Part 6

During the celebration this night at the club, each guest performed some little sketch of his own; an officer of the British battleship _Endymion_, being pressed “real hard” for a song, was finally prevailed upon for a selection. Taking a position at the piano, he skilfully ran over the keys, then, turning, addressed the club as follows: “Gentlemen, am noute at ’ome in the voucal loine, but, if you must ’ave a song, a’l endeavor to sing a selection sent to me by an aeold friend in the United States, entitled, ‘I’d leave my ’appy ’ome for you, double o, double o.’” We Americans who had heard the song in the “States” knew the title to be, “I’d leave my happy home for you, oo, oo.” Turning to the piano, our friend commenced:

“I’d leave my ’appy ’ome for you, double o, double o; For you’re the sweetest girl I ever knew, double o, double o,”

et cetera. Well, the chuckling expressions of mirth that this ridiculous song brought forth created a laughable scene. Once begun, the fellow was unwilling to stop; he evidently had hysteria, and thought the laughing applause, for he pounded away on the keys, and rang in double o, whether it fitted or not, until, finally, a brother officer went to him and whispered something in his ear, whereupon he ceased, and joined in the laugh with all the attributes of a good sport.

Many of the crew had planned a visit to the quaint inland city Osaka; but the destiny of the soldier and sailor is one of absolute uncertainty. This time the unexpected appeared in the shape of an order, directing that the cruiser proceed at once under forced draft to Manila, a distance of 1400 miles. All kinds of rumors ran afloat, the one predominating being that a German ship caught smuggling arms to the insurgents had been fired on by the gun-boat _Nashville_; this, however, seemed absurd, though not improbable. It was evident, at any rate, that something of a serious nature needed repairing, as consultations in the admiral’s cabin by the flag-officers and captain were at fever heat. The following day at dawn, coaling ship was commenced by a motley throng of natives, who kept a continuous stream of coal pouring into the bunkers, which by night-fall contained two hundred and fifty tons. At two bells (9 o’clock) the ship had been thoroughly cleansed, and at four bells (10 o’clock) anchors were weighed, and the “bull-dog of war” ploughed madly through the waters of the phosphorous deep. Fair weather prevailed throughout the voyage, alleviating to some extent the labor of the coal-passers below, who by their strenuous efforts kept the cruiser under forced draft, driving her through the “briny” swells and into Manila Bay in less than four days. Casting anchor in the harbor of Cavite, booms were spread, launches lowered, and we immediately learned of our mission, of the terrible massacre of Company “G” of the Ninth Infantry, General Chaffee’s old command, at the hands of the barbarous bolo-men of Samar, the company having been taken by surprise while at breakfast.

Most every person is familiar with the horror of this massacre on the Island of Samar in October, 1901; of how the savages stealthily crept upon the sentries, dispatching them with a thrust of the bolo, as one might blow out a flame, so adroit and silent was the operation; how, at a signal given, one detachment secured the arms in the barracks, as another made the fatal charge at the mess-hall, where one of the bloodiest struggles ensued that has been recorded since the battle of the “Alamo,” one or two soldiers of a whole company miraculously escaping to tell the tale.

Great activity was at once begun on board the vessel, when it was learned that the army and navy were to co-operate in suppressing hostilities among the ferocious tribes of this jungle island, whose leader, the squinty-almond-eyed insurgent General Lukban, had defiantly sneered at foreign authority. Provisions and ammunition were stored in the hold, numerous three-inch rifles, Colt automatics, and one-pounders secured on deck, while four Kentucky mules to be used in dragging the guns occupied stalls amidships. After the munitions of war had been carefully stored and the minor details of the expedition completed, Major (now Colonel) L. W. T. Waller, with his battalion of three hundred marines, boarded the cruiser. This gallant battalion had recently returned from China, where their valiant bravery before the gates of Pekin had been attested by the troops of all nations.

What a scene this was on board a man-of-war!――seven hundred sailors in the fashion of the sea, and three hundred marines in the garb of the field, all ready, as mad Anthony Wayne said, to storm hell if necessary.

One of the most magnificent military scenes and inspired feeling I have ever experienced was on that balmy October morning in the year 1901, as I reported to Admiral Rodgers, six bells and underway. The band had struck up, “Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching,” as the entire sortie joined in the singing:

“Damn, damn, damn the Filipinos, Pock-marked, almond-eyed ladrones, And beneath the starry flag We’ll civilize them with the ‘Krag,’ Then we’ll journey to our old beloved homes.”

This was a gala day for all on board; burnished bayonets glittered in the noonday’s sun, while the khaki uniforms of the soldiers of the sea contrasted with the immaculate white of the sailors.

The officers of the battalion to a man were soldiers, like those of the St. Louis battalion, thorough in the art of war; men who had proved themselves in active service; unlike a few under whom I served, who broke into the army in ’98 and earlier, whose non-commissioned officers were required to draw their topographical outlines, and who, were it necessary to depend on their merits in civil life, would suffer incompetency in a country grocery.

The voyage down the coast was one grand round of pleasure; apparently it was “an excursion” for the men who had fought their way through Tien Tsin on to Pekin, and with Riley’s battery, the Ninth and the Fourteenth Infantry, had battered, rammed, fired, and scaled the walls of the Forbidden City. On the gun-deck of the man-of-war talented musicians of the battalion kept an incessant flow of music in action, a piano accompanying the popular songs of the sea and field, as rendered in their true originality by some whose bones were doomed to bleach on the gruesome battle-fields of Samar.

Lieutenant “Jack” Gridley, ever popular with the officers and men, in whose company the writer had served, cheerfully announced the proceedings of the programme. It was far from our thoughts that night that this brave son of the captain of the historic _Olympia_, after braving the dangers of war, must suffer the wiles of the grim reaper in peace, in the terrible explosion aboard the battleship _Missouri_.

About midnight of the second day, while cruising along the coast of Samar, under the cover of darkness, signal-lights could be seen dimly burning at points of vantage. With the aid of night binoculars a camp of insurgents was discovered bivouacked along the side of the mountains, several miles up the coast from Catabalogan. A powerful search-light thrown on this scene made the enemy clearly visible, and great activity could be seen among the insurgents, as if startled by impending danger. With great accuracy of aim an eight-inch shell was dropped in the camp; this was followed by a bombardment of the coast, in which the broadside batteries flashed their deadly munitions of war, creating terrible havoc and demoralizing the enemy. Dropping anchor in the harbor of Catabalogan, the cruiser was met by the _Zafiro_, which conveyed the battalion to Balangiga, the scene of the slaughter of the Ninth.

The following day the sad news of the death of Midshipman Noya reached the _New York_, being the first naval officer killed in the Samar campaign. Cadet Noya was of the class of 1900, Annapolis Academy; his death was attributed largely to the fact of his having worn a white uniform on shore. At about five o’clock in the evening of October 27, 1901, accompanied by half a dozen sailors, he went ashore at Nippa-Nippa near the bay to look for suspected smugglers. Sending four of the men into the town, he remained on the beach while the two men in the boat retired about two hundred yards from shore. His white uniform evidently attracted attention, and unseen by him a dozen bolo-men crept upon the officer; there was a noiseless rush, he was felled with a bolo wound and his pistol taken, with which they shot him. The men in the boat, hearing his cry, leaped overboard and half waded, half swam to his rescue; they reached him while he was still conscious. “Men, be very careful; they have taken my revolver,” he murmured, and died. The remains were placed in the boat (the others having returned) and taken to Catabalogan. A sailor had wig-wagged across the bay, and as the body arrived at the dock it was met by a cortege consisting of General Smith, Admiral Rodgers, Chaplain Chidwick, and others.

Some time was spent in making primary arrangements for the final resting-place, which consisted, in that hostile country at that time, of turning over the sod and organizing a firing squad. A heavy rain fell as the procession was formed at the dock in the following order: Military band, detachment of soldiers, naval band, detachment of sailors, body, pall-bearers, and mourners, consisting of members of the army and navy. To the slow music of a dirge, the procession moved out of town to the little National cemetery on the hill-side. Here the mourners drew up about the grave while the solemn burial service was read by Chaplain Chidwick, who took this occasion to make a few remarks on the character of the deceased. As the chaplain concluded his remarks, the firing squad of soldiers drew up, and three sharp clear volleys rang out over the open grave, followed by the ever-beautiful sound of “taps,” concluding the service. As the first clods fell in the grave, the military band struck up a lively two-step and led the procession back to town; at the same time the rain ceased, the clouds rolled away, and glorious sunshine covered the land, symbolic of the beauty of life beyond the grave.

Samar is one of the large islands of the Philippines group, lying west of the archipelago between Mindanao and Luzon. Catabalogan, on the western slope, is the chief town and capital. Along the coast there is considerable cultivation, but the balance of the island is mountainous, rugged, and sharp, with high precipitous declivities, rocky defiles, and deep gullies, surrounding and entangling which are dense jungles almost impenetrable; such were the haunts of the savage bolo-men, who, like the “Fuzzy Wuzzy” of Kipling, were sociable but full of fight.

An order issued by General Smith read as follows: “All soldiers on the islands of Samar and Leyte must be armed at all times, arise an hour before daybreak and stand under arms till breakfast; any officer whose men shall be surprised through disobedience of these orders will be punished as a court-martial may direct. Scouting parties must be kept up incessantly, crops destroyed, villages burned, and smugglers killed; the enemy must be made to feel, as General Sherman said, that ‘War is hell.’”

A paragraph from the general’s congratulations on the success of the expedition read: “Success by barefooted Americans began at Valley Forge, and I am proud to know that the same indomitable spirit which won in spite of obstacles, over one hundred years ago, has shown itself in Samar.”

A fleet of small gun-boats captured from the Spanish had been doing yeoman service around Samar, in cutting off supplies to Lukban’s forces from the other islands. They had destroyed hundreds of barotes and burned numerous villages. In fact the Island of Samar was completely blockaded, with the exception of the narrow strip of the Gandarra Straits separating the island from Leyte. A spy in the habit of a friar arrived on the vessel in the darkness of the night, with the information that banco after banco loaded with rice was being smuggled across the straits. Volunteers were called for, to ascend this small channel in a steam-launch. Having volunteered for this special duty, we set to work at once, our complement consisting of four midshipmen, four marines, and four sailors. Stripping the canopy off the steam-launch, two one-pounders were mounted fore and aft, while a Colt automatic resting on a tripod occupied the centre of the boat. Each man carried, besides his rifle and revolver, a belt containing three hundred rounds of ammunition and an extra bandoleer.

About midnight, with fires secured, we shoved off under cover of darkness for the entrance to the channel. On reaching it we could see, in the distance along its shores, a fire dimly burning; steaming quietly through the stream, closely hugging the shore, about two miles had been covered from the ship, when a cumbersome object was seen drifting across the straits. “Ah! a banco,” was whispered, as if uttered by the voice of a buccaneer. The midshipman in command immediately trained the forward one-pounder as near the water line of the “smuggler” as could be discerned through the gloom. As the coxswain swung the launch to a port side position in a shallow eddy, the aft one-pounder and Colt automatic were trained for operation.

Each man crouched close to the gunwale as the order to halt was given by the “middy” at the forward gun. This command was replied to by a shot, momentarily followed by a whizzing fusillade of steel-jackets in dangerous proximity, several penetrating the smoke-funnel. As the low bang of the one-pounders rang through the midnight, the sweeping rattle of the Colt automatic played its deadly missiles like rain-drops on a tin roof. Unearthly yells arose from the surface of the straits, as the banco was seen to sink. At this juncture a volley rang out from the opposite shore; turning the Colt in the direction where the flash of the guns could be seen, the beach was swept and jungle riddled, silencing the guns of the enemy. While rescuing a native who in the agony of fear and bewilderment was drowning near the launch, several shots were fired from the jungle on our side of the stream. It being impossible to train the Colt from the position we held, we waded to the beach, where, creeping to an opening in the jungle, we pumped volley after volley with our “Krags” into the surrounding wilderness. As the moon broke through the clouds, the silhouette of a group of natives could be seen prowling on the opposite shore some distance up the straits. Having accomplished our mission, we returned to the ship with a live specimen of the spoils, who for safe keeping was confined to a cell in the “brig.” Next morning the savage was loath to talk until, after a breakfast of cold salmon, he told us that the banco contained eight natives, of whom he was the sole survivor, that their cargo consisted of rice consigned to Lukban’s forces in Samar. A detail escorted the prisoner ashore, where he was turned over to the army. The following day the small gun-boat _Garduqui_, of the “mosquito fleet,” was ordered into the channel, sounding her way clear through the straits. The natives were hemmed in on all sides and reports of smuggling ceased.

Near Balayán, as a member of a landing party that stormed and burned a number of villages, I secured a unique relic, in the shape of a Spanish trumpet that had served some hidalgo in the days of the empire.

Every day brought news to the cruiser of the excellent work of the soldiers and marines. In carrying out the orders of Generals Smith and Hughes, the boys were sweeping everything before them, driving the murderous natives to either death or surrender. Victor, who had led the assault in the slaughter of the Ninth Infantry, had fallen victims to the marines, and the splendid culmination to a successful campaign was the surrender of twelve hundred bolo-men with their various implements of warfare.

After swearing allegiance to the United States, these savage jungle warriors were allowed their freedom.

The island having been pacified, a number of the troops were recalled, though the blockade was continued by the _Vicksburg_, _Nashville_, and the small gun-boats of the mosquito fleet.

The flag-ship _New York_, having completed her mission in the Samar campaign, steamed back to Luzon, where a fortnight was spent in Manila Bay ere she steamed out, under an azure sky, to the shores of fair Japan.

Back to the land of the “Rising Sun” Where the blood-red poppies grow, To the minarets of the Inland Sea And the “geishas” of Tokio.

NOTE.

This being merely a narrative of that part of the Samar campaign that fell under my personal observation, without any pretence to an elaboration or an historical account, I desire to say that it would be doing a great injustice to the gallant battalion of marines, conveyed by the flag-ship _New York_ to the scenes of the depredations of the treacherous natives, were I not to inform the reader that, in order to portray in detail the hardships endured by the men of Major Waller’s command, it would be necessary to have a more comprehensive knowledge of the data, and a very keen ability, in order to expedite the union of the composite stages of this diversified expedition: of the harassing and almost incredible obstacles countered; the personal courage, determination, and zeal, each step treading its own dangers; the attack upon the overwhelming force of insurgents in the cliffs along the Sojoton River, where it was necessary to elevate the three-inch field-pieces till they were almost vertical, the cliffs being nearly two hundred feet high, and well-nigh impregnable; the attempts at scaling these cliffs by means of bamboo ladders; the various engagements in which innumerable insurgents and many Americans were killed; the travel of hundreds of miles through jungle wilderness, by the half-starved, bare-footed marines; the burning of one hundred and sixty-five shacks _en route_ to Liruan, where death lurked in concealed spear-pits; the terrible execution of the Colt automatics; the revolt of the native help, their execution, and the sensational court-martial that followed, attended by the honorable exoneration of the defendants, et cetera; of the admirable work of the army, and fourth company of Macabebe scouts, and numerous side-lights on this novel campaign of warfare, that would tax the fertile brain of the experienced author in their portrayal.

VIII.

The Cowboy Soldier, a Coincidence

Departure for New Orleans――Arrival at the Capital――The Soldiers――Peach Tree Street, Atlanta――Christening of the “Peace-togs”――New Orleans――The Levee――Creoles――The Race-track――A Quadroon-ball――The Farandole and La Bourree――Madame La Bouchere, Goddess of Sorcery――The Mardi Gras――The Plaza de Goiti, Manila――The Coincidence.

One crisp wintry afternoon late in the month of January, 1899, having bade adieu to a party of boon companions at a little railway station in the Blue Ridge mountains of Pennsylvania, I ensconced myself on the cushions of the smoking-compartment of the Black Diamond Express, lit a cigar, and ran through the pages of a popular magazine, possessed with a feeling of satisfaction that my destination, New Orleans, lay under the warmth of Southern skies, free from the bleak winds of the North, and with that suavity manifest in a person whose most arduous responsibilities are those of pleasure seeking and curious notions.

Though having touched both Florida and Texas, I had never been as far south as the crescent city at the mouth of the Mississippi, so that on this trip it was my object to appease an insatiable desire by thoroughly acquainting myself with the natural and historical charms of this quaint old Southern city, and particularly witness the festivities of the Mardi Gras.

In picturing New Orleans in phantasm, I had always had a conception of a beautiful city of Spanish architecture, dotted with churches and cathedrals whose chimes pealed sweetly overhead, and along whose flagstone streets the beautiful Creole belles vied in angelic accord with their more dusky sisters, the quadroons; darkies rolling cotton bales on the levee, their negro melodies interspersed with the deep sonorous steam-boat whistles on the wide-spreading river; haunts of the vendetta and the mafia; southern homes shaded by palmetto, whose confines exhaled in fragrant quintessence the aroma of magnolia; dusky “Dinahs” in red bandannas picking cotton, as the old negroes thrummed the banjoes near the cabin where the pickaninnies played around the door. These were my early impressions of the gulf-cities of “Dixie-land,” and how many are there who have seen the dramatization of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” or read George W. Cable’s stories of the Creoles of Louisiana, who have not pictured just such scenes as these?

On my arrival at Washington, D. C., the sun shone bright in southern warmth, in combative contrast to the bleak sweeping winds of the north, and, having ample time in which to reach New Orleans before the beginning of the Mardi Gras season (St. Valentine’s Day), I decided to see some of the points of interest overlooked on previous visits to the capital. One in particular was the trip to the tomb of General Washington, at Mount Vernon, a short but very beautiful ride by steam-boat on the Potomac River.

During this period two weighty questions were being handled by the silver-tongued orators of the Senate,――namely, the ratification of the peace treaty and the retention of the Philippine Islands. For three days I attended this session of Congress to hear the elucidating arguments on these subjects, as propounded by Senators Foraker, Hoar, Tillman and Vest, who seemed to handle in arbitrary opposition the burden of the questions. These debates were exceedingly interesting, the eloquent orators at times becoming so animated as to cast parliamentary rules asunder, and occasionally requiring the necessity of being rapped to order by the Speaker of the House.

After spending several pleasant days in Washington, I journeyed to the Pennsylvania Railroad station to catch my train on the “Sea-board Air Line” for the city of Atlanta. While having my ticket validated for berth reservation, a very military-looking soldier appeared at the window of the ticket-office and made inquiries regarding a train for Atlanta, Georgia. Having been recently mustered out of the service, I sought to learn the fellow’s regiment; addressing him interrogatively, I was informed that he had enlisted in Philadelphia, and was _en route_ to Fort McPherson, Georgia, to join the Third United States Cavalry. Although the fellow appeared very military, he said this was his first enlistment, but that he had just stepped out of the stirrups of a saddle in the Indian Territory, where his experience as a cowboy he related in a most interesting manner. Boarding the train together, we were ere long engaged in a hand of “seven up,” as the wheels clipped off the miles at the rate of forty-eight per hour.