he sidestepped to avoid the heavy Filipino blade, his foot slipped
and he nearly fell. The weapon missed his head but inflicted a severe
wound upon his right shoulder, crippling for the moment his sword arm.
Feeling himself growing faint, he soon determined to mix matters with
his opponent who, after missing his stroke, had sprung back preparatory
to another rush. As the Filipino closed in with a vicious sweep at
his enemy’s head, Johnny transferred his knife to his left hand and
suddenly ducked under the descending blade squarely into the arms of
the Filipino, who instinctively grappled with him, and forever lost the
opportunity of using his own weapon. One short-arm swing of the bowie
and the Filipino, cut through the chest, hung limp in the soldier’s
arms. The weight of his foe bore Johnny to the ground, where he lost
consciousness, the two combatants lying locked together like two wild
beasts that had fought each other to the death.
All through the night the two men lay motionless upon the ground,
to all appearances lifeless. Meanwhile a storm blew up and just as
the morning dawned the rain fell in torrents. Johnny had merely
fainted from loss of blood, and the cool raindrops beating upon his
face revived him. At first, as he became conscious, he had no clear
conception of where he was or of what had happened. He had a hazy
recollection of a struggle, but not the slightest notion of what it
was all about nor with whom or how many he had fought. As his mind
gradually recovered itself, however, he remembered all the details of
the battle in which, as he now discovered, he had been victorious.
Disengaging himself from the body of his late antagonist, he rolled and
crawled away a little distance, and finally sat up and looked about the
arena in which they had battled.
The Filipino who had first attacked the soldier lay a little distance
away, stark dead. The other, however, was still living. As Johnny
looked in his direction the body moved unmistakably with a slight
convulsive movement of the chest, and a faint groan escaped the lips.
“Hello,” said Johnny, “my friend over there seems pretty lively for a
corpse. Sorry I didn’t cut just right. I’d have saved Uncle Sam and
Sergeant Blank a lot o’ trouble. I s’pose I’d orter fix the d--d cuss
up, story book style, but charity begins at home, and it’s me for first
crack at the aid package.”
With this the sergeant proceeded to take account of stock. After a
careful survey of his wounds, he dressed and bandaged them as best
he could, and took a bracer from the whiskey flask, with which the
haversack of the army scout who knows his business is always supplied.
He followed the stimulant with a meagre breakfast from his rations.
It was not long before Johnny was strong enough to get upon his
feet. The first thing he did was to inspect the wounded Filipino. To
facilitate matters he kneeled beside the fellow and rolled him over
upon his back. As he glanced at the cruel, savage face, it seemed
strangely familiar. Looking at the face more critically, as suspicion
of the identity of his fallen foe entered his mind, he brushed back
the mat of coarse hair that covered the Filipino’s forehead. There,
running transversely across the brow, close to the tangled hair, was
a livid, jagged scar of an old time sword stroke. Forgetting his
own wounds he sprang to his feet in amazed delight and exclaimed,
“Agramonte, or I’m an Indian!”
The Filipino was evidently recovering consciousness. He too, had
suffered from a severe loss of blood. Johnny examined his enemy’s
wound and found that the blood had clotted and was no longer flowing.
He applied a compress and bandage and gave the wounded man a swig of
whiskey, with the result that he soon revived sufficiently to recognize
his surroundings. If he remembered the encounter that had been so
unlucky for him he made no sign. As soon as he became conscious, he
ceased groaning and made no sound thereafter. He lay as stolidly as a
manikin, his beady black eyes watching every move the soldier made.
Noting that his patient was rounding up nicely, and fearing that he
might cry for assistance, Johnny proceeded to make the situation clear
to the Filipino. Not daring to use fire arms for fear of bringing
a swarm of brown bellies about his ears, he had not yet drawn a
revolver. He did so now, however, although with as little intention of
using it as ever. Leveling the navy at the wounded man’s head he said:
“I don’t know whether you savvy my language or not, Mr. Agramonte, but
I reckon you can savvy sign language all right. You saved me a lot o’
trouble when you an’ your partner did the wild cat act on my back. I
was sure lookin’ for you, but I didn’t expect to come up with you quite
so immediate. Seein’ as how you saved me so much trouble, I’ll give you
a tip that’ll save you some. If you open your yap, even to whisper,
I’ll scatter your brains all over the province. I’ve got a pressin’
engagement to take you to headquarters, and this is a mighty good place
to start from. It’s just about time to mosey, too, for some of your
friends is likely to rubber down here to see what’s doin’.”
Agramonte evidently “savvied,” but he contented himself with glaring at
his conqueror as some captive savage beast might have done. It required
little discernment to guess what he would have done to the Americano,
had their respective positions been reversed.
Still menacing the Filipino with the revolver, Johnny compelled him to
struggle to his feet as best he could. Unwinding his lariat he put the
noose about his captive’s neck. Thinking evidently that he was about to
be hanged and thus receive poetic justice, Agramonte would have cried
out, had not his captor suddenly tugged at the lasso, thus choking the
sound of alarm in his brown throat. The strangling process was quite
effective, and when the noose was loosened the prisoner was as docile
as could have been desired.
Leaving some six feet of rope between himself and his captive, the
sergeant, after adjusting the noose, wound the other end of the lariat
about his own body. This done, he said, “Now, Mr. Filipino, you can’t
lose me, and if you don’t object we’ll take a little stroll together.
Just to be perlite I’ll let you go first, so just mosey right along an’
don’t look back or make any noise. If you bat your eye in a way I don’t
like, away’ll go your brains to fertilize the Island of Luzon. It’s us
for the river, so skip along, an’ make it lively.”
But making it lively was easier said than done. Neither the prisoner
nor the captive was in condition to travel rapidly, and the mere
effort of clambering down the river bank was almost the limit of their
endurance. But Johnny shut his teeth together like the bars of a
steel trap, and pushing the tottering Filipino roughly into the water,
waded slowly after him, retracing the same route he had traversed in
crossing the river. In their exhausted condition it was not easy for
the men to maintain their footing. Agramonte’s feet slipped from under
him several times, bringing him face downward on the sand and rocks of
the river bed. The soldier, although himself in little better form than
his prisoner, by a supreme effort raised the latter to his feet and
relentlessly urged him on. The island reached, the two fell exhausted.
As the soldier and his prisoner lay panting upon the ground it seemed
to Johnny that rest was the only thing worth living for. He did not
dare gratify his inclination in that direction, however. The body of
the dead Filipino was likely to be found at any moment, for it was
probable that he had been on picket duty, and if so, a relief would
probably be sent to that point before long. Pursuit once begun, escape
would be well nigh impossible. Should he be captured the soldier knew
only too well what would happen. Another ghastly token of Agramonte’s
affection would be sent to the American camp.
Staggering to his feet, Johnny fairly dragged his prisoner to a
standing posture. He compelled the Filipino to take several swallows of
the whiskey, drank a stiff one himself, and driving Agramonte before
him continued on his way around the edge of the island. When they
arrived at the opposite side, the Filipino, gazing terror stricken at
the swift current in mid-stream, stopped short and shook his head in
feeble protest against entering the water.
“It does look middlin’ dubious, that’s a fact, an’ it’s goin’ to be a
close call, but we’ve got to make it,” said Johnny. “I promised the
Captain that I’d land you at the door of his tent, and land you I will.
He’d be glad to have your head to even up for poor Jack Kennedy’s, but
it’ll please him better if I deliver your ugly carcass to him whole. In
with you, d--n you, and no monkey business or I’ll”--and Johnny cocked
his revolver, which clicked suggestively.
The Filipino slipped into the water and would have gone down post
haste, had not the soldier supported him by his tangle of coarse hair.
And then began the supreme struggle. Many times as he battled with the
current did Johnny regret that he had not decapitated Agramonte and
taken his head into camp. But once in the swift running water he would
not weaken, nor would he let go of his prisoner. He resolved that if
Agramonte went down, he would drown with him, rather than return to the
captain empty handed. Twice the two struggling men were swept under,
but thanks to Johnny’s bull dog grit rose again. They were swimming
diagonally against the current, and it was almost miraculous that both
men were not drowned. Had the middle channel been a few yards wider,
they certainly would never have lived to reach the next island.
But reach the island they did, and with a desperate effort Johnny
pulled himself upon dry land, dragging his half dead charge after him.
After a somewhat longer rest than before, the two again entered the
water, and with great difficulty waded to shore on the opposite side
of the Batolan. Once the awful strain of crossing the river was over,
there was no longer any choice in the matter of resting; both men fell
exhausted; Johnny had barely strength enough left to crawl into the
brake out of the range of vision of possible stray Filipinos and pull
his half dead captive after him.
The sun was well up in the heavens and beating mercilessly down upon
captor and captive before Johnny was able to move. He finally managed
to get upon his feet again and decided to take a fresh start toward the
camp. It seemed safer to take the chance of meeting hostile natives in
the jungle in broad daylight, than to remain until nightfall and then
run the risk of being found by a searching party of the enemy. The
Filipino, however, was unable to rise. He was wounded no more severely
than his captor, and surely should have been no worse affected by the
fatigue of his journey, but he was a prisoner, and lacked the spirit
of a victor, and, like most children of the tropics, he had not the
physical nor moral fibre of which strenuous heroes are made. He was
certainly “all in,” much to our soldier’s dismay. Urging and threats
alike were without avail, and when dragged to his feet the renegade
fell to the ground again as limp as a rag. Knowing that camp was but a
few hours distant, Johnny’s disgust at the situation was most violent,
and he swore in salvos.
“You d--d cut-throat, you’re more trouble than your miserable neck
is worth! You might have been game enough to stick to the finish. But
you wasn’t, so there you are, an’ I reckon it’s up to me to get you to
camp the best way I can. Come, Aggie, old boy, an’ rest on this bosom;”
saying which, the soldier helped the Filipino to his feet once more,
and half carrying, half dragging the almost helpless man, struck out
through the brake.
The will is a wonderful thing;--it conquers worlds,--but no man’s
will is so strong that extreme physical weakness will not defeat it.
Johnny’s nerve was impregnable, but wounded and fatigued as he was,
his physical strength could not withstand the additional strain put
upon it by the endeavor to assist the Filipino through the jungle.
Then too, his wounds had become inflamed and very painful. He felt
alternately hot and cold, and finally had a chill that fairly made his
teeth rattle. This was followed by a tremendous fever. The poor fellow
felt as though he were on fire. Things began to look queer. From time
to time he fancied he saw fantastic shapes amid the brake. Sometimes
huge, fiercely snarling animals seemed to brush by him. Again, a
Filipino, twice as large as life, leered at him from behind every bush
and tree. Once he fancied he saw the huge serpent that had flailed
his chest the night he spent in traversing the jungle. Its horrid
mouth yawned widely, and he heard it calling in a hoarse roaring voice
the multitudinous folk of the jungle. And the soldier knew that the
delirium of wound fever was upon him, and feared lest he should lose
his senses altogether.
Bad as was his captor’s condition, the Filipino’s was much worse. When
nature could stand no more, and Johnny was finally compelled to drop
the renegade, it was evident that the latter’s end was in sight. A
few drops of whiskey poured down his throat revived him for a brief
period, but it was hate’s labor lost, for within the hour Agramonte
gave a faint expiring sigh and joined the shades of his brown skinned
ancestors.
Johnny had fallen exhausted beside the body of his captive and
supporting himself on his elbow had watched, in his lucid intervals,
the passing of his chances of delivering the living Agramonte to
Captain Benning. The Filipino dead, there was but one thing to be done.
The gathering of evidence was as simple as it was gruesome; he drew
his knife and decapitated the body, making in his weakened condition,
it must be confessed, rather a “hacky,” tearing job of it. The head
removed and tied by its long hair to his belt, Johnny rose to his feet
and totteringly resumed his journey toward camp.
As our soldier uncertainly blundered on through the brake, his fever
rose higher and higher and his delirium increased. There were no
longer any lucid intervals, and the direction of his steps was largely
a matter of chance. Good luck, rather than volition guided him, but
while his course was the proper one, luck was not always with him.
Several times his feet became entangled in the undergrowth and he fell
heavily. Again, as he struggled to his feet and stumbled blindly on, he
crashed against a tree so violently that only the fictitious strength
of delirium prevented his being incapacitated from further effort.
But every step was bring him nearer his comrades, and nearer the
fulfillment of the promise which no longer meant anything to him, poor
boy.
* * * * *
The evening relief of sentries had just been made by Company K. The sun
had dropped his huge glowing ball of molten copper behind the hills to
the west of Masillo. The waning light was playing hide and seek with
the flickering, erratic shadows of wood and brake. At the edge of the
little clearing just outside the town stood a khaki clad sentry. He
was leaning upon his rifle and gazing abstractedly into the jungle,
thinking, perhaps, of that rancher’s daughter in far-away Montana.
As he stood there musing, his attention was suddenly attracted by a
rustling sound amid the undergrowth some distance away. He instantly
brought his gun to a ready, and peered excitedly into the jungle. The
sound grew plainer.
“Halt! Who goes there?”
A shape as of a man creeping stealthily along through the brake upon
his hands and knees became dimly discernible. Again the sentry’s voice
rang out.
“Halt, or I fire!”
The shape, now plainly that of a man, crept nearer and still nearer.
The Krag cracked like a huge whip, a thin, filmy cloud of smoke arose
from the nitro, and the creeping form in the brake fell forward upon
its face without a sound.
“Corporal of the guard, post seven!” shouted the sentry.
The regulation call was unnecessary for, immediately the rifle cracked,
a squad of the sentry’s comrades with the corporal at their head rushed
to the spot.
“I’ve bagged a brown belly, I think,” said the sentry, waving his hand
in the direction of the spot where his quarry had fallen.
The corporal, followed by his men, cautiously approached the spot
indicated by the sentry. A few minutes search in the cane and they came
upon a body clothed in tattered khaki. Hanging from the belt at the
dead man’s side, was the recently decapitated head of a Filipino.
The startled corporal turned the body over upon its back. He gave one
horrified glance of recognition at the dead man’s face and exclaimed,
“My God! It’s Johnny!”
Tenderly the men in khaki raised the limp form of their fallen comrade
and silently bore it past the horror stricken sentry into the camp.
Halting before the captain’s tent, they laid the body down and covered
it reverently with a blanket.
The corporal approached the door of the tent and addressing his
commander, said sorrowfully, his eyes wet with tears, “Sir, Johnny has
returned.”
Captain Benning sprang to his feet and exclaimed, “Where is he; why
does he not report?”
“He is here, sir,” replied the corporal. The captain went to the door
of the tent, and not seeing Johnny, looked at the corporal inquiringly.
The corporal pointed to the body lying almost at the officer’s feet and
said, “That’s him, sir.”
The captain raised the blanket, and gazed long and silently at the dead
soldier and the gory testimonial of duty performed that lay beside him.
The silence was finally broken by the corporal, who said, as his hand
rose slowly in salute--
“Sir, Johnny has made good.”
And the captain replied, huskily:
“Yes, boys, too good.”
MY FRIEND THE UNDERTAKER
I have become quite convinced that the most entertaining man in the
world is the undertaker. Now, I do not pretend to say that there is
anything original about my observations. Others have in all probability
frequently commented on his peculiarities--but I nevertheless feel that
it is my duty to give him a little attention in order to repay him, at
least in part, for the many favors received at his hands.
Let it be understood that I am no more indebted to the “post-medical
profession” than are many other physicians, but I am peculiar in that
I always like to express my gratitude to those who have befriended
me--and if there is any office that friendship can perform for us,
equal to concealing one’s mistakes and hiding one’s failures from the
gaze of a carping and cruel world, I don’t know what it is.
[Illustration: “CUSTOM-MADE SORROW”]
Another reason for my determination to devote a little personal
attention to the undertaker is that he is a much maligned and
misunderstood person. He is supposed to be heartless and unfeeling,
and is usually considered austere and unapproachable; some say he has
no generosity.
It shall be my pleasure, as well as my duty, to correct these erroneous
impressions regarding a noble craft that has always taken a lively
interest in its patrons--an interest that has never been reciprocated
by those most benefited by the undertaker’s labors.
There may be captious critics who will differ with my belief that the
undertaker is the most entertaining man in the world, on the ground
that those whom he entertains never give him any _encores_. This is
very easily explained. There are no gallery gods at his entertainments,
and the people in the boxes are never demonstrative. They are
people of taste and discretion, and rather reserved and sedate than
otherwise;--knowing when they have had enough of a good thing, they do
not attempt to recall the artist. Unquestionably, the chief patrons of
the undertaker are people of refined susceptibilities and not given
to demonstration. Even when a clod is rung in upon the boards, they
give no sign of anything but courteous and silent attention--although
the nerves of others in the audience may be fairly set on edge. It is
hardly necessary to expatiate further on my first proposition.
The austerity of the undertaker is more apparent than real, and is the
result of association rather than innate acerbity of feeling. Even
when he is iciest and most frigid in his ways it is for the benefit of
others. By such a demeanor he enables his patrons to maintain their
composure even under circumstances the most trying and in all kinds of
weather. What though he does shroud his real feelings in an atmosphere
of chilling reserve, so long as his heart is warm and true! Were he
less calm and philosophic, he might err on the side of sympathy and ere
long some of his friends would find that they had unconsciously been
placed in a very bad box.
As to his being unapproachable, I believe that the undertaker is
misunderstood. It is true that he does not thrust himself forward in
a pretentious manner--as do some people of inferior breeding--nor has
he ever been known to meet a patron half way, but just let one of your
friends hint that you need his services and see how quickly he will
put in an appearance. And he will not pay you unnecessarily prolonged
visits either, and should you be compelled to entertain him for a
time, he is a quite inexpensive guest--he always furnishes his own
board. He is even likely to be offended if you force your hospitality
upon him. One of my friends once made this mistake, and the undertaker
gave him a great laying out, I assure you.
We mustn’t be too hard upon the undertaker, then, even though he is a
trifle stiff and conventional in his ways. His work furnishes him with
subjects for contemplation which are so serious, and of such monumental
importance, that it is small wonder he should acquire a somewhat
funereal and solemn demeanor.
I have often marveled at the equability of temper displayed by the
undertaker. I never heard of his swearing at, or using rough language
to his patrons. He has such a soothing way with him, too; whenever he
notices that his patron is inclined to get a little hotheaded he does
everything in his power to allay his warmth, knowing full well that
the man will get cooled down after a while. And his judgment is rarely
at fault--the other fellow always does cool down. You see, it’s a poor
quarrel that won’t keep--and the undertaker’s differences with his
patrons are no exception to the rule.
It has always been a source of wonderment to me, that any one could
accuse the undertaker of being heartless and unfeeling. Why, I have
known undertakers who were the acme of tender susceptibility and
delicacy of feeling. One mortuary gentleman whom I knew, had such a
sympathetic vein in his composition that he used to mix lamp black with
his embalming fluid. So considerate and thoughtful of him, was it not?
And shall we say of such men, “They are heartless and unfeeling?” Never!
And what shall we say of the “funeral director” who had buried six
husbands for a lady, and who, knowing how sensitive she was upon the
subject, upholstered her own mortuary receptacle with white satin
marked with six delicate bands of heliotrope? Could any human being
display a finer intuitive perception of the eternal fitness of things?
No, the undertaker is not unsympathetic, and he is delicacy personified.
Let us cultivate the undertaker--he does all he can to cultivate us.
And he is an unselfish cultivator too--he knoweth full well that what
he soweth he cannot reap. Let us cultivate him, therefore, and do our
best to repay him for his kindness to humanity. And we may possibly
profit thereby, for pleasant associations retard the decay of these
mortal frames of ours--the remorseless scythe of time blunts upon those
fortunate mortals who are favored by the kindly offices of the skillful
undertaker. To them we may not inappropriately say, “How well preserved
you are!”
How well, indeed!
It would seem unnecessary to say that the popular notion regarding
the undertaker’s lack of generosity is wrong--the fact should be
self-evident. I feel, however, that my whole duty would not be done,
did I not say that in my opinion the undertaker is one of the most
generous of men. What merchant would ever dismiss a patron without an
endeavor to secure his future patronage? None, I fancy. But not so your
undertaker--he is willing, aye, even anxious, to let somebody else
have his patrons after he has filled their first order. He is often,
apparently, very glad to get his customers off his hands--not caring
a whit if some professional rival gets their custom. And the social
position of his patron seems to make no material difference--indeed,
the “higher” the person, the more anxious the undertaker is to see the
case fall into some rival’s hands. Some might say that this is due to a
disposition to make game of the customer, but I don’t believe it.