In so far as human foresight could provide against the cabling to the
States of tremendous tales that had little or no foundation, the
commanding general had been most vigilant. The censorship established
over the despatches of the correspondents had nipped many a sensation in
the bud and insured to thousands of interested readers at home far more
truthful reports of the situation at Manila than would have been the
case had the press been given full swing.
Yet with Hong-Kong only sixty hours away, there was nothing to prevent
their writing to and wiring from that cosmopolitan port, and here, at
least, was a story that would set the States ablaze before it could be
contradicted, and away it went, fast as the Esmeralda could speed it
across the China Sea and the wires, with it, well-nigh girdle the globe.
A gallant young volunteer, Walter Foster of Ohio, serving in the
regulars under the assumed name of Benton, foully murdered by Lieutenant
Gerard Stuyvesant of New York! A love affair at the bottom of it all!
Rivals for the hand of a fair army girl, daughter of a distinguished
officer of the regular service! Lieutenant Stuyvesant under guard!
Terrible wrath of the soldier's comrades! Lynching threatened! Speedy
justice demanded! The maiden prostrated! Identification of the victim by
Miss Zenobia Perkins, Vice-President and Accredited Representative for
the Philippine Islands of the Society of Patriotic Daughters of America!
Army circles in Manila stirred to the bottom! etc., etc.
Joyous reading this for friends and kindred in the far-distant States!
Admirable exhibit of journalistic enterprise! The Hong Kong papers
coming over in course of another week were full of it, and of
appropriate comment on the remarkable depravity of the American race,
and Chicago journals, notably the _Palladium_, bristled with editorial
explosions over the oft-repeated acts of outrage and brutality on part
of the American officer to the friendless private in the American ranks.
And thousands of honest, well-meaning men and women, who had seen, year
after year, lie after lie, one stupendous story after another,
punctured, riddled, and proved a vicious and malignant slander,
swallowed this latest one whole, and marvelled that the American officer
could be the monster the paper proved him to be.
But one woman at last and at least was happy, perched now on a pinnacle
of fame, and in the Patriotic Daughters of America as represented by
their Vice-President and Accredited Representative in the Philippines,
virtue and rectitude reigned triumphant. Zenobia Perkins was in her
glory. Of all the citizens or soldiers of the United States in and about
Manila, male or female, staff or supply, signal or hospital corps, Red
Cross or crossed cannon, rifles, or sabres, this indomitable woman was
now the most sought after--the most in demand. Her identification of the
dead man had been positive and complete.
"I suspected instantly," she declared in presence of the assembled
throng, "when I heard Lieutenant Stuyvesant had shot a soldier, just who
it might be. I remembered the young man who disappeared from the train
before we got to Oakland. I suspected him the moment the corporal told
me about the mysterious young man trying to see Miss Ray. I had my
carriage chase right after him to the Nozaleda and caught him,
half-running, half-staggering, and I took him driving until he got
ca-amed down and told him he needn't worry any more. He was among
friends at last, and the P. D. A.'s would take care of him and guard his
secret and see him done right by. Oh, yes, I did! We weren't going to
see an innocent boy shot as a deserter when he didn't know what he was
doing. He wouldn't admit at first that he was Walter Foster at all, but
at last, when he saw I was sure it was him, he just broke right down and
as much as owned right up. He said he'd been slugged or sand-bagged
three weeks before and robbed of money and of papers of value that he
needed to help him in his trouble. He asked me what steps could be taken
to help a poor fellow accused of desertion. He didn't dare say anything
to any of the officers' cause the men he trusted at all--one or two
well-educated young fellows like himself--found out that he'd be shot if
found guilty. The only thing he could do was make a good record for
himself in the infantry, and having done that he could later on hope for
mercy. He asked a heap of questions, and I just told him to keep a stiff
upper lip and we'd see him through, and he plucked up courage and said
he believed he'd be able to have hope again;--at all events he'd go on
duty right off. When I asked him how he dared go to Colonel Brent's,
where at any time Lieutenant Ray might recognize him, he said he never
_did_ except when he knew Lieutenant Ray was out of the way. Then I
tried to get him to tell what he expected to gain by seeing Miss Ray,
and he was confused and said he was so upset all over he really didn't
know that he had been there so often. He thought if he could see her and
tell her the whole story she could have influence enough to get him out
of his scrape. He was going to tell me the whole story, but patrols and
sentries were getting too thick, and he had to get somewhere to change
his dress for roll-call, and I gave him my address and he was to come
and see me in two days, and now he's killed, and it ain't for me to say
why--or who did it."
Benton's murder was certainly the sensation of the week in Manila, for
there were features connected with the case that made it still more
perplexing, even mysterious.
Major Farquhar, who must have seen young Foster frequently at Fort
Averill, had been sent to survey the harbor of Iloilo and could not be
reached in time, but Dr. Frank, called in course of the day to identify
the remains, long and carefully studied the calm, waxen features of the
dead soldier, and said with earnest conviction:
"This is undoubtedly the young man who appeared at Colonel Brent's and
whom I sought to question, but who seemed to take alarm at once and,
with some confused apology, backed away. He was dressed very neatly in
the best white drilling sack-coat and trousers as made in Manila, with a
fine straw hat and white shoes and gloves, but he had a fuzzy beard all
over his face then, and his manner was nervous and excitable. His eyes
alone showed that he was unstrung, bodily and mentally. I set him down
for a crank or some one just picking up from serious illness. The city
is full of new-comers, and as yet no one knows how many strangers have
recently come to town. I saw him only that once in a dim light, but am
positive in this identification."
Two or three non-commissioned officers of Benton's regiment were
examined. Their stories were concise and to the point. The young soldier
had come with the recruits from San Francisco along late in August. He
was quiet, well-mannered, attended strictly to his own business, and was
eager to learn everything about his duties. They "sized him up" as a
young man of education and good family who hadn't influence enough to
get a commission and so had enlisted to win it. He had money, but no bad
habits. He helped in the office with the regimental papers, and could
have been excused from all duty and made clerk, but wouldn't be. He said
he'd help whenever they wanted him, but he didn't wish to be excused
from guard or drills or patrol or picket--said he wanted to learn all
there was in it. Even the rough fellows in the ranks couldn't help
liking him. He had a pleasant word for everybody that didn't bother him
with questions. He made one or two acquaintances, but kept mostly to
himself; never got any letters from America, but there were two from
Hong Kong, perhaps more. If he wrote letters himself, he posted them
in town. They never went with the company mail from the _cuartel_.
Everybody seemed to know that Benton wasn't his own name, but that was
nothing. The main thing queer about him was that he got a pass whenever
he could and went by himself, most generally out to Paco, where the
cavalry were, yet he said he didn't know anybody there. It was out Paco
way on the Calzada Herran, close to the corner of the Singalon road, the
patrol picked him up with his head laid open, and he'd been flighty
pretty much ever since and troubled about being robbed. Seemed all right
again, however, when reporting for duty, and perfectly sane and straight
then.
Two very bright young soldiers, Clark and Hunter, were called in for
their statements. They, too, had enlisted in a spirit of patriotism and
desire for adventure; never knew Benton till the voyage was nearly over,
then they seemed to drift together, as it were, and kept up their
friendship after reaching Manila. Benton was not his real name, and he
was not a graduate of any American college. He had been educated abroad
and spoke French and German. No, they did not know what university he
attended. He was frank and pleasant so long as nobody tried to probe
into his past; never heard him mention Lieutenant Stuyvesant. All three
of them, Benton, Clarke, and Hunter, had observed that young officer
during the month as he drove by barracks, sometimes with the general,
sometimes alone, but they did not know his name, and nothing indicated
that Benton had any feeling against him or that he had seen him. They
admitted having conveyed the idea to comrades that they knew more about
Benton than they would tell, but it was a "bluff." Everybody was full of
speculation and curiosity, and--well, just for the fun of the thing,
they "let on," as they said, that they were in his confidence, but they
weren't, leastwise to any extent. They knew he had money, knew he went
off by himself, and warned him to keep a look out or he'd be held up and
robbed some night.
The only thing of any importance they had to tell was that one day, just
before his misfortune, Benton was on guard and posted as sentry over the
big Krupps in the Spanish battery at the west end of the Calle San Luis.
Clarke and Hunter had a kodak between them and a consuming desire to
photograph those guns. The sentries previously posted there refused to
let them come upon the parapet,--said it was "'gainst orders." Benton
said that unless positive orders were given to him to that effect, he
would not interfere. So they got a pass on the same day and Benton
easily got that post,--men didn't usually want it, it was such a
bother,--but, unluckily, with the post Benton got the very orders they
dreaded. So when they would have made the attempt he had to say, "No."
They came away crestfallen, and stumbled on two sailor-looking men who,
from the shelter of a heavy stone revetment wall, were peering with odd
excitement of manner at Benton, who was again marching up and down his
narrow post, a very soldierly figure.
"That young feller drove you back, did he?" inquired one of them, a
burly, thick-set, hulking man of middle height. "Puttin' on considerable
airs, ain't he? What's he belong to?"
"--th Infantry," answered Clarke shortly, not liking the stranger's
looks, words, or manner, and then pushed on; but the stranger followed,
out of sight of the sentry now, and wanted to continue the conversation.
"Sure he ain't in the cavalry?" asked the same man.
"Cocksure!" was the blunt reply. "What's it to you, anyhow?"
"Oh, nothin'; thought I'd seen him before. Know his name?"
"Name's Benton, far as I know. Come on, Hunter," said Clarke, obviously
unwilling to stay longer in such society, and little more was thought of
it for the time being; but now the provost-marshal's assistant wished
further particulars. Was there anything unusual about the questioner's
teeth? And a hundred men looked up in surprise and suddenly rearoused
interest.
"Yes, sir," said Clarke, "one tooth was missing, upper jaw, next the big
eye-tooth;" and as the witness stood down the general and the
questioning officer beamed on each other and smiled.
An adjournment was necessitated during the early afternoon. Lieutenant
Ray's statement was desired, also that of Private Connelly of the
artillery, and an effort had been made through the officers of the
cavalry at Paco to find some of the recruits who were of the detachment
now quite frequently referred to in that command as "the singed cats."
But it transpired that most of them had been assigned to troops of their
regiment not yet sent to Manila, only half the regiment being on
duty--foot duty at that--in the Philippines. The only man among them who
had travelled with Foster from Denver as far as Sacramento was the young
recruit, Mellen. He was on outpost, but would be relieved and sent to
Ermita as quickly as possible.
Connelly, said the surgeon at the Cuartel de Meysic, was too ill to be
sent thither, unless on a matter of vital importance, and Sandy Ray,
hastening from Maidie's bedside in response to a summons, was met by the
tidings that a recess had been ordered, and that he would be sent for
again when needed.
Everywhere in Malate, Ermita, Paco, and, for that matter, the barracks
and quarters of Manila, the astonishing story was the topic of all
tongues that day. Among the regulars by this time the tale of Foster's
devotion to Maidie Ray was well known, while that of Stuyvesant's later
but assiduous courtship was rapidly spreading.
Men spoke in murmurs and with sombre faces, and strove to talk lightly
on other themes, but the tragedy, with all the honored names it
involved, weighed heavily upon them. Stuyvesant came to them, to be
sure, a total stranger, but Vinton had long known him, and that was
enough. His name, his lineage, his high position socially, all united to
throw discredit on the grave suspicion that attached to him. Yet, here
they were, brought face to face, rivals for the hand of as lovely a girl
as the army ever knew. It was even possible that Foster was the
aggressor. Reilly's reluctant words gave proof that discussion of some
kind had occurred, and Stuyvesant broke away and was apparently wrathful
at being compelled to go back; then more words, longer detention; then a
swift-running form, Stuyvesant's, away from the scene; then the fatal
pistol; and against this chain of circumstances only the unsupported
statement of the accused that he left that revolver on the table in the
salon, left it where it was never afterwards seen. No wonder men shook
their heads.
It was three in the afternoon when the examination was resumed.
Meantime, from all over Manila came the correspondents, burning with
zeal and impatience, for the Esmeralda was scheduled to leave at five,
and a stony-hearted censor at the Ayuntamiento had turned down whole
pages of thrilling "copy" that would cost three dollars a word to send
to the States, but sell for thirty times as much when it got there.
"Despite the positive identification of the remains," wrote one inspired
journalist, "by such an unimpeachable and intelligent woman as Zenobia
Perkins, who attended the murdered lad after he was so severely burned
upon the train,--despite the equally positive recognition by that
eminent and distinguished surgeon, Dr. Frank, this military satrap and
censor dares to say that not until the identity of the deceased is
established to the satisfaction of the military authorities will the
report be cabled. How long will the people of America submit to such
tyrannical dictation?"
When the provost-marshal himself, with his assistants and Vinton and
Stuyvesant, returned at three and found Zenobia the vortex of a storm of
questioners, the centre of a circle of rapid-writing scribes, these
latter could have sworn--did swear, some of them--that, far from
expediting matters in order that a full report might be sent by the
Esmeralda, the officials showed a provoking and exasperating disposition
to prolong and delay them.
And even at this time and at this distance, with all his regard,
personal and professional, for the official referred to, the present
chronicler is unable entirely to refute the allegation.
Out in the street a score of carriages and as many _quilez_ and
_carromattas_ stood waiting by the curb, and gallant Captain Taylor, of
the Esmeralda, could have added gold by the hundred to his well-earned
store would he but have promised to hold his ship until the court--not
the tide--served. But an aide of the commanding general had driven to
the ship towards two o'clock and said something to that able seaman,--no
power of the press could tell what,--and all importunity as to delaying
his departure there was but one reply,--
"Five sharp, and not a second later!"
It was after three--yes, long after--that witnesses of consequence came
up for examination. Dr. Brick had got the floor and was pleading
_post-mortem_ at once. In this climate and under such conditions
decomposition would be so rapid, said he, that "by tomorrow his own
mother couldn't recognize him." But the provost-marshal drawled that he
didn't see that further mutilation would promote the possibility of
recognition, and Brick was set aside.
It was quarter to four when young Mellen was bidden to tell whether he
knew, and what he knew of, the deceased, and all men hushed their very
breath as the lad was conducted to the blanket-shrouded form under the
overhanging gallery in the open _patio_. The hospital steward slowly
turned down the coverlet, and Mellen, well-nigh as pallid as the corpse,
was bidden to look. Look he did, long and earnestly. The little weights
that some one had placed on the eyelids were lifted; the soft hair had
been neatly brushed; the lips were gently closed; the delicate,
clear-cut features wore an expression of infinite peace and rest; and
Mellen slowly turned and, facing the official group at the neighboring
table, nodded.
"You think you recognize the deceased?" came the question. "If so, what
was his name?"
"I think so, yes, sir. It's Foster--at least that's what I heard it
was."
"Had you ever known him?--to speak to?"
"He was in the same detachment on the train. Don't know as I ever spoke
to him, sir," was the answer.
"But you think you know him by sight? Where did you first notice him?"
"Think it was Ogden, sir. I didn't pay much attention before that. A man
called Murray knew him and got some money from him. That's how I came to
notice him. The rest of us hadn't any to speak of."
"Ever see him again to speak to or notice particularly after you left
Ogden? Did he sit near you?" was the somewhat caustic query.
"No, sir, only just that once."
"But you are sure this is the man you saw at Ogden?"
Mellen turned uneasily, unhappily, and looked again into the still and
placid face. That meeting was on a glaring day in June. This was a
clouded afternoon in late October and nearly five months had slipped
away. Yet he had heard the solemn story of murder and had never, up to
now, imagined there could be a doubt. In mute patience the sleeping face
seemed appealing to him to speak for it, to own it, to stand between it
and the possibility of its being buried friendless, unrecognized.
"It's--it's him or his twin brother, sir," said Mellen.
"One question more. Had you heard before you came here who was killed?"
"Yes, sir. They said it was Foster."
And now, with pencils swiftly plying, several young civilians were
edging to the door.
James Farnham was called, and a sturdy young man, with keen,
weather-beaten face, stepped into the little open space before the
table. Three fingers were gone from the hand he instinctively held up,
as though expecting to be sworn. His testimony was decidedly a
disappointment. Farnham said that he was brakeman of that train and
would know some of that squad of recruits anywhere, but this one,--well,
he remembered talking to one man at Ogden, a tall, fine-looking young
feller something very like this one. This might have been him or it
might not. He couldn't even be sure that this was one of the party. He
really didn't know. But there was a chap called Murray that he'd
remember easy enough anywhere.
And then it was after four and the race for the Esmeralda began. It was
utterly unnecessary, said certain bystanders, to question any more
members of the guard, but the provost-marshal did, and not until 4.30
did he deign to send for the most important witness of all, the brother
of the young girl to whom the deceased had been so devotedly attached.
They had not long to wait, for Sandy Ray happened to be almost at the
door.
The throng seemed to take another long breath, and then to hold it as,
the few preliminaries answered, Mr. Ray was bidden to look at the face
of the deceased. Pale, composed, yet with infinite sadness of mien, the
young officer, campaign hat in hand, stepped over to the trestle, and
the steward again slowly withdrew the light covering, again exposing
that placid face.
The afternoon sunshine was waning. The bright glare of the mid-day hours
had given place within the enclosure to the softer, almost shadowy light
of early eve. Ray had but just come in from the street without where the
slanting sunbeams bursting through the clouds beat hot upon the dazzling
walls, and his eyes had not yet become accustomed to the change.
Reverently, pityingly, he bent and looked upon the features of the dead.
An expression, first of incredulity, then of surprise, shot over his
face.
He closed his eyes a second as though to give them strength for sterner
test, and then, bending lower, once more looked; carefully studied the
forehead, eyebrows, lashes, mouth, nose, and hair, then, straightening
up, he slowly faced the waiting room and said,--
"I never set eyes on this man in my life before to-day."