Part 7

At Columbia, South Carolina, the train was boarded by a large number of soldiers of the Second Tennessee Volunteer Infantry, who had recently been mustered out with their regiment, and were _en route_ to their respective destinations. Two sergeants――namely, Clark and Gautrell, two very agreeable fellows――joined us in a sociable game of cards. Although they had served in a Tennessee regiment, their homes were in Georgia. The conversation from this point on was all war talk and “broncho-busting.” The cavalryman’s interesting anecdotes of branding and roping cattle, the tedium of the “round-up,” the vigilance necessary in protecting calves from the howling coyote, the breaking of horses, and his simple life as a cow-puncher in Oklahoma and the Indian Territory, were as fascinating as “Pony-tracks” by Frederick Remington. Before reaching Atlanta he gave me his name, Harry K. Loomis, and said he hoped to be assigned to Troop “M” of the Third. I handed him a card with my permanent address, at the same time wishing him a successful career as a soldier, and hoping the fates would ordain the continuation of a friendship that had so suddenly and unexpectedly sprung up between us like a preordained affinity.

Before we had alighted from the train, Gautrell and Clark had decided to see the Mardi Gras at New Orleans, and it pleased me greatly to have the company of two such jolly chaps, whose liberation from the arduous duties of a soldier animated them with a spirit that brooked no restraint.

On our arrival in the city, we journeyed to a hotel, where, after washing the cinders from our eyelashes and submitting to a tonsorial operation, we sat down to a good substantial Southern breakfast. Following this Loomis bade the party good-by and left to catch his car for his post of duty. As he left the grotto-like café of the Poindexter Hotel, Sergeant Gautrell remarked, “There is about as soldierly a fellow as I ever met.” “Yes,” replied Clark, “and only a recruit at that.”

The soldiers had some shopping in the line of purchasing an outfit of “peace-togs,” as the war was over and they desired to get on a footing with the common herd, as they termed the civil throng; so, promising to meet the boys that afternoon, I hopped on a Peach Tree street-car and rode out to the old ground of the “Cotton Exposition,” where I spent a few hours, including my return, which was footed most of the way for the purpose of gazing on those beautiful old Southern homes, with their unfenced lawns extending to the sidewalks, likened unto the suburban route leading to Willow Grove, Philadelphia, though far in advance in nature’s loveliness. Old colonial mansions of stained wood and light-gray stucco――sacred to the tread of the marshals of a lost cause and the chivalrous knights of antebellum days, whose fortunes suffered terrible wreck and ruin as the Yankees went marching through Georgia――dot the large and splendid thoroughfare for miles on either side of the long rows of sombre maples; broad piazzas, once handsome, now grown picturesque, draped by the clinging myrtles and jessamines that shed their bright petals in the sunlight; orange-blossoms in drooping sympathy with the indifferent but ever-beautiful magnolia in brilliant contrast, dispelling all doubt as to the ancestral aristocracy of these manorial mansions.

It is not at all difficult to reconstruct in one’s memory the past joyful scenes of these quaint and lovely homes, under whose eaves avowals bound by the ties of love have been softly whispered; refusals sometimes spoken, fidelity having previously been pledged; where no heed was paid to false news clandestinely carried from schools for scandal; where coquetry was at a minimum; where lies no doubt were sometimes nourished by the organs of deceit, and where passion yielded to the tempter only in platonic affection under the twig of the mistletoe. Such were the chivalrous thoroughbred characteristics of these people to the manner born.

If the reader who has never journeyed along the quaint old Peach Tree street of Atlanta, Georgia, can imaginatively depict the moonlight scene of Julia Marlowe in “Barbara Frietchie,” he will have a monomial fac-simile of these old-time Southern homes.

Returning to the bright stimulating thoroughfare fronting the Poindexter Hotel, I alighted from my car and entered the café, where I learned that the soldiers had not yet returned. After visiting various places of interest, including the Confederate museum, I returned to the hotel and wrote letters until about 4 o’clock, when the boys launched on the scene in brand-new spick and span attire, everything completely modern. They had made inquiries about the train for New Orleans, which was scheduled to leave Atlanta at 12.02 midnight, over the “Sunset” route, giving us ample time to attend the theatre. Clark proposed a christening of the “togs”; this suggestion was emphasized and perfunctorily executed with libations of mint-julep. After making reservations for the “sleepers,” we purchased tickets for the “Primrose and West” minstrels. Gautrell said he felt like a new clock after shedding his “war-clothes,” and proposed an augmentation to the christening; entering a “grill,” the order was soon taken and filled to the connoisseurship of the “Kentucky colonel.”

After a few rounds of this delicious Southern beverage, we repaired to the Poindexter, checked our baggage through to New Orleans, and dined sumptuously on teal and water-cress. As the coffee and cigarettes were being served, a trombone “rag” burst forth from the minstrel band near the entrance to the theatre; as the last notes of this died away, we hastened to the parquet, arriving in time for the grand opening scene. Having enjoyed the show, our grips were collected at the hotel, and a short walk to the station found us in ample time for the train. As the Pullman vestibule sleepers rolled in, we were not long in getting aboard and having the porter arrange the berths for a night of restful sleep.

The trip by rail through the Gulf States was enlivened on either side by scenery of commanding excellence. Cards were played, and the dusky porter was playfully bullied to the delight of the news-butcher who seemed to dote on the porter’s repartee. The most important cities our trip included were Birmingham, Montgomery, and Mobile. After crossing Lake Pontchartrain, I observed, from the dining-car window, the crescent-shaped site of our destination. On the arrival at the station near the levee, my eyes immediately feasted on what had previously been a dream: Negroes humming a medley as they rolled the huge cotton bales along the levee and aboard the Mississippi steam-boats; a happy-go-lucky bunch of darkies whose hard work commands a compensation of two bits per hour. Gautrell and Clark, being from Georgia, smiled at the interest I took in this scene. Strolling along Canal Street, we switched to the left at the Clay monument and entered St. Charles Street, where after a walk of two blocks we entered the magnificent St. Charles Hotel. “Everything taken, gentlemen,” was the clerk’s pert response to our request for accommodations. “The Mardi Gras season,” he said, “in the city of _Nawrleans_ is one lawg week fo’ the hotels, and without makine reservations in advance, the chances fo’ accommodations is a foa cod draw.” He, however, directed us to a splendid place, in fact preferable to the hotel, a small row of flats on Carondelet Street, with modern conveniences and near the heart of the city. Here we engaged rooms, free from the busy whirl and the bang, jam, smash, of the trunk-line populace.

The city was being profusely arrayed in its holiday attire for the famous Creole fiesta, the Mardi Gras, which was but three days off. Large arches were nearing completion, windows were being decorated with the prettiest designs, while every building, from its gable to the wainscoting or foundation, presented a striking spectacle with its flabelliform folds of orange and black drapery.

A splendid trolley system affords an elegant view of the entire city, every car leaves and returns to the Clay monument on Canal Street; from these can be seen the beautiful government buildings, colleges, churches, cathedral, race-course, and the historic city park, on whose sombre site, in the days before the rebellion, the affairs of honor were settled with the keen blade of the rapier or flash of the pistol, the staid old oaks remaining as monuments, but unable to bear testimony to the duels they sheltered in past generations. Lake Pontchartrain, a broad expanse of water connecting with the Gulf of Mexico, is the daily scene in season of fishermen making a haul of the finny denizens of all species.

Riding out Ursuline Avenue you see, flying over the paddock and immense grandstand of the world-renowned race-track, the colors of the Crescent City Jockey Club gently floating in the breeze; the grassy carpet of the inclosure, encircled by the red-shale turf, around which the lithe-limbed thoroughbreds dash for the wire in incommunicable antagony, exerting every fibre as if conscious of the triumph of a victory. Here may be seen during the winter meet the most noted race-horses, trainers, jockeys, judges, bookmakers, plungers, touts, and race-course patronage of the modern turf, some backing the favorites, while others (experienced handicappers) play the long shots. After the races, “Farbachers” café on Royal Street, a famous resort for the turf element, was daily the evening scene of extravagant gayety, particularly by those patrons whose plunging had been favored by fortune.

It had occurred to Gautrell, himself of French extraction, that he had often heard of New Orleans “gumbo” as being a dish _par excellence_; having sauntered into this famous hostelry, “okra gumbo” for three was ordered. Unlike “chilli-concarni,” the staff of life of the Mexicans, “okra gumbo,” though prepared from okra, meats, and vegetables, is devoid of cayenne pepper flavor. Clark, who had evidently never sampled “tobasco sauce,” remarked that catsup came in very small bottles in New Orleans, at the same time drawing the stopper and pouring the fiery liquid over his “gumbo” like so much “Worcestershire.” As the tears filled Clark’s eyes, he said, “Fellows, if this is what you call _par excellence_, go to it, but none of it for mine,” then, with a mouthful of ice, signalled the waiter. “Waiter,” he said, “kindly remove this bonfire and bring me a pineapple-frappée quick.” “Gumbo” was relished by the balance of the party, but Clark could never be induced to give it another trial.

The pool-rooms of the races along Royal Street are attractive halls of amusement; bookmakers screened from the patrons as the clerks of a bank; blackboards, on which appear the names of the horses, jockeys, weight carried, odds, and pedigrees, decorate the walls, everything being conducted with the same business decorum and excitement attending the stock operations of the New York “curb.” The telegraph ticks off the condition of the weather, the arrival of the horses at the post, the start, their position at the quarter, the half, the three-quarters, in the stretch, and under the wire, as a well-trained voice in the language of the turf calls off the results. Here one may play the races of any “meet” in the United States, lacking only in the excitement of seeing the horses dashing for the winning wire.

In the old “French quarter” a few blocks from Royal Street, along whose time-worn thoroughfare the past generations of “Nawrleans’” most exclusive Creole society basked in the sunshine of their graceful gentility, we saw some quaint sights amidst the chattering jargon of its people, principally among these being a quadroon ball, at which Creoles predominated, though almost indistinguishable from their quadroon sisters, whose beauty is their stock in trade, and whose mellow-toned voices drop the “r” in that quaint characteristic style of the Southern people. The luxuriousness of their costumes, pomp of procession, harmony of music, and grace of attitudes, all united in furnishing a scene of festive splendor.

In close proximity to Jackson Square, near the haunts of the “Vendetta” beautifully illustrated in the play of “Romeo and Juliet,” we visited a Creole resort, the interior of which resembled somewhat the subterrane of “Little Hungary,” the famous Bohemian hostelry of Houston Street, on New York’s east side. Here, seated on a wine-cask, a fiddler bowed a “viola,” as the Creoles, in their primitive originality, and with all the inimitable grace of Loie Fuller in the “fire-dance,” performed the “Farandole” and the “La Bourree,” their beautiful bare arms in ornamental bracelets, shading the contortions of their movements, rising and falling in gesticulating harmony to the rhythm of the music, as the nymphs of an unexplored grotto. Nearby we were shown the old slave-market and block from which the auctioneer bartered his human wares to the highest bidder, their lives invariably to eventuate in the drudgery of the cotton fields.

Voudooism, which included all the intricacies of the black-art in prognosticating future events, flourished uninterrupted for years in New Orleans, until finally eradicated by the hands of authority. This superstitious form of worship was practised principally by the negroes, who carried its inheritance with the first trading vessel from the shores of Africa to the United States. We were told that the negroes would indulge in the voudoo dances in uncontrollable frenzy, until, overcome from exhaustion, they would sink to the ground.

Stories are told of the handsome fortune-telling quadroon Madame La Bouchere, who held her court near the Bayou Saint John, and in whose sumptuous boudoir the patrons of her art, consisting not only of the bourgeoisie, but the Creole aristocracy, paid visits incognito to suffer the enchantments of the “goddess” of this shrine of sorcery. A landau driven to the door of this cypress-sheltered dwelling, there hastily alighted therefrom a veiled lady, who, carelessly brushing by the magnolias, vanished from view. In this green-curtained domicile the intrigues of forbidden love, deceptions, betrayals, and future certainties, would all be revealed to the satisfaction of the votary of this dark-eyed enchantress, without the evil eyes of the gossip-mongers to feast upon and scatter broadcast. Madame La Bouchere’s soft voice and alluring smiles have vanished with the strokes of time; in the slumberous shade of the willow she rests in a tomb of the old Metaire cemetery, her soul having passed to the realm beyond this life.

The cemeteries of New Orleans have a particular charm, the bodies being buried above-ground. In handsome memorial to the Confederate soldiers, there have been erected gigantic mausoleums, shafts, and columns, monumentally inscribed to the memory of Louisiana’s departed heroes.

Mardi Gras week was ideal in every respect, all the personages of the characters of comedy blended in their primitive originality; “Columbine” flirted with “Harlequin,” while “Ajax” defied the lightning; “Vulcan” shaped harpoons for “Neptune,” and “Falstaff” drank to the health of “Bacchus.” Mountebanks, clowns, and buffoons all joined in the revelry of mirth. The street pageant was a magnificent spectacle; floats garlanded with flowers representing every State in the Union, trades and professions, were led by Rex, the king of the carnival, surmounting the “globe,” and the Queen, the most beautiful Creole lady in New Orleans, riding in a chariot drawn by sixteen cream-colored horses. The array of the Crescent City Jockey Club evoked tremendous applause, all the famous jockeys of the track on favorite mounts participating; “Louisiana Tigers,” and the “Texas Rangers,” sailors from the United States cruiser _New Orleans_, and bands of music from all over the State, joined in completing this gigantic saturnalia, which had, for its gorgeous setting, the Creole “bal-masque,” where New Orleans’ most exclusive society, costumed in Parisian elegance, was seen at its best.

The entire week was one round of jollification, at the close of which my friends Gautrell and Clark left for their homes in Georgia. I remained in New Orleans for four months, when, cases of “yellow-fever” having been reported, I concluded to seek a more congenial clime. Boarding the _Knickerbocker_, of the Cromwell Line, I made a most delightful cruise through the gulf and along the coast to the city of New York.

* * * * *

Three years having elapsed since my departure from the little railway station in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Pennsylvania, for New Orleans, the vicissitudes of destiny found me enjoying the balmy zephyrs and moonlight evenings of the tropics. My career in the navy had taken me into every port of importance on the Asiatic station, and my ship, the _New York_, had recently slipped into the harbor of Manila, and lay anchored off the break-water. Having gone ashore this particular afternoon for the purpose of attending the races at Pasay, I had engaged a “victoria” and with some friends attended the scenes at the track, called at the “Hefting House” overlooking Manila Bay, had dined in the old walled city, and driven to the “Lopez” road-house at Caloocan. The sun had set back of the hills of Olongapo, ere I discharged the cochero on the Plaza de Goiti and entered the Hotel Metropole. “Hello, boys,” said old Maulini, the proprietor; “I am glad to see you, you’re just in time to sample some fresh ice-cold hoff-brau; it just arrived to-day on the _Kronprince_ from Germany.” Drawing the rustic hardwood chairs around the square tables, we sat in the delightful breeze of the electric fans as large fantastic steins of cool hoff-brau were served.

Through the short swinging screen doors of the café could be seen the cosmopolitan procession wending its way on business and pleasure; army and naval officers in “victorias,” Red-Cross nurses natilly attired in pure white lawn, friars in black habit and broad-brimmed hats, mestizos of Chinese, Spanish, and French extraction, East Indian, Malay, and Japanese merchants, and American soldiers, all stalking along the plaza.

“Tell us a good Dutch story, Maulini,” asked one of the boys, as another put in, “Ah, Maulini ain’t Dutch; he’s a French carpet-bagger.” As Maulini was about to take up cudgels in his own defence, there entered the café a bunch of cavalrymen, among whom I instantly recognized my old friend Loomis the cowboy. “Great heavens!” I said, “is this Loomis?” “Well, for the love of the powers that be, Adams, is it possible this is you?” “Yep,” I replied, “this is the fellow you taught how to throw a lariat.” “Where have you been the last three years?” he asked; “the last I heard of you was through Clark and Gautrell; they called to see me at Fort McPherson, and said they had left you in good company in New Orleans; never hearing from you, I had concluded you had cashed in. Come on, fellows, I want you to meet a friend.” Drawing their chairs around our table, it was an “O-be-joyful” gathering that swapped stories as the steins of hoff-brau were replenished. Loomis told the story of our meeting in Washington and the subsequent journey to Atlanta; of how the Third Cavalry had been ordered to the front in the Boxer campaign, where they had seen hard service, at the close of which they were ordered to the province of Ilocas Norte, in northern Luzon, where the duty was also very strenuous. Handing me his discharge, I read:

“ARMY OF THE UNITED STATES.

“_To All Whom It May Concern_:

“Know ye that Harry K. Loomis, First Sergeant of Troop ‘M,’ Third United States Cavalry, who was enlisted at Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, on the 1st day of February, 1899, to serve three years, is hereby honorably discharged from the Army of the United States by reason of expiration of enlistment. Said Harry K. Loomis was born in the city of St. Louis, Mo., and when enlisted was 22¾ years of age, by occupation a cowboy, had blue eyes, dark brown hair, ruddy complexion, 5 feet 11 inches in height.

“Given under my hand at Division Headquarters, Army of the Philippines, Manila, P. I., this 31st day of January, 1902.

“Colonel DODD, “Commanding Third Cavalry.

“Character EXCELLENT. “No objection to his re-enlistment known to exist.”

On the back of this discharge, in red ink, several lines told of the meritorious conduct of this soldier, his unflinching bravery in the face of the enemy in action, his promotion for bravery during the Chinese campaign, and a recommendation for a “certificate of merit.” Some time was spent in the exchange of experiences, and it goes without saying that this event was appropriately celebrated, ending a very unique coincidence.

Loomis, on the arrival of his transport, returned to the United States, and at present, besides being a successful ranchman in Oklahoma, is an intrepid and fearless deputy United States marshal.

IX.

Life Among Hostile Moros in the Jungle of Mindanao

A Trip to the Sulu Archipelago――New Year’s Eve on Board the _Zafiro_――A Royal Bit of a Time in the Cabin of McDonald――Blowing the Siren――New Year’s Dinner at 1.00 A.M.――Isabella de Basilan――Prang Prang――Dancing Girls of the Nippa Villages――Roasted Grasshoppers――Outpost Duty――Nearly Converted to the Darwinian Theory――Experience with a Boa Constrictor while Hunting Wild-Boar――Rescued from Hostile Moros――Relief of the Outpost.

Two men were caught in a Moro trap, and the Datto’s guns sang near, And one wore an officer’s shoulder-strap, the other a private’s gear; One was a black of the Twenty-fourth, and one was a Southern man, And both were caught in a dark defile by the line of the Moro clan.

Oh, wonder it is, and pity it is, that they send the scouts alone To die in the silent jungle paths with never a word or groan; Wonder it is, and pity it is, but the two stood back to back, And never a word between them passed as they waited the first attack.

What prayers they said they said them low, and to their beating hearts That thumped so loud and out of tune; and now the battle starts. A ring of flame about them ran; a tongue of fire shot through; Then as machines their muscles moved and aimed their rifles true.

The bullets whined, the wounded shrieked, the rifle bores grew hot; But still the two stood back to back, and answered shot for shot. And now the Moro fire dies down, and now there comes a hush; And white and black, with bayonets fixed, await the bolo rush.

They heard the Moro chief call out, “Oh, black man, hark to me! You give to us the Christian dog and you shall go out free. Heed you the call of color and blood――what need we longer fight? In color and blood you’re brother to me. Oh, black man, give the white.”

Now, one was a white of the Southern breed, and cheap he held the black, And little he’d thought, as the two had fought, of the man behind his back; He loved to live as the white man lives, but the Datto’s words rang true; And he had no doubt, as the chief called out, what the black behind would do.

Two men they stood them back to back, and never a word they said; But, face to face with an easy death, what thoughts were in each head! “You go,” the white man spoke at last; “for you owe naught to me; You go; for I can die alone, that you may go out free;

“You go; it seems your time has come to draw the color line; You and your breed owe naught to me, nor certainly to mine. I’ll go to death as my fathers went”――between his cold set lips―― “My fathers who used to use your kind for trade――and poker-chips.”