and perhaps the biggest influence on Burroughs' writing style and
his lifelong fascination with the military.

References: The Buffalo Bill Historical Centre ~ Cody Wyoming

 Charles King novels are known for their romantic, yet realistic, battle descriptions.
Selections below are from a variety of his writings, with their original illustrations.

The War Between the States

A WAR-TIME WOOING: A Story (1888) ~ page 8
"The Virginians knew a brave man when they saw one" 
The first volley from the crouching gray ranks in those dim woods back of Seven Pines sent the ward politicians in mad rush to the rear, and when Guthrie Warren sprang for the colors, and waved them high in air, and shouted for the men to rally and follow him, it was all in vain-all as vain as the effort to stop the firing made by the chivalric Virginia colonel, who leaped forward, with a few daring men at his back, to capture the resolute Yankee and his precious flag. They got them; but the life-blood was welling from the hero's breast as they raised him gently from the silken folds. The Virginians knew a brave man when they saw one, and they carried him tenderly into their lines and wrote his last messages, and that night they sent the honored body back to his brigade, and so the stricken father found and brought home all that was left of the gallant boy in whom his hopes were centred.
Illustration by Rufus F. Zogbaum 

Iron Brigade
THE IRON BRIGADE: A Story of the Potomac (1902) ~ page 222
"The rifle-butts leap to the shoulders."

Then, wonder of wonders! So far from scurrying at the sight of the "Stonewall," the flower of Virginia, the boast of the South, that somber, black-crested line halts short at sudden word of command; the rifle-butts leap to the shoulders; a crashing volley, driving point blank up the gentle rise, sends its storm of murderous lead square in the "Stonewall's" face. Down go two battle flags. Down goes Neff, colonel commanding the Thirty-Third. Down go dozens in the foremost rank, and to the amaze of Starke and Lawton, the "Stonewall" fairly staggers. "Forward!" is one hoarse-shouted order, "Fire!" another; and with the skirmishers crouching, crawling, rolling away to right and left, Virginia blazes at Wisconsin now ramming fresh cartridges into the smoking tubes, and with never a thought of retreat. So far from sweeping the field, the "Stonewall" is brought to a halt and gets another fierce volley, followed by rasping fire by file that is far more effective than the downward aim of the command, schooled rather to charge than to shoot. For some unfathomed reason the Virginians stand and fire instead of advancing at the double, perhaps because so many leaders are felled by the first deadly volleys of those insolent Badgers, fighting alone and doubtless unconscious of the unseen odds against them.

Illustration by Rufus F. Zogbaum

 NORMAN HOLT: A Story of the Army of the Cumberland ~ (1901) ~ pages 252-253
"Straight for the scattering ranks he headed. "

Then, then came the thing that kept the division in talk for a month! Out from the rear of the Kentucky right wing sprang a tall, slender lieutenant, his new uniform dripping wet, his sash, belt, and sword spick-span and gleaming, his dark eyes flashing, his cheeks aflame. A word to the major, as he pointed to the disintegrating blue battalion beyond them, a nod from that appreciative fellow-Kentuckian, and the junior had sprung into the vacated saddle, and away sped a startled, astonished, excited steed under the hand of a practiced horseman. Straight for the scattering, stooping, half "rattled" ranks he darted, heading them as a skillful cowboy heads stampeding cattle. In an instant he was among them, his new blade flashing even through the rain, his voice ringing out about the clash and clamor of battle. Vehemently he drove his horse into the very faces of the foremost, and a sudden cheer went up at sight of him, for those on the right were the Emmets themselves, and he in saddle was the lad they loved.

Illustration by Seymour Stone

Western Frontier Wars

A DAUGHTER OF THE SIOUX: A Tale of the Indian Frontier ~ (1903) ~ pages 70-71
"Ray's Troop." 

But Ray's troop horses moved like so many machines, so constant and systematic had been their drill; and Ray's men rode in the perfection of uniform, so far as armament and equipment were concerned. Each great-coat, precisely rolled, was strapped with its encircling poncho at the pommel. Each blanket, as snugly packed, with the sidelines festooned upon the top, was strapped at the cantle. Lariat and picket pin, coiled and secured, hung from the near side of the pommel. The canteen, suspended from its snap hook, hung at the off side. Saddle-bags, with extra horse shoes, nails, socks, underwear, brushes and comb, extra packages of carbine and revolver cartridges and minor impedimenta, equally distributed as to weight, swung from the cantle and underneath the blanket roll. From the broad, black leather carbine sling, over each trooper's left shoulder, the hard-shooting brown barreled little Springfield hung suspended, its muzzle thrust, as was the fashion of the day, into the crude socket imposed so long upon our frontier fighters by officials who had never seen the West, save, as did a certain writer of renown, from a car window, thereby limiting their horizon. Ray despised that socket as he did the Shoemaker bit, but believed, with President Grant, that the best means to end obnoxious laws was their rigorous enforcement. Each man's revolver, a trusty brown Colt, hung in its holster at the right hip.
 Illustration by Frederic Remington

A DAUGHTER OF THE SIOUX: A Tale of the Indian Frontier ~ 1903 ~ pages 70-71
"The soldier leaped from his saddle." 

They saw the trooper come speeding in across the flats from the northeast; saw as he reached the "bench" that he was spurring hard; heard, even at the distance, the swift batter of hoofs upon the resounding sod; could almost hear the fierce panting of the racing steed; saw horse and rider come plunging down the bank and into the stream, and shoving breast deep through the foaming waters; then issue, dripping, on the hither shore, where, turning loose his horse, the soldier leaped from saddle and saluted his commander.
 Illustration by Frederic Remington

AN APACHE PRINCESS ~ (1903) ~ page 220
"The Fight in the Cañon,"

For nearly a week now, day after day, the position of the defenders had been made almost terrible by the fierce bombardment to which it had been subjected, of huge stones or bowlders [sic] sent thundering down the almost precipitous walls, then bounding from ledge to ledge, or glancing from solid, sloping face diving, finally, with fearful crash into the rocky bed at the bottom, sending a shower of fragments hurtling in every direction, oft dislodging some section of parapet, yet never reaching the depths of the cave. Add to this nerve-racking siege work the instant, spiteful flash of barbed arrow or zip and crack of bullet when hat or hand of one of the defenders was for a second exposed, and it is not difficult to fancy the wear and tear on even the stoutest heart in the depleted little band.
Illustration by Frederic Remington

TONIO: SON OF THE SIERRAS: A Story of the Apache War ~ (1906) pages 188-189
"They've opened on Case and Clancy." 

It now lacked but a few minutes of sunset. No further demonstration had occurred. Not an Indian had been seen within a radius of six miles, when, all on a sudden, there came a shot-then two, almost together, then a quick crackle and sputter of small-arms afar down the stream. "By Jove!" cried Bonner, from a perch by the lookout at the office. "They've opened on Case and Clancy!"

And that was but the opening, for within a minute, from on every side, from far out among the rocks to the west, from the sandhills across the stream, from little heaps of brush and weed and cactus in the flats, from the distant screen of the willows in the stream bed, little puffs of white sulphur smoke jutted into the slanting sunshine, and the pulseless air of declining day was suddenly set to stir and throb by the crackle of encircling musketry.

Illustration by Charles J. Post

RAY'S RECRUIT ~ (1898) ~ pages 244-245
"Hunter knelt, and sent shot after shot at every flitting form he saw."

"Look out, Kid! Look out!" rang Hunter's voice in a yell that woke the valley. Bang! went the Paddy's ready carbine in reply. Dogs, coyotes, carbines, rifles, Indian yells, and Saxon blasphemy burst upon the silence of the night. An Indian pony plunged and tossed his rider sprawling within a dozen yards of where the Kid had turned at bay, and Hunter, rushing to the rescue, had just time to kneel, when two or three revolvers seemed to crack at once, and the air was rent with fire-flashes. But the soldier's aim was true, and one tall warrior toppled heavily forward and bit the dust as Hunter sped on to his comrade's aid. He found him clasping his hands about his knee and rolling in agony on the turf.

"For the love of God, don't stop!" cried he. "They've smashed my leg, and I'm done for. There's a dozen to one of us." Dozen or not, they were in for it now. Hunter knelt, and, though his heart beat hard, sent shot after shot at every flitting form he saw, until, amazed at the vigorous defence [sic], the Indians seemed to haul away. Then up he lifted the protesting Kid and lugged him full another hundred yards before again he had to drop him and fight. Then once more, half lifting, half dragging, he rushed him on, cheered by the evidence that the Indians dared not come too close and that camp was aroused and blazing away.

Illustration by Violet Oakley 
NOTE: This passage is very similar to a real-life battle in which Charles King was shot in the arm by Apache and rescued by a fellow soldier, Sgt. Bernard Taylor, at Sunset Pass, Arizona in 1874. Taylor was awarded a U.S. Medal of Honor for his actions. 

Spanish-American War

CAPTURED: THE STORY OF SANDY RAY ~ (1906) ~ pages 291
"Walker, you blackguard, you villain!" 

Again would Ray have scrambled to the light, in all his eagerness to greet the coming array, but again she seized and clung to him. "It's madness!" she cried. "You will simply be shot down and butchered by these ladrones. Can't you hear them?"

Indeed he could, on every side, scrambling like mad for shelter, shouting to the vanishing bancas, screeching warning to one another, and, in the midst of it all, came strange, sudden, startling interruption! All in an instant heavy booted footfalls crashed through the thicket to their left, and a second later, with the lunge of a hunted beast a dark form dove into the narrow aperture, the head and shoulders of a man came scraping through, and a burly form hurdled into their midst. Before the intruder could realize where he was-before he could fairly see, Ray, with a low cry, had flung himself upon him, his knife at the brawny throat.

"Walker, you blackguard! you villain! You're my prisoner!"

 Illustration by W.B. Starkweather 

 Charles King was just as idealistic and passionate about love as he was about war.
The following passages show King's descriptive and dramatic talents.

CAPTAIN BLAKE ~ (1891) ~ page 162
"Down she would have gone but for his quick spring and for his strong arms,"

She broke off as suddenly as she began; turned with a gasping cry and rushed towards the door leading to the hall. She stumbled at the piano-stool and plunged heavily forward. Down she would have gone but for his quick spring and for his strong arms. Blake never knew just how it happened, — how he managed it, — or she. For one instant she was clasped to his bounding heart as he rose to his feet. Then she broke from him, burying her face in the filmy handkerchief, swaying in an uncontrollable agony of grief, and, as she sank upon the sofa, somehow there dangled from the lace-fringed opening of her gown a locket that he had given her ten long years before. He knew it at a glance. Her hand seemed suddenly to find it. As though aghast with shame and confusion she turned quickly away and thrust it back into her bosom. Then her frame shook with the violence of her sobs.
Illustration by A.F. Harmer 

A WAR-TIME WOOING: A Story ~ (1888) ~ pages 88-89
"Then bathes, with cologne, the white temples and soft, rippling, sunny hair."

Abbott is quick, even when crippled. He springs to her side just in time to save. He throws his left arm around her, and has to hug her close to prevent her slipping through his clasp — a dead weight — to the floor. She has fainted away, he sees at a glance, and looking about him, he finds a little alcove close at hand; he knows it well, for there on the sofa he has spent several restful hours since his arrival. Thither he promptly bears her; gently lays her down; quickly opens the window to give her air; then steps across the hall for aid. Not a soul is in sight. His own room is but a few paces away, and thither he hastens; returns speedily with a goblet of ice-water in his hand, and a slender flask of cologne tucked under his arm. Kneeling by the sofa, he gently turns her face to the light, and sprinkles it with water; then bathes, with cologne, the white temples and soft, rippling, sunny hair. How sweet a face it is that lies there, all unconscious, so close to his beating heart! Though colorless and marble-like, there is beauty in very feature, and signs of suffering and pain in the dark circles about the eyes and in the lines at the corners of the exquisite mouth.

Illustration by Rufus F. Zogbaum 

"You have taught me", he muttered below his breath.

The love of his life only dawned upon him at this late day when he looked into her glorious eyes and his whole soul went out in passionate worship of the fair girl whose presence made that sunlit lane a heaven. Were he to live a thousand years, no scene on earth could rival in his eyes the love-haunted woodland pathway wherein like forest queen she stood, the sunshine and leafy shadows dancing over her graceful form, the golden-rod enhancing her dark and glowing beauty, the sacred influences of the day throwing their mystic charm about her as though angels guarded and shielded her from harm. His life had reached its climax; his fate was sealed; his heart and soul were centred in one sweet girl, — and all in one brief hour in the woodland lane at Sablon.

Illustration by E.M. Connell, frontispiece

JACK ROYAL: A Conquering Corps Badge 
and other Stories of the Philippines ~ 1902) ~ page 72

…Sandoval was fascinated from the start by those liquid blue eyes, by the fair face and pearly teeth of pretty Patty Pettibone. It was a clear case of physical charm, for Patty, loving and loyal, had no thought for any man on earth but her bonny boy in the uniform of the First Washington, and never a word would she vouchsafe to Sandoval if she could possibly help it, thereby only spurring him to more assiduous and demonstrative devotion and, presently, to investigation as to this utter indifference to fascinations he had never hitherto exerted in vain.

Illustration by Alida Goodwin 


and other Stories of the Philippines ~ (1902) ~ pages 6-7
"Bessie Bellingham "

Fargo was at first much bored, but that was before he saw Bessie Bellingham. Now, having seen her almost daily for nearly a month, he was in worse plight-he was enamored of a girl to whom he was supposed, socially, to be unworthy to speak-he, who had more to his credit at the Hong Kong and Shanghai bank in town at that minute than her father had seen in a year;-he, who by birth, breeding, education and family connection was, if anything, the honest old soldier's superior, had yet by a freak, become his subordinate of the lowest grade,-also by the fortune of war, his daughter's unknown, unsuspected adorer.

Illustration by Alida Goodwin 

A Tale of the Indian Frontier ~ (1903) ~ pages 283-284
"Hush! she's coming"-She was there."

She was there! They had listened for swish of skirts or fall of slender feet upon the stairway, but there had not been a sound. They saw the reason as she halted at the entrance, lifting with one little hand the costly Navajo blanket that hung as a portière. In harmony with the glossy folds of richly dyed wool, she was habited in Indian garb from head to foot. In two black, lustrous braids, twisted with feather and quill and ribbon, her wealth of hair hung over her shoulders down the front of her slender form. A robe of dark blue stuff, rich with broidery of colored bead and bright-hued plumage, hung, close clinging, and her feet were shod in soft moccasins, also deftly worked with bead and quill. But it was her face that chained the gaze of all, and that drew from the pallid lips of Lieutenant Field a gasp of mingled consternation and amaze. Without a vestige of color; with black circles under her glittering eyes; with lines of suffering around the rigid mouth and with that strange pinched look about the nostrils that tells of anguish, bodily and mental, Nanette stood at the doorway, looking straight at the chief. She had not eyes for lesser lights. All her thought, apparently, was for him,-for him whose power it was, in spite of vehement opposition, to deal as he saw fit with the prisoner in his hands.

Illustration by Edwin Willard Deming 

A Story of the Army of the Cumberland ~ (1901) ~ pages 340-341
"His arms had clasped and held her to his breast." 

Then, startled, she turned and saw him, turned again, strove to flee, but in that instant, even in that dim light, he had seen the sweet, wan, piteous face was bathed in tears. Good God! What were doubts, scruples, resolutions now! One spring brought him to her side. One low-toned, intense, imploring cry, "Daisy!" One quick, impulsive, irresistible effort, and, despite counter effort, his arms had clasped, drawn, and held her to his breast, and then, listening despite herself to his fond, murmured words, yielding despite herself to the joy of his kisses, raining warm, passionate, pleading upon her rumpled hair, upon her forehead, and temples, yielding at last to the infinite love in every word and touch and tone, with a sigh of relief inexpressible, of tearful content, of joy ineffable, the little head sank back into the hollow of that broad shoulder and the soft, sweet lips surrendered to his.

 Illustration by John Huybers

A Tale of the Indian Frontier ~ (1903) ~ pp 21-22
"But the major sought to block that morning's ride in vain."

But the major sought to block that morning ride in vain. The impetuous will of the younger soldier prevailed, as he might have known it would, and from the rear gallery of his quarters, with his strong fieldglass, Major Webb watched the pair fording the Platte far up beyond Pyramid Butte. "Going over to that damned Sioux village again," he swore between his set teeth. "That makes the third time she's headed him there this week," and with strange annoyance at heart he turned away to seek comfort in council with his stanch henchman, Captain Ray, ….

Illustration by Frederic Remington 

A TAME SURRENDER: A Story of the Chicago Strike ~ (1896)
"In her dainty bathing-dress, Miss Allison's wings were discarded."

She was not more than five feet in height nor less than five feet in breadth "measured from tip to tip of her wings," as her brother said. Miss Allison had wings, not because she was an angel, but because it was the fashion,-wings that sprouted at her fair, plump, shapely shoulders and billowed out like balloons. Her brother Cary, above referred to, a sixteen-year-old specimen of Young American impudence and independence, said further of her, in the spring of '94, that if Floy's sleeves were only inflated with gas she could float on air as easily as she did on water, and on water Miss Allison was buoyancy personified. On water, too, and in her dainty bathing-dress, Miss Allison's wings were discarded and her true proportions more accurately defined. She was anything but slender. She was simply deliciously, exquisitely rounded now; but the question which so disturbed her feminine friends as to call for perennial repetition was, What would she be a few years hence?

Illustration, unsigned E. Plaistio

CAPTURED: THE STORY OF SANDY RAY ~ (1906) ~ page 269
"He could plainly hear their voices, almost their words. " 

A moment or two they — the hunted — stood there, the silent soldier and the trembling girl, so close that each could almost feel the beating of the other's heart, but, intently as Ray was listening, he was watching her, and noting that even more intently, and with fearful interest, she was listening, for in her dilating eyes there came a look of infinite horror, of dread unspeakable. The next thing he knew she had clutched his hand. "Oh, come, come away from here," she cried, imploringly. "We must go!"

"We can't go!" said he. "Listen! They are above us now! Some are already at the crossing of the brook," and again he turned his listening ear that way. Surely he was right! Speeding swiftly along the trail, the foremost natives were already at the point where the hill party had crossed at midnight. He could plainly hear their voices, almost their words, but to these Gertrude would not listen.

Illustration by W.B. Starkweather 

General Charles King
Detroit Free Press ~ July 14, 1901
Reprinted in MMA: Them Was The Days

In the heart of the beautiful lake country lying to the northwest of Detroit is the seat of the military academy of the Wolverine state. It is unique in that, of the many military schools through the northland, it alone has the recognition of the executive and legislature of the commonwealth, is naturally subjected to an overhauling of a board of visitors similar to that of West Point, an its graduates by law are entitled to the rank of brevet second lieutenant in the organized state troops. It is remarkable, however, in that it is the creation and completion , almost unaided, of one man, its projector in the early seventies, its head and from its fertile birth to the burly strength and solidarity of today, its honored superintendent for a quarter of a century -- colonel J. Sumner Rogers. 

Its story reads almost like a romance. In 1871, when the army was "telescoped" into half of its proportions, an promotion blocked for a decade or more, dozens of young officers, who had fought valiantly throughout the great war, found themselves compelled to choose between being subaltern for half a lifetime or lamenting out into the world army. Of these was a young lieutenant of infantry, whose gallantry in the volunteers and whose almost desperate wounds had won him the faith and favor of soldiers such as Sherman, Schofield and Upton. The regiment happened to be stationed at Detroit  when "consolidated" with one of the veteran reserves. He had employed leisure hours drilling the cadet corps of the city, had inspired them with solider enthusiasm and acquired among them such an influence for good that, .little by little, he was enabled to instill the principles of integrity, honor and manhood that rules his own life. It was good, indeed, that erect carriage and habits of promptness and subordination should result from his teachings, but when to these are added a regard for truth and temperance and a respect for authority , many a lad had been transformed and many a parent began to ask, "What manner of soldier is this, that brings about such a change among our boys?" There are those that believe to-day that the foundation stone of Michigan's military academy, was laid in the old "Pelouze Cadets."

Certain it is that more than one father in his gratitude, that urged Lieutenant Rogers to quit the humdrum of garrison life, in the army and continue the good work. ONe thing led to another. Rogers himself had kept his eyes open and discovered this most ideal spot on the bowered shores of Orchard Lake, and here in 1877, was born the Military Academy which today is rightfully the pride of the state. 

It was no easy path to victory. There was standing at first only the picturesque castle. Men and money had to be won, even though pupils were promised by the dozen. Both came slowly at first. Except in Detroit, Rogers was but little known. Men whom he sought to interest in this project had the civilian's distrust of the soldier except as a fighter. That he could be an educator was a theory unheard of.  For quite a time only from Detroit and its environs, could he obtain pupils but his hope and faith and purpose never flagged. He set his heart upon having a soldier-school that would be second only to West Point, and earnestly , prayerfully, steadfastly held to his purpose, each year, despite many a buffet, gaining some new point. 

It would be impossible in the limits of this sketch to tell the obstacles that fell in his way -- some vexations, some almost absurd. A pet theory on the part of many despairing parents was that a military school was a genteel edition of the state reform establishment, a place to send incorrigible boys, and time and again, there came appeals for the admission of such. When it was found, however, that the superintendent was inflexible on this point, many were the devises used to circumvent him, and so it sometimes happened that there came to the Academy, after its fame had spread far beyond the confines of Michigan, young reprobates, armed with certificates of moral character unimpeachable at first sight, but one drops fabrication in the light of later events. 

From start to finish, so long as Rogers holds the reins, there can b e but one rule at Orchard Lake. Cadets are not only required to abstain from all vicious, immoral and irregular conduct, but it is enjoined upon them to conduct themselves upon every occasion with propriety and decorum which characterize the society of gentlemen. 

It was a feather in the cap of the young superintendent  when the legislature, after some years watching his faithful and persistent work, decided that Michigan had a remarkably good thing in the academy, and thereupon passed the laws that gave him the state rank of colonel and his staff officers that of majors. Then General Sherman became actively interested and wrote words of praise and advice that are cherished at this school to this day. "Make it as like West Point as possible," said he, and that, too, has become the colonel's aim. As long ago  as the early '80s, the uniform always gray, was changed in the cut and finish to conform to that of the great national school. In drill, and in methods of discipline, despite the fact that Rogers is not a West-Pointer., he has permitted no other standard, and it was a question asked many a time and oft during the great world's fair at Chicago, where camped the two battalions, so closely alike in uniform, and so exactly alike in precision and snap and style of drill. "Well, which is Michigan and which is West Point?"

The fact of the matter is that long since as Orchard Lake ceased to depend upon Michigan for its undergraduates. It draws on the entire country now, with the occasional appearance of  swarthy young faces from the Latin republics of South America. From the Kennebunk to the Columbia, "the boys," as they love to call themselves, gather under the tall, white flag staff in the quadrangle, where in '77, all was brushwood. What a change to-day! The stately academic building on the southward side, the fine gymnasium at the east, faced by the severely military facade of the barracks -- all heated by steam, all lighted by electricity and gas. When first I came to see the corps, so rapidly becoming famous for their drill and discipline, they studied, slept and recited in one queer old rookery, where the quartermaster's building and mess hall, then either and now, "modeled after West Point," both in point of cuisine and construction, the mess commons of the Michigan Military Academy needs only the portraits of honored graduates to make it a second "Great Hall."

All because of its youth are most of its graduates  yet to be heard from, but their day is coming and some few, thanks ot the opportunities of the Spanish war, have come out already with "flying colors." The records show that thirty-five were commissioned in the regulars or volunteers, and that, including these, Orchard Lake could lay claim to seven majors, fifteen captains, and twenty-five lieutenants serving their country during that brief, but stirring episode. How many more enlisted we cannot tell. HOw many sought service and were unable to obtain commission or appointment is another matter whereof the records are silent, but it is in the power of the writer to testify that in April and May, 1898, no less than fourteen letters came to him within a few days -- all from Orchard Lake boys who were graduated long about '92 or '92, imploring him for places on his staff, which was beyond his power to give. 

Then too, away in the Philippines, who should turn up, a trooper in the Fourth Cavalry, then temporarily under the writer's command, but one of the blithest, merriest spirits that ever wore the cadet gray and the "Tuebor" shield of Michigan. "I could not help it," said he. "I served as first sergeant in the illinois Volunteer Cavalry, till they were mustered out, and then, triumph on the tented field. It has the advantage at the start of West Pointers to conduct all matters of drill and minor discipline. Some of them were famous instructors, and when it happened that any great competitive drill was on, there was consternation along the entries when it was learned that Rogers' boys were to be on hand. Who that saw it can ever forget the scene on the beautiful White House lot at the foot of the Washington Monument when in the presence of twenty thousand spectators, mainly soldiers, their picked company swept the field of all antagonists after a spirited and well nigh faultless drill of forty minutes -- pronounced by the board of judges all offers of the regular army, by long odds the best drilled company on the grournd! The finest companies, east west, and south, cadet and national guard, took part in that memorable contest. 

Then at Chicago in '92 with almost faultless precision, they gave before General Miles an exhibition of the newly devised school of the battalion, which, by he way, they had finished the day before it was taken up at West Point. 

On occasions such as these, it was a joy t  see the colonel, their proud father and superintendent. Boyhood seemed to have come again, such was the ecstasy with which he watched their triumph. It was on such occasions, too, that his pupils fairly realized how deeply his heart was wrapped up in them. In the monotonous routine of barrack life, with all its stringent regulations, they sometimes saw only the firmer, sterner side of his character, for discipline had to be maintained. They little dreamed, many of them, what hours of thought and care and study he gave to their welfare. About the cheer fireside, in his own happy home circle at "the castle," there was never a topic that so promptly enlisted the sympathy of every heart as "the boys." Both his sons have worn the gray and won their chevrons in the famous little battalion -- the elder, before his appointment in the regular army, having long and admirably served on the staff of the school. Rogers may have had occasional desire to travel and see the world, but could never be, prevailed upon, in all the long years from '77 to the present to leave his beloved academy. It was his child, his life-work, and now, that failing health demands at leas a few months of rest and change, well may his friends point to the result of his faithful labor and claim for it that; no matter what the future may have in store in the building of his soldier school he has nobly served the nation and the state, and , in days to come, when he and his generations shall have been gathered to their fathers, there need be no other monument for him who founded, fostered and brought to full completion the Michigan Military Academy ad Orchard Lake. 

Edgar Rice Burroughs and the History of the Michigan Military Academy: Them Was The Days
by Brian Bohnett 2001
CONTACT: Mad Kings Publishing ~ 1909 Chestnut Street ~ Holt, Michigan  48842  USA

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