Part 10

A group of marines could be found nightly in social session on Napoleon bridge, a span of the lagoons, meditatively absorbing the sweet strains of the ever-entrancing Italian Yama Yama, sung by Venetian “gondoliers,” as they gracefully plied parties in gondolas through thread-like canals fed by the waters of the cascades. The inspiration animated by the grandeur of the surroundings on these occasions, the thrilling sweetness of the singing, to the mellow-toned accompaniment of mandolins and guitars, had a most electrifying effect. Music, music, music, music, everywhere; sweethearts, music, and mirth, that was the slogan. “Love me and the world is mine” is hummed in chorus by this happy-go-lucky bunch of jolly tars, whose only responsibilities are confined to the hours of love and duty, and whose motto is, “Be a good fellow here, and you’ll be a good fellow there.”

“The Pike, the Pike! let’s shove off for the Pike.” They stop a few moments to hear the soft tones of Il Trovatore by the famous Hawaiian band, and exchange greetings with some St. Louis friends, who propose a mild stimulant for their infirmities which consist chiefly of a severe thirst that needs quenching. Downey’s cabaret is sought, where in a cosey corner of bohemia the corks are drawn from ice-cold bottles of “blue-ribbon” as they sing of “the soft-flowing dreamy old Rhine” and “Meet me to-night in dreamland.” The latest stories are told and toasts are drunk to the health of the absent. From the tinkling glasses of bohemia, the marines meander to the Pike. Ten minutes’ walk from the north pole to Ireland through a labyrinth of gayety. Everybody visited the Pike, particularly at night, when the soft pedal was put on conventionalities and every “piker” became a thoroughbred bohemian, and then some. Commencing at the north pole you would follow in rotation on either side of this animated thoroughfare: first the Galveston flood, an excellent representation of the devastation of that Texan city: Battle Abbey, with its relics of antiquity, on the right; cross over, and you see Hobson sinking the _Merrimac_, also the battle of Santiago. There is a rush, and we find ourselves in Turkey, watching the slim princess trying to beat it with an American kodak fiend. After “shooting the chutes” a few times, in order to be sure of not missing anything, you stroll to a palmy dance-hall and join in a “Frisco dip” or perhaps a “St. Louis rag,” with liquid refreshments during the intervals.

From this point you take a boat for the “Garden of Eden” and the scenes of creation; the dark recesses of this cavernous route were the cause of many leap-year proposals in 1904. Leaving Paradise you stop to watch a fellow picking confetti out of his sweetheart’s eyes; he is laughing, and some one throws a handful of confetti into his mouth; he swears at this, but he is only joking. A barker on the opposite side is holding a crowd with his spiel on “Hereafter.” You enter a dark subterranean passage likened unto the intricate caves in the “Chamber of Horrors” depicted in Dante’s Inferno, a journey along the river Styx on the outskirts of hades, and you are transported to Paradise for a turn along the “golden strand.” Returning to earth, the strains of music from a Spanish orchestra can be heard in Old Madrid, where troubadours and matadores exchange stories over a bottle of madeira. A dark-eyed señorita from Cordova, who wears her clothes well, sings La Paloma, clicking the castanets to the accompaniment of an orchestra from Barcelona. “Bravo! bravo!” yell the marines, as she joins them in a Pall Mall and goblet of wine.

All aboard for St. Petersburg shouts the conductor of the Great Siberian Express, from Vladivostok to St. Petersburg and return. “Under and over the sea” pipes a sailor; “take a ride in a submarine, ten thousand leagues under the sea.” From a balcony over the entrance to the Old St. Louis arena, “The Cowboy’s Farewell” is being played by a genuine cowboy band. This arena is the Indian’s favorite place of amusement, as the scenes are typical of frontier life. Wading ankle deep in confetti, you enter into the enchantments and desolations of Paris, with its relics of the Inquisition, Waterloo, and the Bastille, the bridge of the Invalides, Rue de Rivoli, and Champs Elysées, here represented in miniature, where songs were sung by gay Parisians. Further on are the Japanese and Chinese tea-gardens, Cummings’ wild west show, Hoyle’s fire-fighters, and Hagenbach’s celebrated animal show.

Arabs with tomtoms are attracting a stream of people to mysterious Asia. Here you find Hindu jugglers, magicians, and snake-charmers, Oriental dancers of the hootche kootche, and venders of wares of the “Far East,” camels and donkeys for hire, elephants with gorgeous canopies in which the children love to ride. This concession has the spicy odor and Oriental aspect of the Far East.

Blarney Castle and the Irish village are next. “Ho for the Irish jaunting car!” All pile in, and we’re off for the Lakes of Killarney, climb to the Castle and kiss the blarney stone. A Dublin colleen who is vending shillalahs, canes, and other ornaments of Irish bog-oak, sweetly sings, “Where the River Shannon flows,” as she pins a fresh green shamrock on each uniform, then remarks, “If I was a man, I’d be a soldier too.” The café has a seating capacity of nearly one thousand people; here the tinkling of glasses is interspersed with sweet music by harpists from the “Emerald Isle.” You order an Irish high-ball, and you receive a crême de menthe with a shamrock in it.

The Pike was the favorite promenade of the “Fair,” something doing every minute. Here millionaires nudged elbows with paupers; celebrities of distinguished vocations with the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick-maker. The various nations of the earth here commingled in harmony, all possessed with the same feeling of curiosity and intent on having pleasure.

After doing the Pike, the Tyrolean Alps was a favorite resort for midnight diners whose mirth and good fellowship were in keeping with their surroundings. Delicious terrapin, lobster, and rare-bits were specialties in this extraordinary café. From a pass in the mountain chain of the Alps came the clear yodel of a quartette of Tyrolean singers, whose notes reverberated from the cliffs to the scenes below.

Swiss maidens from Geneva presided over stalls of quaint curios from Switzerland, beer-steins and long tobacco-pipes being the most favored articles. These Swiss girls were great favorites of the marines; they were constant visitors at the camp during the entire exposition, scarcely a tent was lacking in some ornamentation or other from the booths of this Alpine exhibit, while each girl wore pinned to her shirt-waist an ornament emblematic of the marines, consisting of the semisphere, the eagle, and the anchor.

Though not on the grounds, one of the most interesting places of amusement, and one which without seeing the visitor’s trip to the “Fair” was incomplete, was “Cheyenne Joe’s Rocky Mountain Inn.” This famous or infamous resort, as you will have it, had a seating capacity of more than one thousand people. Tables arranged in squares over a saw-dust floor were attended by waiters in cowboy costume; in the centre of this large pavilion a vaudeville performance entertained its racy patronage; music was continuous, two bands being used for this purpose; as one ceased playing, the other commenced without interval. A trained donkey bedecked with ribbons ran from table to table nodding to the guests. About every twenty minutes, Cheyenne Joe mounted on a pony would gallop into the scene and cry out, “How much money did we take in to-day?” In unison the cowboys would yell, “Ten thousand dollars.” Joe would shout, “Burn half of it up and shoot out the lights,” whereupon each cowboy drew his gun and banged away, snuffing out every light in the joint. The lights, of course, were operated mechanically; darkness ensued for a few moments only, when the light would be restored. The placards alone were worth a visit to read; but the mirth and revelry indulged in not only by soldiers, civilians, and Indians, but hundreds of the fair sex, during the midnight hours in this Rocky Mountain resort, though lacking in splendor, were akin to the revels at the feasts of the bacchanalians.

During the wee sma’ hours of the morning the Palm Garden, a rustic summer dancing pavilion, with its glossy floor and Italian orchestra, was ablaze with the scintillating flashes of diamonds which glittered from the smartly clad feminine patrons of the dizzy whirl. Here, to the music of such selections as, “Any rags, any bones, any bottles to-day?” a rag two-step is being performed by a marine and a Venus with a florid style, whose magic spell lends soothing to the blues, but whose high heels were not made for a minister’s daughter.

Surrounding the Fair-grounds and in close proximity were shows of every description. Conspicuous among these were Forest Park Highlands, a veritable Coney Island; Luna Park; Delmar Garden, the scene of the celebrated extravaganza “Louisiana,” the old mill-wheel and “the girl in blue,” “the cave of the wind,” and “the Queen of the Gypsy fortune-tellers,” the Delmar Race-track, where gathered together could be found the most famous thoroughbred racers of the world, with their coterie of noted jockeys and attendants.

“Old Heidelberg,” in the German village, was the bohemia of the outskirts of the big show; here, to the strains of “Die Wacht am Rhein,” it was strictly proper to eat “hot-dogs” and drink cold steins of imported “hoff-brau.”

Sundays, when the Fair was closed, the permanent summer resorts of St. Louis were flooded with people. Montesano, an island in the Mississippi River connected by a fleet of steamboats, was the most favored Sunday resort; the trip down the river alone broke the monotonoy of the quietude of a hot summer day. The island, with its groves of shady maple trees and inviting dells, extending from the smooth sandy beach and through the interior, was an ideal spot to while away the midday hours in lingering lassitude. There were dancing, boating, fishing, roller-coasting, flirtations, and all that goes to make up an ideal pleasure resort. Along the beach, children with diminutive spades dug holes in the sand in search for shells. Games of all descriptions were conducted quietly, and with far less compunction than under the restraint and restrictive laws elsewhere enforced.

Merrimac Highlands and Creve Cœur Lake, reached by scenic railways, were also popular places of amusement.

The daily average attendance at the exposition was sixty thousand, and those represented nations of all countries and zones.

It was very amusing to hear some of the nonsensical questions that were asked by our rural friends from the land of the sage-brush and cactus. On one occasion I was approached by an elderly lady with the following query, “Soldier, would you kindly tell me what time they feed the lagoons?” I was nonplussed at the question, but ventured to ask, “Is it a bird or an animal?” She wasn’t sure which, she said, but a friend of hers had told her that it was a mighty interesting sight. I had heard of raccoons, loons, and baboons with Mr. Hagenbach’s wild animal show, and, knowing these had to be fed, I directed the misinformed old lady to this site on the Pike, where I trust her misconstruction of the word or misinformation was amended.

Having some business in St. Louis in connection with our canteen or camp exchange which necessitated the carrying of my haversack, I had left camp for the Olive Street car line, when I noticed a fellow in hot pursuit who reminded me of a butterfly catcher in a field of daisies down on the farm. Hailing me, he gasped, “Mail-man, please stamp these cards and mail them for me;” handing me a half-dollar with a bunch of post-cards, he continued on his leap-frog gait. “Whoa! come back here,” I shouted. “Oh, that’s all right; buy yourself some cigars with the change,” he answered. On mailing them I noticed they were all addressed to Arkansas; that accounts for it, I said to myself, he must be one of those Arkansas travellers.

Not far from our camp was a high spiral tower, on the top of which was the wireless telegraph exhibit connected by a lift or elevator. “Is this the scenic railway?” a young lady inquired. “Not yet,” I replied; “that is the elevated railroad.” She smiled and thanked me very much. Why, they even went to the Kentucky building to invite Daniel Boone out for dinner!

Every day the marine camp was the scene of a constant stream of visitors, many of whom were in search of friends and relatives. For more than a year before my departure from the Philippine Islands I had studiously contemplated serving at this post of duty, and felt assured of my success, so in consequence had written a number of friends in various cities of the United States who I knew were anticipating the pleasures of the greatest show on earth.

The cool days of early autumn seemed to be the most popular season for the Eastern and Western visitors; each day groups of friends, ensconced under the khaki canvas of an A wall tent or seated on steamer-chairs along the smooth level lawn, joined in social intercourse with these jolly rovers of land and sea. Tent number 2 was daily the scene of some festive occasion, the erstwhile pranks of which were likened unto a scene from the “Rodgers Brothers in Paris.” On these occasions the author was assisted by his dear friends and compatriots Boland and Fynmore.

Before going to St. Louis as pay-clerk of the battalion, I had spent three years afloat and in the tropics, and during that time had met but one man from my native town, with the exception of my father, who visited me in Washington, D. C., prior to our departure, and whose perplexities in the Executive Mansion on meeting President Roosevelt were brimful of excellent humor even though the seasoning was of the ludicrous variety.

The circumstances attending the meeting of the other man in question were exceptionally singular. It was late in the autumn of 1902, and I was stationed in the old “Quartel de Espanol” at Fort San Philippi, Cavite, P. I. Every evening about sundown, when not on duty, it was my custom to stroll with a friend or two to a hacienda in the adjacent “barrio” of San Ruki, where the soft-toned music from a harp and guitar was artistically rendered by two charming mestizos. At this native bungalow, shaded by large palms and drooping banana stalks, gathered nightly the elite of the village, and occasionally señoritas from the city of Manila, whose predominant beauty, in fluffy kimonos woven from the fibre of the pineapple with a texture as fine as silk, was augmented by that indisputable mark of Spanish aristocracy, the ever-propitious mantilla. By the dim light of a candelabrum which fluttered in the evening zephyrs, these social gatherings were regulated with that Oriental quiescence and technique to the manner born.

It was while wending my way home in the moonlight from such an allurement of beauty and music, that I chanced along the Calle Real and into the Café Del Monte, when I was agreeably surprised to see, seated at a game of cards, my old shipmate “Jack” Lavery of the cruiser _New York_. Being clothed in a suit of civic white duck, I was unrecognized for a moment. “Hello, Jack!” I exclaimed. “Well, Bill! for God’s sake, where did you come from? I thought you were in China on board the monitor _Monadnock_?” “No, the application was disapproved of, so I fired in another for shore duty.” “Well, but you left us in Shanghai.” “Yes, my application was approved there, I crossed the sea on the gun-boat _Manila_.” “Well, where are you now?” “Fort San Philippi.” “Good! Shake hands with some friends of mine.――Fellows, we’ll have the story about the Moors in Algiers to-night.――Waiter! take the order; bring in some Egyptians and a new pinocle deck.” Having been furnished with the order, the cards were dealt and we made our melds.

The fourth game was in progress, and, as the cards were being dealt, I remarked to my partner, whose cuffs had been rolled back, “Corporal, that dragon represents artistic work; where did you have that done?” “The dragon was tattooed by an expert on the Queen’s Road in Hong Kong; these storks I had put on in Kobe, Japan; and the spider’s webb was worked in at Cairo, by a professional who had the honor of tattooing his excellency the Khedive of Egypt.” “That is pretty work, and I see it harmonizes with the blue scar on your wrist; where did you dig coal?” “Oh, years ago, away back in Pennsylvania, all the way from slate-picking to working a gangway.” “What part of Pennsylvania, may I ask?” “Hazleton, Luzerne County.” “Hazleton? Are you from Hazleton?” “Pretty close to it; my home is in Beaver Brook, a little mining hamlet about three miles south of the city.” “Great heavens! ten thousand five hundred miles from home, and here is a native of my own village,” I soliloquized. “Did you ever know a family in Beaver Brook named A――――?” “Did I?――for the Lord’s sake, is it possible that you are young B――――y A――――?” “That’s me, old chap.” “Well! Well! put her there, old boy. Twenty-two years have passed by since I worked for your father. I am Johnny Coyle; don’t you remember Jack?” “Well, Jack, my old school-mate, shake again. Truth is stranger than fiction. School-mates, ship-mates, landsmen, bandsmen, and marines, come on, let’s celebrate; press the button, sergeant, and we’ll sing, ‘I’ll meet you at the hedge where the huckle-berries bloom.’”

For several days my home city, Hazleton, Pennsylvania, was well represented at the “Fair,”――a special containing a large concourse of Sir Knights of the Masonic Fraternity who, accompanied by their wives and daughters, were homeward bound from San Francisco, where they had been attending a Masonic conclave. Having the esteemed acquaintance of nearly every member of the jolly bunch, I was delighted and felt highly honored with their visit in our camp. In my four years of travel around the world, these were the first people from home whom I had met, with the afore-noted exceptions.

Each day was given to some especial event. Every State in the Union celebrated on one particular day, the buildings representing the State being more elaborately decorated for this occasion. This function was attended by their respective governors and staff, occasionally accompanied by a troop of horse or infantry. Various branches of business had their day; there was also theatrical day, automobilist day, Elk day, and in fact every day during the continuance of the “Fair” was taken up by some particular branch of business or profession, the turnstile recording the largest attendance on Chicago and St. Louis day.

Theatrical day I had the pleasure of escorting a party of the profession, whose names in glittering light frequently adorned the theatres along Forty-second Street and the “Great White Way,” through the marine camp, the Pike, Cheyenne Joe’s, and later joined in the merriment at a dinner in the Tyrolean Alps. A quartette of Indian chiefs occupied a table some distance from ours, among whom was the famous old Apache warrior Geronimo. On learning that one of the chiefs was Geronimo, a member of our party, a celebrated singer of coon songs, expressed a desire to meet him, whereupon I invited the Indians to join the “Merry Wanderers of the Night.” After the introduction the old chief made a speech in the Apache tongue; they sang, danced, chanted, and became quite hilarious; this was not due, however, to the stimulants of the Tyrolean Alps, for, although the Indians would have relished a mint julep, they were obliged to indulge in milder potations. Each chief, before departing, had ardently proposed to the actress of his choice, who accepted him in the language and manner of the stage. The wee hours of the morning were gliding by as this jovial party of merrymakers boarded their “special” of palace sleepers, and thus ended a round of joy, keen wit, and humor.

Strong resentment against the conduct of Filipino scouts had been expressed in different quarters of the “Fair,” and trouble between these and the white soldiers had been narrowly averted a number of times. The flirtations between white women of apparent respectability and the islanders had created adverse criticism. The marines, goaded by these flirtations and seeing fashionably gowned women on the arms of Filipinos promenading the Pike, felt that it was more than they could stand. In consequence a plan of campaign was outlined. One of the officers said, “I foresaw this situation and gave warning that it would come about. It is amazing the way white women shower attentions on the scouts, parading them to their homes and all that sort of thing.”

On several occasions marines had interfered when white girls were seen with the scouts; this usually precipitated a fight, causing bitter feelings in both camps. The resentment against the brown men, which continued growing stronger daily, took form when, at about ten o’clock at night, sixty soldiers of the scout battalion surrounded and assaulted ten marines, who, after a pitched battle, compelled their assailants to retreat. The marines returned to camp, and, expecting trouble, were awaiting reinforcements, when a marine rushed in, spreading the alarm, that the Filipinos had sought succor at their camp and that about three hundred were coming down the Pike armed. Always reckless and ripe for excitement, a marine shouted, “Come on, boys! let’s clean the Gu Gus off the earth.” This exclamation was hailed with cheers, and in a few moments more than one hundred marines were in pursuit of the enemy. Before reaching the Irish village, the detachment split into two sections, one section covering the north end of the Pike while the other hurried on to intercept the chocolate soldiers near Bohemia. On seeing the marines entering the Pike, on the double, the scouts fled, retreating presumably for a darker section of the grounds where they could adopt their accustomed mode of fighting. It was too late, however, for, alas! they were hemmed in, and to the victor belonged the spoils. The marines charged, a pitched battle ensued, in which the Filipinos, being in the majority, held their ground for a short space of time, but soon wilted under the terrific onslaught of the Americans.

This scene was laughable in the extreme, and reminded me of a chapter from “Gulliver’s Travels”; those who had escaped a knockout were glad to end the struggle. Having retreated toward their camp, they had arrived in the vicinity of the Agricultural Building, when some of them drew arms and commenced firing. This enraged the marines to such an extent that they decided to charge their camp, which precipitated a clash with the Jeffersonian Guards in which two of the guards were seriously injured. At this juncture an alarm brought the mounted police galloping to the scene, who finally restored order, both sides withdrawing to the peaceful habitations of their camp.

Washington was apprised of the affair, and the troops were severely reprimanded; but the lesson taught the scouts had great bearing on their future attitude toward the Americans. The St. Louis newspapers depicted the scenes of this riot, and devoted several columns in which they eulogized the marines for the stand they had taken.

No military organization could have been treated with more courtesy than the marine battalion at the St. Louis Exposition, and, when the day arrived for its departure, it was with reluctance rather than pleasure that the comfortable tents, the scenes of so much merriment, had to be vacated for the less desirable quarters in barracks.