A solemn assemblage was that at the Ermita quarters of the provost-guard
the following day. Officers of rank and soldiers from the ranks, in
rusty blue, in gleaming white, in dingy Khaki rubbed shoulders and
elbows in the crowded courtyard.
In the presence of death the American remembers that men are born equal,
and forgets the ceremonious observance of military courtesies. All
voices were lowered, all discussion hushed. There was a spontaneous
movement when the division commander entered, and all made way for him
without a word, but sturdily stood the rank and file and held their
ground against all others, for the preliminary examination, as it might
be called, was to take place at ten o'clock.
The dead man was of their own grade, and an ugly story had gone like
wildfire through the barracks and quarters that his slayer was a
commissioned officer, an aide-de-camp of the general himself, a scion of
a distinguished and wealthy family of the greatest city of America, and
all official influence, presumably, would be enlisted in his behalf.
Therefore, silent, yet determined, were they present in strong force,
not in disrespect, not in defiance, but with that calm yet indomitable
resolution to see for themselves that justice was done, that soldiers of
no other than the Anglo-Saxon race could ever imitate, or that officers,
not American, could ever understand, appreciate, and even tacitly
approve.
The dead man had died instantly, not in the flush and glory of battle,
but in the lonely, yet most honorable, discharge of the sacred duty of
the sentinel. Murder most foul was his, and had he been well-nigh a
pariah among them,--a man set apart from his kind,--the impulse of his
fellow-soldiers would have been to see to it that his death at such a
time and on such a duty went not unavenged. As it was, the man who lay
there, already stiff and cold, was known among them as one of the
bravest, brightest spirits of their whole array, a lad of birth probably
more gentle than that of many an officer, of gifts of mind and character
superior to those of not a few superiors, a fellow who had won their
fellowship as easily as he had learned the duties of the soldier.
A whole battalion in the regulars and dozens of gallant boys in the
Idahos and North Dakotas knew Billy Benton and had been full of sympathy
when he was picked up one night some three weeks previous, his head laid
open by a powerful blow from some blunt instrument, bleeding and
senseless. Even when released from hospital a fortnight later he was
dazed and queer, was twice reported out of quarters over night and
absent from roll-call, but was forgiven because of "previous character,"
and the belief that he was really not responsible for these soldier
solecisms.
One thing seemed to worry him, and that was, as he admitted, that he had
been robbed of some papers that he valued. But he soon seemed "all right
again," said his fellows, at least to the extent of resuming duty, and
when, clean-shaved and in his best attire, he marched on guard that glad
October morning, they were betting on him for the first chevrons and
speedy commission.
All that his few intimates, the one or two who claimed to know him,
could be induced to admit was that his real name was not Benton, and
that he had enlisted utterly against the wishes of his kindred. And so,
regulars and volunteers alike, they thronged the open _patio_ and all
approaches thereto, and no officer would now suggest that that court
be cleared. It was best that "Thinking Bayonets" should be there to hear
and see for himself.
"No, indeed, don't do anything of the kind," said the general promptly
when asked half-hesitatingly by the captain of the guard whether he
preferred to exclude the men. And in this unusual presence the brief,
straightforward examination went on.
First to tell his tale was the corporal of the second relief. He had
posted his men between 8.30 and 8.45, Private Benton on Number 6 at the
corner of the Calle Real and Padre Faura. That post had been chosen for
him as being not very far away from that of the guard, as the young
"feller" had not entirely recovered his strength, and the officer of the
day had expressed some regret at his having so soon attempted to resume
duty, but Benton had laughingly said that he was "all right" and he
didn't mean to have other men doing sentry go for him.
"Soon after nine," said the corporal, "I went round warning all the
sentries to look out for the tall Filipino and short, squat American, as
directed by the officer of the guard. The officer of the guard himself
went round about that time personally cautioning the sentries. There was
a good deal of fun and excitement just then down the street. Number 9 in
the Calle Nueve had shot twice at some fleeing natives who nearly upset
him as they dashed round the corner from the Bagumbayan, and he had
later mistaken Colonel Brent in his white suit for a Filipino and
nervously fired. Numbers 7 and 8 in the side streets mistook the
shooting for fire alarm, and Private Benton repeated, in accordance with
his orders, but when I (the corporal) saw him he was laughing to kill
himself over the Manila fire department."
Benton didn't seem much impressed at first about the thief and the
deserter, but towards 9.45, when the corporal again visited his post and
the streets were getting quiet, Benton said there were some natives in
the second house across the way whose movements puzzled him. They kept
coming to the front door and windows and peeping out at him. A patrol
came along just then, searching alleyways and yards, and they looked
about the premises, while he, Corporal Scott, started west on the Faura
to warn Number 4, who was over towards the beach, and while there Major
MacNeil, the field officer of the day, came along, and after making
inquiries as to what Number 4 had seen and heard and asking him his
orders, he turned back to the Faura, Corporal Scott following.
One block west of the Calle Real the major stopped as though to listen
to some sound he seemed to have heard in the dark street running
parallel with the Real, and then stepped into it as though to examine,
so Scott followed, and almost instantly they heard a muffled report
"like a pistol inside a blanket," and hastening round into the Faura
they found Benton lying on his face in the middle of the street, just at
the corner of the Calle Real, stone dead. His rifle they found in the
gutter not twenty feet from him.
Scott ran at once to the guard-house three blocks away and gave the
alarm. Then the patrol said that a tall officer, running full speed, had
passed them, and here the provost-marshal interposed with--
"Never mind what the patrol said. Just tell what you--the witness--did
next."
Scott continued that he and others with the lieutenant, officer of the
guard, ran back to Number 6's post, and there stood the major with the
pistol.
"When we asked should we search the yards and alleys the major nodded,
but the moment he heard the men telling about the running officer he
gave the lieutenant orders----"
And again the provost-marshal said "Never mind," the major would
describe all that.
And the major did. He corroborated what Corporal Scott had said, and
then went on with what happened after Scott was sent to alarm the guard.
Barring some opening of shutters and peering out on the part of natives
anxious to know the cause of the trouble, there was no further
demonstration until Scott and others came running back. But meanwhile
something gleaming in the roadway--the Calle Real--about fifteen paces
from the corner and up the street--to the north towards the
Bagumbayan--and close to the sidewalk attracted his attention.
He stepped thither and picked up--this revolver. By the electric light
at the corner he saw that one chamber was empty. When the guard came on
the run and he heard of the tall officer fleeing up towards the
Bagumbayan, the direction in which the pistol lay, he sent Mr.
Wharton--Lieutenant Wharton--with a patrol in pursuit.
The inscription on the pistol revealed its ownership and cast certain
suspicions that warranted his action, he believed, in ordering the
instant arrest of the officer if found.
Major MacNeil went on to say he "had not yet made the acquaintance of
Lieutenant Stuyvesant, and did not actually know when he gave the order
that it _was_ Lieutenant Stuyvesant who ran up the street"--and here the
major was evidently in a painful position, but faced his duty like a man
and told his story without passion or prejudice, despite the fact that
he declared the murdered man to be one of the very best young fellows in
his battalion, and that he was naturally shocked and angered at his
death.
Then the name of Private Reilly was called, and a keen-featured little
Irishman stepped forward. It was one of the patrol. Corporal Stamford,
first relief, was in charge of it. They had been hunting as far over as
the "Knows-a-lady," and on coming back Number 6 told them of some
natives at the second house. Corporal Stamford posted him, Reilly, in
the first yard near the street to head off any that tried to run out
that way, in case they stirred up a mare's nest, and took the other
"fellers" and went round by the front. Nothing came of it, but while
they were beating up the yards and enclosures Reilly heard Benton
challenge, and saw a tall officer come up to be recognized. They had
some words,--the officer and the sentry,--he couldn't tell what, but the
officer spoke excited like, and all of a sudden jumped away and started
as though to run, and Number 6 "hollered" after him, though Reilly
didn't clearly understand what was said. "At all events he made him come
back, and it----" Here Reilly seemed greatly embarrassed and glanced
about the room from face to face in search of help or sympathy. "It
seemed to kind of rile the officer. He acted like he wasn't going to
come back first off, and then the corporal came along with the patrol
and the officer had to wait while Stamford was recognized, and the boys
was sayin' Billy had a right to stand the corporal off until the
lieutenant said advance him. And we was laughin' about it and sayin'
Billy wasn't the boy to make any mistake about his orders, when we heard
the lieutenant come a-runnin' swift down t'other side the street and
then saw him scootin' it for the open p'rade."
Did the witness recognize the officer?--did he see him plainly?
"Yes, the electric light was burnin' at the corner, and he'd seen him
several times driving by the 'barks.'"
Was the officer present?--now?
"Yes," and Reilly's face reddened to meet the hue of his hair.
Reluctantly, awkwardly, pathetically almost, for in no wise did
identification, as it happened, depend on his evidence, the little Irish
lad turned till his eyes met those of Stuyvesant, sitting pale, calm,
and collected by his general's side, and while the eyes of all men
followed those of Reilly they saw that, so far from showing resentment
or dismay, the young gentleman bowed gravely, reassuringly, as though he
would have the witness know his testimony was exactly what it should be
and that no blame or reproach attached to him for the telling of what he
had seen.
Then Dr. Frank was called, and he gave his brief testimony calmly and
clearly. It was mainly about the pistol. He recognized it as one he had
seen and examined the previous afternoon at Colonel Brent's quarters on
the San Luis. It was lying on a little table in the front veranda. He
had closely examined it--could not be mistaken about it, and when he
left it was still lying on that table. Who were present when he left?
"Other than the immediate family, only Lieutenant Stuyvesant." Had he
again visited the colonel's that evening? He had. He returned an hour or
so later to dine. The ladies had then left their seats in the veranda,
and he noticed that the pistol was no longer on the table; presumed Miss
Ray had taken it with her to her room and thought no more about it. As
indicated by the inscription, the pistol was her property.
Then Lieutenant Ray was called, but there was no response. In low tone
the assistant provost-marshal explained that the orderly sent to Paco
with message for Lieutenant Ray returned with the reply that Mr. Ray had
two days' leave and was somewhere up-town. He as yet had not been found.
A young officer of artillery volunteered the information that late the
previous evening, somewhere about ten, Mr. Ray had called at the Cuartel
de Meysic, far over on the north side. He was most anxious to find a
soldier named Connelly, who, he said, was at the Presidio at the time
the lieutenant's quarters were entered and robbed, and Lieutenant
Abercrombie had taken Mr. Ray off in search of the soldier.
Ray not appearing, the examination of Assistant Surgeon Brick began.
Brick was the first medical officer to reach the scene of the murder.
Benton was then stone dead, and brief examination showed the hole of a
bullet of large calibre--probably pistol, 44--right over the heart. The
coarse blue uniform shirt and the fine undergarment of Lisle thread
showed by burn and powder-stain that the pistol had been close to or
even against the breast of the deceased. The bullet was lodged, he
believed, under the shoulder-blade, but no post-mortem had yet been
permitted, a circumstance the doctor referred to regretfully, and it was
merely his opinion, based on purely superficial examination, that death
was instantaneous, the result of the gunshot wound referred to. Dr.
Brick further gave it as his professional opinion that post-mortem
should be no longer delayed.
And then at last came Stuyvesant's turn to speak for himself, and in
dead silence all men present faced him and listened with bated breath to
his brief, sorrowful words.
He was the officer halted by the sentry on Number 6 and called upon to
come back. The sentry did not catch his name and had to have it spelled.
He frankly admitted his impatience, but denied all anger at the enforced
detention. The information about the fire at Colonel Brent's had caused
him anxiety and alarm, and as soon as released by the sentry he had run,
had passed the patrol on the run, but there had been no altercation, no
misunderstanding even. The sentry had carried out his orders in a
soldierly way that compelled the admiration of the witness, and before
leaving him Stuyvesant had told him that he had done exactly right. The
news that the sentry was found dead five minutes thereafter was a shock.
Lieutenant Stuyvesant declared he carried no fire-arms whatever that
night and was utterly innocent of the sentry's death. He recognized, he
said, the revolver exhibited by Major MacNeil. He did not hesitate to
admit that he had seen and examined it late the previous afternoon at
the quarters of Colonel Brent, that he had actually put it in his
trousers pocket not two minutes before he left the house to go in search
of Lieutenant Ray, but he solemnly declared that as he left the veranda
he placed the pistol on a little table just to the right of the broad
entrance to the salon, within that apartment, and never saw it again
until it was produced here.
Frank, candid, "open and aboveboard" as was the manner of the witness,
it did not fail to banish in great measure the feeling of antagonism
that had first existed against him in the crowded throng. But in the
cold logic of the law and the chain of circumstantial evidence they
plainly saw that every statement, even that of Stuyvesant himself, bore
heavily against him. A lawyer, had he been represented by counsel, would
have permitted no such admissions as he had made. A gentleman,
unschooled in the law, preferred the frank admission to the distress of
seeing Mrs. Brent--and perhaps others--called into that presence to
testify to his having had the pistol with him when he left the gallery.
Brent in his bewilderment had blurted out his wife's words in the
hearing of the provost-marshal's people late the night before, and he
and his household were yet to be called, and when called would have to
say that though they passed and possibly repassed through the salon
between the moment of Stuyvesant's departure and that of their going out
to dinner, not one of their number noticed even so bright and gleaming
an object as Maidie's revolver. True, the lights were not brilliant in
the salon. True, the little table stood back against the wall five or
six feet from the door-way. Still, that pistol was a prominent object,
and a man must have been in extraordinary haste indeed to leave a loaded
weapon "lying round loose" in the hall.
That was the way "Thinking Bayonets" argued it, and soldiers by the
score crowding the sidewalk and entrance and unable to force their way
in, or even to make room for a most importunate female struggling on the
outskirts, hung on the words of an orderly who, despatched in further
search of Lieutenant Ray, was forcing a way out.
"How is it going?" said he. "Why, that young feller's just as good as
hanging himself. He admits having had the pistol that did the business."
Ten minutes later a Filipino servant went to answer an imperative rap at
the panel in the massive door of No. 199 Calle San Luis. Dr. Frank had
been early to see his patient, and had enjoined upon Mrs. Brent and Miss
Porter silence as to last night's tragedy. Not until she was stronger
was Miss Ray to be allowed to know of the murder of Private Benton. "By
that time," said he, "we shall be able to clear up this--mystery--I
_hope_."
The colonel had gone round to the police-station. Mrs. Brent, nervous
and unhappy, had just slipped out for ten seconds, as she said to Miss
Porter, to see an old army chum and friend who lived only three doors
away. Miss Porter, who had been awake hours of the night, had finally
succeeded, as she believed, in reading Maidie to sleep, and then,
stretching herself upon the bamboo couch across the room, was, the next
thing she knew, aroused by voices.
Sandy Ray had entered so noiselessly that she had not heard, but Maidie
had evidently been expecting him. In low, earnest tone he was telling
the result of his search the night before. She heard the words:
"Connelly is down with some kind of fever in hospital and hasn't seen or
heard anything of any one even faintly resembling Foster. Then I found
your old friend the brakeman. General Vinton has got him a good place in
the quartermaster's department, and he tells me he knows nothing, has
seen and heard nothing. Now I'm going to division head-quarters to find
Stuyvesant."
"And then," said Miss Porter, "my heart popped up into my throat and I
sprang from the sofa." But too late. An awful, rasping voice at the
door-way stilled the soft Kentucky tones and filled the room with dread.
"Then you've no time to lose, young man. It's high time somebody besides
me set out to help him. That other young man you call Foster lies dead
at the police-station,--killed by _your_ pistol, Miss Ray, and Mr.
Stuyvesant goes to jail for it."