Part 12

A few days later I set out with the cargadores on a new circuit. A very odd scene we encountered on this trip in the province of Pangasinán was a skirmish line of Filipinos transplanting rice to music. The rice paddies, or dikes, resembled level meadow-land and stretched out as far as the eye could discern in every direction. About one thousand Filipinos, men and women dressed in loud colors, were engaged in this work. Their formation was in the shape of a skirmish line, with a deploy of about two feet; each planter was covered in rear by another who passed the rice plants as the supply became exhausted; a short distance in rear of all were bands of music with intervals of one hundred yards. Large sun-shades, with long spike handles stuck in the soil, afforded considerable shade for the musicians. As the music from these bamboo instruments resounded o’er the meadows, each planter moved forward one step, at the same time placing a rice shoot in the soil, with the utmost uniformity and in absolute harmony with the band.

This was one of the most interesting sights I have ever seen; the progress these natives made was wonderful; besides, each seemed to be getting a great deal of enjoyment out of life. It reminded me of calisthenics in the navy, where they execute the movements of their exercise to the strains of a familiar march.

It was nearly time for the rainy season, and we were making our last circuit. Cholera was prevalent throughout the Island of Luzon, and in many instances smallpox had been reported. A “Division” order made it a court-martial offence for any soldier in the jungle to drink water that had not been boiled. This order, however, was not very stringently adhered to. Reports of deaths from cholera were received daily, in many instances soldiers being the victims. Whenever we found it convenient to boil water we did, but never went thirsty waiting for boiled water.

About three o’clock one scorching afternoon we struck a trail in a remote section of the San Madre Mountains which indicated that cartellos drawn by caribous made daily trips over this road. While resting at this point, the day suddenly grew dark and it became perceptible to us all that a typhoon was approaching. The lieutenant in command of the party, being a recent graduate of West Point and having had little experience in the field, was slow to comprehend what might be the consequence if a raging typhoon was to encompass this party in the jungle.

I suggested to him that we select a place at once and spread canvas. To this he acquiesced, and ordered me to take a Filipino and follow the trail until I reached a place of shelter suitable for the pitching of a camp. With one of my cargadores, “Blinky” (with whom I had just had a scrap for paring potatoes with a bolo), I hit the trail, and had covered about one mile when my eyes fell on a bamboo shack which appeared to be unoccupied. On investigation I found it to be an unusually fine casa for this mountain district. I found earthenware olios filled with water, dry wood, and a stone grate, but no sign of any occupants. Tearing a leaf from my note-book, I informed the lieutenant of our good fortune in having shelter from the typhoon without the necessity of pitching tents, dispatched “Blinky” with the message, and ere long the cartello and party had arrived.

A fire having been made, the coffee was put on to boil, the natives pared the potatoes, while I sliced the bacon and opened several cans of corn and salmon. The salmon was served to the Filipinos with rice. After a hearty supper by candle-light, cigarettes were smoked, blankets spread on the bamboo floor, and we all stretched out for a good night’s sleep.

The advance guard of the typhoon had arrived; a terrific wind, which whistled through the palms and nippa-roof, threatened at times to carry our shack away. Deep peals of thunder reverberated from the aerial regions, while dangerous flashes of blazoned lightning tore through the celestial firmament. “A nice night for a murder,” remarked Corporal “Free,” of the Sixth Cavalry. There was little sleep that night, which was evidenced in the morning by the numerous sacks of “Bull Durham” that lay scattered on the floor.

The storm continued throughout the following day, abating on toward midnight. The following morning deep gullies were worn in the soil, streams were flooded, while the drooping palms presented a scene of picturesque desolation. Overhead the fleecy clouds hovered round the blazing sun which cast its rays through the spice-laden atmosphere.

Having walked some distance from the hacienda, I heard off in the mountains that familiar guttural accent of a cochero driving a caribou; I listened, and he gradually grew closer. On his arrival I found him to be a Filipino with a load of sugarcane and bananas, _en route_ to Malolos. Being curious to know why this substantial home was unoccupied, I inquired in Spanish from this man, who informed me, with great stress, that no natives could be induced to live here, as the entire family, the occupants, had fallen victims to the dreaded cholera. Well, right here I felt as though I was on my journey across the river Styx. Shortly after, on meeting the lieutenant, I said to him, “Lieutenant, has it not aroused your curiosity as to why this house is unoccupied?” “Why, yes, it seems strange,” he replied. “Well, I will enlighten you a bit,” said I. Then I told him the story the cochero had told me. I once saw a man sentenced to be shot, and, if looks count, his feelings and those of the officer were identical. He thought it wise to move in the direction of the monastery; but I informed him that there was no need to worry; that, if we had suffered contamination, it would have been all over long before this, as there is no delay in the operation of an Asiatic-cholera germ. On learning this he was greatly relieved; so we shoved off and completed our circuit. However, some of the party were pretty uneasy; they had drunk unboiled water from the olios. “Furthermore deponent saith not.”

We returned to headquarters just in time to escape the rainy season. Here we spent weeks in idleness, playing cards, reading, and occasionally I would run up to Malolos by rail, then engage a caromato to convey me to Montao to see Carmen Lemaire. Sometimes the river was so swollen by the torrents of rain that it was impossible to get across. Naturally, life became rather monotonous, and upon request I was relieved and returned to duty with my regiment, back to civilization and the lights and music of the Luneta. This engaging mestizo señorita visited Manila a number of times before my departure for the States, and, although the honor of “queen of the carnival” fell to the lot of an older mestizo, the charming presence of Carmen Lemaire on this occasion brooked no competition, for beauty, grace, or intelligence.

Rudyard Kipling, whose “Barrack-ballads” are favorites in the army and navy, describes in mililoquent tones incidents appertaining to the “Far East,” in “On the Road to Mandalay,” from which I quote:

When the mist was on the rice-fields, and the sun was droopin’ low, She’d get her little banjo and she’d sing the coola la lo. With her arm upon my shoulder, and her cheek against my cheek We used to watch the hathis, and the elephants pilen teak; Elephants a pilen teak in the smudgy sludgy creek, Where the silence hung so heavy, you was half afraid to speak. On the road to Mandalay, where the flyin’ fishes play, And the dawn comes up like thunder out a China ’cross the bay.

The last occasion on which I saw her was on the eve of my departure for the United States. In a “victoria” accompanied by two University classmates, she called at my quarters in Ft. William McKinley, where I joined them for a ride to the haunts of my old marine days, in the village of San Ruki, near Cavite. Among old friends and the ever-predominant harp and guitar, I enjoyed the fascinations of their quaint moonlight “fiesta.”

The drive homeward to Manila under the shades of night, through the “barrios” of Bacoor, Paranacque, and Pasay, with the wavelets of the sombre bay breaking on the sandy beach, was one of imposing grandeur that will ever remain vivid when my mind reverts to tropical sublimity.

At a dinner party on the roof-garden of the Hotel “Oriente” this night, I bade Señorita Lemaire farewell.

XIII.

Cock-Fighting, the National Sport of the Philippines

Training of the Birds――Mains by Electric Light――Aristocracy Patrons of the Arena――Chinese “Book-makers”――Filipino Touts――Flower Girls――The “Pit”――The Strike of the Game Birds――The Crucial Moment――Game to the Last――Honest Sport.

The national sport of the natives of the Philippine Islands is cock-fighting. From infancy the Filipino takes to this line of sport, as a duck takes to water, and he early acquires the art of heeling and training the bird which is sooner or later to increase his wealth or perhaps send him back to the drudgery of the rice-fields, where he must eke out an existence and little by little accumulate sufficient to back another favorite chanticleer in his efforts to recover from his sorrowful state of depression, as a Filipino will bet all on his favorite game-bird.

The enthusiasm these people manifest around the pit during a main is akin to that of the Spaniards and Mexicans during a bull-fight. For weeks before a battle the bird is dieted, his claws and beak are manicured, feathers cropped, and plume trimmed. Its weight requires either increasing or diminishing, as the case may be, and it is handled with the care of the tots in a baby incubator.

Every village or barrio in the Philippines has its cockpit, the most pretentious of these being found in the villages of Caloocán and San Pedro Macati, surrounding the city of Manila. Here, in a large well-ventilated arena, can be found gathered together night after night, not only a motley crowd of peasants from the rice-fields of the interior, but the up-to-date business people of the “Escolta” and the aristocracy of the old walled city, whose gorgeous victorias before sundown roll gracefully along the Luneta, to the music of the Constabulary Band. These mains are conducted under the glare of electricity with the same success as by the light of day. Chinese, who are born gamblers, occupy a large percentage of the space given for seating capacity; these people very methodically run a book in which odds are given on certain birds before they appear to the public gaze. They are quartered together and gamble only among themselves. There is also the house “book-maker,” who takes all bets but places no odds. The small fry, or the Filipinos whose pesos and pesetas are limited, bet among themselves, either man holding the stakes.

The pests of the American race-track known as touts and rail-birds are also in evidence here. One of these will approach you asking which is your favorite bird, invariably telling you he has a sure thing and that to bet any other way would be “mucho malo.” You bet on his advice, and he leaves you, meets another easy mark, and tells him to bet just the opposite to the way he advised you. This fellow is a sure winner, as one of the birds must win and his nightly rake-off is a stout roll.

The price of admission is una peseta, or ten cents (gold). Near the entrance to the “pit” is a bamboo stand where cigars, cigarettes, and ice-cold bottles of San Miguel’s salvaeso are sold. Flower-girls are everywhere in evidence, with their trays of palm-leaf fans, wreaths, and fragrant nosegays. An old Filipino woman chewing betel-nut and smoking a black cigar struts around selling cocoanut candy, the very appearance of which is enough to spread the cholera.

As the time approaches for the main, an old bald-headed veteran of the cocking main enters the screened pit, which is about the size of a “Marquis of Queensberry” prize-ring, and announces the beginning of the evening’s performance; he is loudly cheered by the gamesters of the arena. This is followed by the entrance of the owners with their birds.

The noise, which up to this time has been violent, here breaks into a paroxysm of tumultuous disorder. Each spectator is yelling for his favorite bird, which he designates by its color; this singsong chatter, being a jumble of the Spanish, Tagalog, and Chinese tongues, runs like this: Color row, color row, blanco, Ki tim chung a wong, blanco, blanco, Ki tim chung a wong, negro, negro, negro, focho, color row, blanco, Ki tim chung a wong. This is grand music for mutes and boiler-makers! The spurs, unlike the sharp-pointed gaff’s used on American game-cocks, are small steel blades shaped like a razor and honed to an extreme degree of keenness. After the spurs are fastened on and each Filipino is satisfied with the ire of his bird, they are pitted, the owners leave the pit, and the battle is waged; not in accordance with Dr. Clark’s rules of the United States, however, as cock-fighting was in vogue in the Philippines for ages before the discovery of America.

As the battle is waged, each bird seems conscious of the dire effects of the fatal blade of its adversary; they strut, crouch, and spar, each with eyes intent on the slightest move of the other. “Mucho bueno combati este negro,” shouts the Filipino as the red fowl narrowly escapes a lunge from the spur of the black. “Negro, negro, buena negro minok,” shout the backers of the black fowl, which, unlike in the case of the opponents in a prize-fight, the applause tends to intimidate, rather than inspire courage in the feathery tribe. “Spearo poco tiempo,” exclaims the red fowl’s admirer. “Caramba spearo,” cries the follower of the black with vehemence; “poco tiempo, este negro, murto este outro minok, tiene mucho jinero fora compra chow fora pickinniny, no mas traubaho.” This mixture of Igorrote and Tagalog translated means, “There will be a hot time in one nippa shack if the black bird wins.”

“Aha!” is uttered in crescendo. They have struck; feathers fly over the pit, and blood flows from the red fowl; they strike again, the red bird limps, and is seen to run, followed by the black, which is bleeding profusely from a gash hidden by its feathers; this brings forth tremendous cheers, which, however, die down as the crucial moment is observed. “Can it come back?” Both are weakening; the red game turns, with that blind spontaneity and instinct animated by fear; they crouch and strike together; a spur has reached the vital spot; the black swoons, its vital functions have ceased, and the battle is at an end. As the red fowl is proclaimed the winner, it is seen to sink, game to the last second; with its life it has paid the price of the victory.

“They are dead game chickens,” remarks a soldier as they are carried from the pit. Bets are now paid off, and the pit is sprinkled with fresh sand, new wagers are laid, and the main continues.

Cock-fighting in the Philippines is honest sport; there is no such thing as throwing the game as in a prize-fight, or pulling a horse as in racing. The fowls are usually so evenly matched that there is little of advantage in either one, from which to choose a preference, the book-makers in almost every case relying on their good fortune.

These mains are the most popular sport in the islands, and, in consequence of the honest methods of the promoters in conducting them, have been carried on for ages without cessation or municipal interference, such as is sometimes waged against bull-fighting, horse-racing, and prize-fighting in other countries.

The very atmosphere of the Philippines attracts you to these large nippa and bamboo arenas, and it seems you involuntarily follow the procession here as you would the race-track following in New Orleans or the daily crowd that gather to witness “Cuban pelota” in Havana. It is the antique axiom exemplified: “When in Rome do as the Romans do.”

XIV.

Departure of the 29th Infantry from the Philippines

Brigade Headquarters, Ft. Wm. McKinley――Afloat on the Pásig River――Quarantine at Mariveles――Liberty in Japan――Across the Pacific――Reception in Honolulu――Greetings in “Frisco”――Via Santa Fé to Governor’s Island.

It was midday in August, 1909, when the long chain of cascoes and steam-launches loaded with the three battalions and band of the Twenty-ninth Infantry swung into the rapids of the Pásig River to the strains of that dear old Southern melody, “My Old Kentucky Home,” leaving, as we floated with the current, many a heart-broken “mestizo” with her bandanna soaked in tears, wafting adieu to her “Americano soldado,” with whom she had had her last glide in the dance-halls of Guadeloupe. After a campaign of two years in a brigade post under the burning sun of the tropics, the course of our homeward-bound journey had begun on the historical old Pásig River, which, could it voice its history, might tell many a weird tale of adventure and bloody struggle.

The military rendezvous and scene of our departure was Fort William McKinley, situated on a plateau near the Pásig and Tagigue Rivers, overlooking the broad bay and city of Manila on the west, and the beautiful lake in the district of Laguna de Bay on the east. In close proximity was a branch line of the Manila and Dagupán Railroad, connecting the provincial territory between Manila and the village of Antipolo. In addition to the steam-train, a trolley system covered the government reservation, terminating in the barrio of Pásig.

At this post, brigade headquarters, the troops were housed in bungalow barracks, consisting of the Tenth United States Cavalry (colored), whose gallantry in Cuba in 1898 forever perpetuated the name of this courageous regiment of horse; the Twenty-ninth and Thirtieth regiments of infantry, the last additions to the infantry branch of the line; a battalion of engineers; numerous batteries of held artillery; and a large detachment of the hospital corps completed the strength of the brigade, which was under the command of Brigadier-General Pershing.

The Twenty-ninth Infantry, in command of Colonel H. K. Bailey, occupied the quarters in the southeast section of the post and nearest to the rifle-range. Each company was quartered separately, in barracks identical with those of the British army in India. These quarters were spacious two-story buildings with large apertures through which the cool currents of air from the China Sea fanned in gentle breeze.

Excellent shower-baths and a laundry, presided over by two Chinese, were valuable adjuncts that contributed to the accommodations of the men. Each morning on awakening, the soldier found, arranged in uniformity under his cot, his several pairs of garrison russet, gymnasium, light marching order, and civilian shoes, polished to a high degree of excellency; placed there by the “Oriental knights of the zapatos,” two native boot-blacks, employed by the company, and whose duty it was to have every shoe polished before reveille and the sound of the morning gun.

The amusement-hall contained a well-stocked library of the most popular editions, a billiard-table, and a phonograph, so that the rainy season was seldom unwelcomed by the soldier.

Large verandas shaded by clinging vines surrounded these bungalows, and in the evening, when not perambulating with the procession through the health-giving ozone of the Luneta or cajoling the birds at a favorite cockpit, it was a pleasure to lounge in a sedan chair with a mild Manila perfecto, and listen to the entrancing excerpts from some favorite opera, as beautifully rendered by the Twenty-ninth Infantry band.

Fort McKinley is separated from Manila along the riverside “speedway” by seven miles of macadamized road, over which during the dry season vehicles of all descriptions roll, from the two-wheeled caromato to the high-power limousine. This famous driveway is the “Ormond Beach” of the “Far East,” rivalling in climate and surpassing in beauty the celebrated winter resort of southern Florida. A moonlight ride along this magnificent boulevard is a scene never to be forgotten. On leaving the nippa-roofed bamboo shacks in the barrio of Guadeloupe, you light a cigarette and recline in luxurious ease on the cushions of your rubber-tired “victoria,” drawn by a pair of sleek Australian ponies, their languid movement being in keeping with the wishes of the “cochero,” who regulates his fee by the time consumed in conveyance. The witchery or charm of your entire surroundings is preternatural. The phosphorous ripples of the swift-flowing Pásig on one side seem to emulate the scintillation of the star-bespangled firmament, while, in rivalling contrast on the other, the glow-worm and fire-fly in sheltering palms and over dewy landscape, like the ignis fatuus, seem to mock the luminous glow of the moon.

As the old Santa Anna Cathedral, with its vine-clad balustrades falling to decay, appears in the scene, looming in magnetic amplitude over the verdant foliage of tropical grandeur, it is with a feeling of supplication, induced by the magical influence of the night, that you involuntarily alight from the “victoria” and enter the sacred portals of this time-consecrated sanctuary, most holy and inviolable site, where for ages past the “padre” sang mass to the souls of the donors, the parishioners, who, kneeling in humble supplication, have chanted, in eloquent voice, the Ave Maria and Gloria Patria from the prayers in the three chaplets of their worshipful Rosary. As you linger in silent meditation along the galleries of this sanctified edifice, as if in quest of the “Holy Grail,” it is with a feeling of penitence for an inherent apostasy which seems to overwhelm you. The glittering satellites in the heavens cast their rays through the apertures of the quaint old campanile, in whose lofty dome, the home of fluttering bats and a staid old owl, tinkling bells for generations rang out at sunset and early dawn, as the people sang their vespers and chanted the Ave Maria.

Inflamed with sudden passion you stand transfixed along the balustrade with a mixed feeling of sublimity and dread, as if anticipating a great pleasure fraught with dire results, when――hark! the faint though ever-beautiful tones of the “Te Deum laudamus” vibrate softly on the ear. Your peaceful tranquillity has been pleasantly disturbed, and you gaze in ecstatic amazement toward the vestry as a graceful spectre glides gently by. It is the “Choir Invisible.” You feel the fanning zephyrs blowing, you are thrilled with emotion and delight, and, as you depart from this phantasmagoria, you soliloquizingly ask, “Is there any inviolable covenant this scene should strengthen?” _Varium et mutabile semper femina._ “What’s the use?” you murmur, as you spring into the vehicle and order the cochero to hurry the ponies. In twenty minutes’ time you alight under the canopy of the entrance to the Hotel “Oriente” in Manila, step on the “lift,” and soon find you are amid the soothing strains of an orchestra and the sheltering palms of the roof-garden, _tête à tête_ with your cheerful friends of the tropics.

* * * * *

Though many thousand miles from home, the prospects of soon fraternizing with friends in the United States brought cheer to the soldiers. Disembarking from the cascoes at the Quartermaster-wharf in Manila, the regiment marched along the beautiful Bayumbayan drive near the old walled city, to the government pier, the point of embarkation. As we bade Manila and its mystical orientalism a parting farewell, our sea-going tugs ploughed the waters of Manila Bay, and ere long the regiment had landed at the quarantine station Mariveles.