Part 8

One was a black of the Twenty-fourth, and his face was washed with fear, And his breath came quick, and his bowels were sick, as he thought of the knife-blades near. Then steady his hand swung to his belt, and back to the bolt again, And he loaded and fired, as a well-drilled man, and counted his dead to ten.

And, “Man,” he said, “in ole Kaintuck a mammy she prays foh me; An’ Ah laks to lib lak yo’ laks to lib, but ouah end it am plain to see. Ouah colah an’ blood it ain’t de same, but we sets to de same old boahd, An’ if we diffah in skin an’ blood, w’y, we pass dat up to de Lawd.

“Ouah colah an’ blood it ain’t de same, but de flag dat covahs us bofe―― It nevah has changed on de colah line, an’ dey didn’t colah ouah oafe; Yo’ go yo’ route to de gates o’ Gawd an’ I shell trabel mine―― An’ we shell see, when we reach His knee, how He’s drawin’ de colah line.

“Doan’ fink Ah’m fightin’ foh de lub o’ yo’ or de breed that yo’ laks to brag―― Ah’m fightin’ foh mammy in ole Kaintuck, an’ lub o’ mah kentry’s flag; Yo’ watch dem niggahs along yo’ front, an’ Ah’ll attend to mine, An’ we’ll go up to de Gates o’ Gawd to settle de colah line.”

Two men they stood them back to back, and the white man called to the chief: “He’s answered the call of the color line, and his answer will bring you grief. We don’t declare as brothers-in-blood, or the burden of friendship drag, But we do unite on a color line, and our color’s our country’s flag.”

Two men lay dead in the jungle path, and their faces stared at the sky; And out in the bush on each man’s front the Moros were piled waist high. And when the warriors they went in to mutilate the dead. They found them lying back to back, but white and black were red!

“How strange it is,” the chief he cried, “these men should together go; They did not love each other’s kind――in blood they differed so. For one was black and one was white, and yet they chose to die Because they served a single flag; in honor they shall lie.

“What gods they worshipped I know not――what gods I do not care―― They fought me well, and for their flag, and they shall have a prayer. For be he white, or be he black, his flag be what it may―― All honor to him who dies for that――my men, kneel down and pray.”

Two mounds they stand in a jungle path; they buried them back to back; And the wondering Moros tell the tale of the white man and the black. Oh, the warlike Moros pass that way to kneel in silent prayer, And ask their gods for the spirit of the men they buried there!

The Island of Mindanao, which lies about six hundred miles south of Manila, bordering on the Sulu Archipelago, was highly esteemed by marines in 1903 as an ideal place to soldier, notwithstanding the fact that the natives were extremely hostile, and it was of common occurrence to hear of a sentry being treacherously boloed or speared while walking his post in the jungle.

Having yearned for active service for several weeks while stationed at Fort San Philippi, Cavite, the spell of anxiety was broken one day when orders were received detailing three marines to proceed by the first available transportation to Prang Prang, Mindanao, to replace those who had suffered the fate of many other soldiers and marines at the hands of the barbarous natives. Having made application for this post in Mindanao, I received orders to report on board the _Zafiro_, one of Admiral Dewey’s old colliers at the battle of Manila Bay.

On reporting to the executive officer of the vessel, I was assigned to quarters, and, after unbuckling my accoutrements and placing them safely away, I met Corporal Bates and Drummer Vogt, from another company, who were also detailed on a southern trip,――Bates to Isabella de Basilan, a post on the Island of Basilan, and Vogt to the post where I was bound for.

It was New Year’s eve, December 31, 1902, and, as the ship was under orders to sail at 9 P.M., we decided to hurry ashore, purchase a basket of edibles, drinkables, cigars, and playing cards, that we might see the old year out and the new year in, in true military fashion. Jumping into a launch we were taken ashore, and, after laying in a supply, hastened back to the ship.

Having returned on board this historic old collier, which had been converted into a supply-ship manned by a Chinese crew, we reported to the “skipper” who was responsible for our safe delivery at the destinations designated in our orders.

The chief engineer, McDonald, a typical Scotch-Highlander, whose birthplace was in Ayr, Scotland, but who had lived most of his life in Australia, was glad to have company this New Year’s eve and greeted us with that fervor so characteristic of his race. We were introduced to First Mate Meigs and Quartermaster Nolan. Meigs had held a lieutenant’s commission in the Brazilian navy during the revolution, while Nolan had served under General Kitchener in the Soudan.

The Chinese crew of the _Zafiro_ were thorough sailors to a man, from the “chink” who handled the wheel down to the fellows who passed the coal.

At two bells (9 o’clock) anchors were weighed, and the splash of the propellers made it evident that we were under way. Chinese could be seen at their various posts of duty, in that semi-unconscious custom so perceptible in this class of people, whether steering a craft or ironing the bosom of a shirt.

As the ship passed through the Mona Chica, the gateway between the China Sea and Manila Bay, we could see, off to starboard, the lights on Corregidor Island, which faded from view as our vessel steamed into the darkness of the China Sea.

As the ship cruised along the coast of Luzon, Chinese off duty could be seen engaged in playing Fan Tan, some pleating their cues, while others stored away potions of chop-suey.

In the cabin of McDonald, Vogt picked a banjo, while Bates and myself sang songs such as, “There’s a red light on the track for boozer Brown” and “Oh, Mona, you shall be free.” Stories of adventure were told by Meigs and Nolan, and Chief McDonald recited poem after poem of the great poet Burns.

On the dawn of the new year 1903, the siren was blown, and the bell struck 19 and 3, after which the entire contingent surrounded a table laden with turkey and all the accessories of a new year’s dinner, including Scotch high-balls and Manila cigars, and a more enjoyable new year’s dinner or breakfast I never expect to experience. The songs varied from the “Bonnie, Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond” to “The Wearing of the Green,” interspersed with stories of love, war, and adventure, and I doubt if we marines could have been entertained with more satisfaction in the most exclusive suite of the _Lusitania_ than we were this night in the cabin of McDonald on the _Zafiro_.

After cruising for two days along the verdant shore of Luzon, we entered the picturesque harbor of Isabella de Basilan, a Filipino village situated along the water’s edge surrounded by banana and cocoanut groves. Quaint-looking fishermen, adepts at throwing the seine, were scattered over the bay, while a motley crowd of native women were engaged in pounding calico with smooth stones, their mode of cleansing.

Barracks on the edge of the town contained a company of marines; among these I found a number of whom I knew. After unloading provisions and other stores, and leaving Corporal Bates behind, our ship steamed on her voyage to Polloc, the name of the village where the garrison was located. Having a cargo of freight on board for Zamboanga, the capital of Mindanao, we touched this harbor just long enough to dispose of it, and continued our cruise, steaming south along a mountainous range studded with extinct volcanoes, and ere long had moored to the wharf at Polloc in the bay of Prang Prang. Here we were met by seventy marines, all anxious to hear the news from the outside world, as mail was received here but twice a month.

Although isolated, Polloc was an ideal post, a health-giving resort with excellent water and trees teeming with tropical fruit. Game, such as wild boar, deer, and wild cattle, roamed at will throughout the island. The Moros of this island kept “Uncle Sam’s” soldiers guessing for several years, until finally subdued through the efforts of General Wood. Unlike the Filipino, the Moro is a brave warrior, preferring the open to jungle fighting. The Moros handle the spear, barong, and kreese with great skill, and, when not engaged in a game of monte, may be seen practising with these weapons of warfare.

The nights in this island of the Celebes Sea commence immediately at sundown, there being no twilight; a calm serenity pervades the barrios after the shades of night have fallen, when natives gather under the drooping palms surrounding the nippa-shacks, around which the graceful coils of smoke ascend from a smudge kept burning to check the advance of the ever-annoying mosquito. Here, to the accompaniment of harp and guitar, the Filipino inhabitants (for there are many of these in Mindanao) sing quaint songs in the Tagalog or Visayan tongue. Dancing girls, bearing such names as Oleano, Agripina, Donaziti, and Juana, perform the “Fandango” with bewitching contortions, gracefully tapping a tambourine and snapping the castanets to the music of the “La Paloma.” The village is dimly lighted by cocoanut oil, kerosene being a rarity in this section of the world. At such places we marines off duty gathered nightly, where, over a bottle of dulce tinto and box of alhambras, we spun yarns of our adventures, occasionally joining the señoritas in their late carousals, to the delight of the friendly Moros who inhabited the village.

The Moros had become quite hostile in the Lake region, and a battle had been fought near what is now Camp Vicars on Lake Lanao, with dire results to the enemy; this had exercised every native warrior on the island to such an extent that it became necessary for the marines to re-establish an outpost overlooking the bay and the Amadao Valley. Having volunteered for this particular duty, we were ordered (one sergeant, two corporals, and ten privates) to pack everything of necessity pertaining to field-service on ponies and proceed to our destination.

With a string of pack ponies, two Colt automatic and one machine gun, we set out for the site of the outpost amid deafening cheers from the garrison. We reached the knoll of a hill, a splendid point of vantage, seven miles distant from the town, from which we could view the entire surrounding country; here stood an old Spanish blockhouse, from which we flew “Old Glory,” and, after policing the ground, pitched tents, mounted the guns, posted a sentry, and were ready for action. The following day we were connected by telephone with the garrison and had cut the underbrush away from the knoll of the hill on which we were stationed.

The only break in the monotony of several months of this life would occur when a detail, sent into the garrison for rations, would return, bringing us mail from the outside world and news from the company in quarters.

Game abounded plentifully in this section of the island, and at night the weird grunt of a wild boar and the bark of a deer could be heard in the near-by jungle. Large vampires, darting overhead like phantom aeroplanes, were numerous here as in other islands of the Philippines.

Moros approaching the outpost were compelled to leave their side-arms in the jungle. Quite a number desired to be friendly with the Americans; these were traders. They would bring in chickens, eggs, fruit, wild-fowl, venison, fish, roasted grasshoppers, and tuber. Eggs containing chickens, as in other parts of Mindanao and northern Luzon, were more valuable than fresh eggs. Tuber is a native beverage taken from the cocoanut tree, and has all the exhilarating effects of “Dry Monopole.”

Thousands of monkeys infested the jungle surrounding the camp. On one occasion while returning from a boar hunt, something happened which nearly converted me to the Darwinian theory. Near the edge of a coffee plantation I spied a number of monkeys in a mango tree; raising my rifle I fired, dropping a monkey. The animal, merely wounded, came running toward me, bleeding from the chest and uttering a pitiful cry, then, leaning against a tree, placed its hands over the wound and, with a most pitiful and appealing expression, gazed up at me in tearful agony, as much as to say, “What the devil did I do to you?” I ended its suffering, and resolved never to shoot another monkey.

While hunting wild-boar in company with Weismantle, a member of the detachment, we had come across a “wallow” in a ravine near the Rio Grande River. Weismantle, being an experienced huntsman, could tell that the “wallow” had recently been frequented by hogs; he said, “You take a position about forty feet on one side of the ravine, and I’ll be on the opposite side; sit perfectly quiet, don’t even smoke, as the boar is sure to return.” Following his directions to the letter, I sought the shade of a large grape-fruit tree, where, seated on a log with a bramble-bush blind, I awaited the arrival of the game.

In deep meditation I had sat with my rifle cocked for perhaps forty minutes, eagerly awaiting the shadow of a pig, and was beginning to get restless, when hark! a dull thud on the ground attracted my attention to a guava tree near by, where I saw, hanging from and partly wrapped around a low limb, an immense boa constrictor. For a moment I was hypnotized; the snake’s head was hidden by the underbrush, and in fact it was impossible to see either end of the monster; I could merely see the coils wrapped around the limb and hanging from the tree. To say that the sight of a boa constrictor excited horror in my mind is putting it mildly, for, being unable to see its head, it would have been folly to shoot with a rifle; furthermore, I imagined I was in a den of these powerful life-crushers; every moment I expected to feel myself enwrapped in the monster’s coils, and for this emergency I had drawn my knife. Another twist of this snake, and I was hitting the high places only; I leaped through the tall grass like an Igorrote head-hunter, and now, to add to my mental discomfiture, I ran on to a wild-boar, which gave a most unearthly squeal; this, followed by the report of Weismantle’s rifle, made it seem as though all the demons of hell had been turned loose. After regaining my composure, I tracked the boar by drops of blood for several hundred yards, where we found it in time to bleed it properly. When I told the marine the experience I had had, he wanted to return, but I refused to point in the direction, so the trip was postponed. After tying the feet of our game together, we cut a long bamboo pole, on which we packed it into the outpost, where it was roasted on a spit.

Chess, pinocle, whist, and poker were popular games in the camp, as they are in all quarters of the army and navy, and in this way many pleasant hours were spent when off duty.

The migration of locusts on the Island of Mindanao is a novel sight; approaching in the distance, they appear like a large black cloud, the forerunner of a tornado; millions upon millions of these jumping insects, totally eclipsing the sun, continue on their flight for hours, leaving leafless trees and devastated fields in the train of their route.

A great character at the outpost was Corporal Jim Iddles, a Scotchman, and a great friend of mine. Jim had a keen appetite for tuber, and, growing weary of the simple life, approached me one morning with the suggestion that we take a hike to a near-by “barrio” in quest of some native sangaree. The nearest barrio was Mongahon, seven miles distant, so, slipping on our belts, with six-shooters and rifles, we hit the trail over the mountains, informing Sergeant McKenzie, who was in charge of the outpost, that we were going a short distance in the jungle to shoot a deer.

On our arrival at Mongahon, we found the village deserted, with no natives to climb the cocoanut trees, and, as tuber is tapped at the top of the tree, we were out of luck, as an American cannot climb these trees owing to the millions of red ants that infest them. The nearest village from this point was Amadao, in the Amadao Valley, on the Rio Grande River eight miles distant. At this juncture it was decided to toss a coin, head for Amadao, tail for the outpost. As the coin was tossed on the “heads I win, tails you lose” system, it was not long before we were beating the trail, with the valley of the Rio Grande for our destination. The tribes in this section of the island had been very hostile, and a battle had been waged near Amadao some months previous; but, as we had been dealing with traders from this valley, we decided to keep on the alert until we found these, whom we knew would represent us as being amigo Americanos.

As we drew near the “barrio,” we noticed Moros here and there withdrawing from the fields toward their casas or shacks, evidently apprehensive of impending danger, as a Moro, on seeing two or three soldiers within their territory, infers at once that they are an advance guard of a larger body. Many Moros, in addition to their own lingo, speak a mixture of Spanish and Visayan, so that with this help we were able to trace our traders. Resting at a shack in a large cocoanut grove while an apparently friendly native went in search for a trader, we were soon greeted by old “Montone,” a native warrior, but friendly to the Americans. Montone had a complexion as black as the ace of spades, and was reputed to have been a formidable pirate in his palmy days, operating along the coast of the Celebes Sea. He bore evidence of this reputation by the valuable ornaments he possessed; on his wrist he wore a jade bracelet, above each elbow a bracelet of solid gold, while two massive rings hung from his ears; his kreese was priceless, containing pearls and other precious gems, the blade being inlaid with gold, while surmounting the hilt was a solid gold helmet. Besides, he was tattooed from his shoulders to his wrists; truly he was “the king of the cocoanut grove,” and, while not a “Datto,” had all the authority and appearance of one.

Montone at once sent a native for a stick of tuber (a bamboo cylinder holding three quarts). Tuber is a cool tropical beverage, the sap of the cocoanut tree, which can only be drawn by tapping the top of the tree. It has a sharp sweet taste and, like champagne, its effects are lasting. After finishing the first order we sent for more. I believe we were on the fourth order when the Scotchman endeavored to entertain an imaginary audience, and the last I remember of him before a profound slumber claimed me, he was standing on a stone pile singing, “Green grow the rushes O, Green grow the rushes O,” et cetera, to an imaginary audience of about twenty thousand, it seemed to me.

Dawn was breaking when I awoke, I knew not where; my first thought was of my six-shooter; it was gone; my rifle, belt, and ammunition were gone, and several moments were spent in conjecture as to the reality of my personal existence. I tried to think, but all seemed blank; I had reached the abysm of oblivion, when I recalled that last song of my partner Jim, the tuber, and alas! the sequence mysteriously puzzled my brain. Had I been sleeping like Rip Van Winkle in the Catskills? or was it the hallucination of a dream, that would vanish with the awakening? I was soaking wet. Quietly crawling to an aperture through which the rays of a moon-beam shone, I discovered that I was in a nippa-shack on the brink of a ravine. Suddenly I heard deep breathing. Quietly tiptoeing in the direction of the sound, I saw in another compartment several natives scattered about in peaceful slumber. Satisfying myself that they were Filipinos and not Moros, I awakened one of the men, who arose, exclaiming, “Ah! amigo Americano, mucho bueno grande hombre.” Fortunately, this Filipino was a friendly native who had formerly been employed by the provost in the town of Polloc.

He informed me that he was _en route_ from Cota Bato (a small shipping port), where he had taken a shipment of hemp, and, passing through the village of Amadao, had seen me in the company of hostile Moros, and had invited me to ride on the back of his caribou to his casa. In fording the Rio Grande River, the animal had stumbled, throwing us into the stream, and this accounted for the wet condition I was in.

On making inquiries about my rifle, the native went to the adjoining room, returning with my six-shooter, rifle, and belt. Both weapons I had made useless by taking the drum and pin from the revolver and the bolt from the rifle, a custom a soldier is taught early in his military career, for cases of emergency.

When I inquired about my partner Jim, the Filipino said that I was the only white man he had seen in the valley, but that, at about midnight, he had heard rifle volleys in various directions. Here I concluded that the garrison had been turned out in quest of the two missing marines, and the shots had been fired with the hope of getting an answer.

By this time the other members of the household had awakened, and, after being served with hot black coffee, I was directed to follow the trail along the Rio Grande River, which led through tall grass and bramble.

As I hiked along the lonely trail, my thoughts were centred on my friend Jim Iddles. I could imagine his lifeless form lying cold in abhorrent demise, and conjectured how if alive we were to escape the punishment of a general court-martial. After many miles of tiresome travel, I was hailed from a branch trail by a friendly Moro, a dwarf of the mountains, whose abode was in the village of Panay and who frequently visited the outpost, selling produce and game. This diminutive spirit of the forest, who reminded me of the elves in Irving’s Rip Van Winkle, aimed straight for me, cutting his way through the jungle with his kreese. He greeted me with the customary “Amigo Americano,” and informed me that he had been sent out in search of me by the commanding officer of marines at Polloc. Leading the way, I followed him in single file along the trail through banana groves and jungle where parrots and monkeys were numerous. After a weary hike, I spied “Old Glory” waving in the breeze from the old Spanish blockhouse at the outpost; as we drew near, I could see the soldiers gazing intently in my direction; the sentry had spied us and aroused the camp. After a cheer and a hearty handshake from the boys, my mental agitation was relieved when informed that Iddles had been found in Amadao about midnight, by a detachment that had been sent out from the garrison.

Iddles was found asleep in a Moro shack, in front of which patrolled a Moro sentry carrying Jim’s rifle, belt, and six-shooter.

After relating part of my adventure to the boys, the garrison was informed of my safety, and in a few hours the commandant and captain of marines were on the scene to ascertain the facts connected with our absence. Meanwhile both Jim and myself, looking the worse for wear, policed ourselves to a high degree of soldierly immaculateness, and after a confab it was decided that I should act as spokesman on the arrival of the officers.

The story we framed was this: that, having followed the bark of a deer for a considerable distance in the jungle, we lost our bearings (“lost our bearings” was good!), and, differing in opinion as to the direction of the camp, we were each directed by the influence of our respective opinions, resulting in both getting lost. The circumstances in connection with the finding of James had been withheld from the officers; while my experience had been only partly related to the men, they having heard that I departed from the valley mounted on a caribou driven by a Filipino.