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FOUND IN THE PHILIPPINES
The Story of a Woman's Letters
BY
CAPTAIN CHARLES KING
GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS
Eleven East Sixteenth Street New York
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Copyrighted 1899, by F. Tennyson Neely.
Copyrighted 1901, by The Hobart Company.
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FOUND IN THE PHILIPPINES.
CHAPTER I.
Something unusual was going on at division headquarters. The men in the
nearest regimental camps, regular and volunteer, were "lined up" along
the sentry posts and silently, eagerly watching and waiting. For a week
rumor had been rife that orders for a move were coming and the brigades
hailed it with delight. For a month, shivering at night in the dripping,
drenching fogs drifting in from the Pacific, or drilling for hours each
day on the bleak slopes of the Presidio Heights, they had been praying
for something to break the monotony of the routine. They were envious of
the comrades who had been shipped to Manila, emulous of those who had
stormed Santiago, and would have welcomed with unreasoning enthusiasm any
mandate that bore promise of change of scene--or duty. The afternoon was
raw and chilly; the wet wind blew salt and strong from the westward sea,
and the mist rolled in, thick and fleecy, hiding from view the familiar
landmarks of the neighborhood and forcing a display of lamplights in the
row of gaudy saloons across the street that bounded the camp ground
toward the setting sun, though that invisible luminary was still an hour
high and afternoon drill only just over.
Company after company in their campaign hats and flannel shirts, in worn
blue trousers and brown canvas leggings, the men had come swinging in
from the broad driveways of the beautiful park to the south and, as they
passed the tents of the commanding general, even though they kept their
heads erect and noses to the front, their wary eyes glanced quickly at
the unusual array of saddled horses, of carriages and Concord wagons
halted along the curbstone, and noted the number of officers grouped
about the gate. Ponchos and overcoat capes were much in evidence on every
side as the men broke ranks, scattered to their tents to stow away their
dripping arms and belts, and then came streaming out to stare, unrebuked,
at headquarters. It was still early in the war days, and, among the
volunteers and, indeed, among regiments of the regulars whose ranks were
sprinkled with college men who had rubbed shoulders but a few months
earlier with certain subalterns, the military line of demarcation was a
dead letter when "the boys" were out of sight and hearing of their
seniors, and so it happened that when a young officer came hurrying down
the pathway that led from the tents of the general to those of the field
officers of the Tenth California, he was hailed by more than one group of
regulars along whose lines he passed, and, as a rule, the query took the
terse, soldierly form of "What's up, Billy?"
The lieutenant nodded affably to several of his fellows of the football
field, but his hand crept out from underneath the shrouding cape, palm
down, signalling caution. "Orders--some kind," he answered in tones just
loud enough to be heard by those nearest him. "Seen the old man anywhere?
The general wants him," and, never halting for reply the youngster
hurried on.
He was a bright, cheery, brave-eyed lad of twenty who six months earlier
was stumbling through the sciences at the great university on the heights
beyond the glorious bay, never dreaming of deadlier battle than that in
which his pet eleven grappled with the striped team of a rival college.
All on a sudden, to the amaze of the elders of the great republic, the
tenets and traditions of the past were thrown to the winds and the "Hermit
Nation" leaped the seas and flew at the strongholds of the Spanish
colonies. Volunteers sprang up by the hundred thousand and a reluctant
Congress accorded a meagre addition to the regular army. Many a college
athlete joined the ranks, while a limited few, gifted with relatives who
had both push and "pull," were permitted to pass a not very exacting
examination and join the permanent establishment as second lieutenants
forthwith. Counting those commissioned in the regular artillery and
infantry, there must have been a dozen in the thronging camps back of the
great city, and of these dozen, Billy Gray--"Belligerent Billy," as a
tutor dubbed him when the war and Billy broke out together--the latter to
the extent of a four-day's absence from all collegiate duty--was easily
the gem of the lot. One of the "brightest minds" in his class, he was one
of the laziest; one of the quickest and most agile when aroused, he was
one of the torpids as a rule: One of the kind who should have "gone in for
honors," as the faculty said, he came nearer going out for devilment. The
only son of a retired colonel of the army who had made California his
home, Billy had spent years in camp and field and saddle and knew the West
as he could never hope to know Haswell. The only natural soldier of his
class when, sorely against the will of most, they entered the student
battalion, he promptly won the highest chevrons that could be given in the
sophomore year, and, almost as promptly, lost them for "lates" and
absences. When the 'Varsity was challenged by a neighboring institute to a
competitive drill the "scouts" of the former reported that the crack
company of the San Pedros had the snappiest captain they ever saw, and
that, with far better material to choose from, and more of it, the
'Varsity wouldn't stand a ghost of a show in the eyes of the professional
judges unless Billy would "brace up" and "take hold." Billy was willing as
Barkis, but the faculty said it would put a premium on laxity to make
Billy a 'Varsity captain even though the present incumbents were ready,
any of them, to resign in his favor. "Prex" said No in no uncertain terms;
the challenge was declined, whereat the institute crowed lustily and the
thing got into the rival papers. As a result a select company of student
volunteers was formed: its members agreed to drill an hour daily in
addition to the prescribed work, provided Billy would "take hold" in
earnest, and this was the company that, under his command, swept the
boards six weeks later and left San Pedro's contingent an amazed and
disgusted crowd. Then Billy went to metaphorical pieces again until the
war clouds overspread the land; then like his father's son he girded up
his loins, went in for a commission and won. And here he was a "sub" in
Uncle Sam's stalwart infantry with three classmates serving under him in
the ranks and half a dozen more, either as junior officers or enlisted
men, in the camps of the volunteers. He was a handsome boy, a healthy,
hearty boy, and, as boys go, rather a good boy--a boy in whom his mother
would have found, had she not long since been lifted above the cares of
this world, much of comfort and more to condone, but a boy, nevertheless,
who had given his old dragoon of a dad many an anxious hour. Now, just as
he neared the legal dividing line between youth and years of discretion,
Billy Gray had joined the third battalion of his regiment, full of pluck,
hope and health, full of ambition to make a name for himself in a
profession he loved as, except his father, he certainly loved nothing
else, and utterly scoffing the idea that there might come into his life a
being for the sake of whose smile he could almost lay down his sword, for
he had yet to meet Amy Lawrence.
"Who are the women folks up at headquarters, Billy?" asked a youth of his
own years and rank, peering eagerly through the drifting mist at the dim,
ghostly outlines of the general's camp.
"Didn't get to see 'em. Where's the old man--the colonel?" was the reply.
"Chief wants him toot de sweet!"
"What's wanted?" called a voice from the biggest of the neighboring
tents, and a close-cropped head was thrust out between the front tent
flaps. "That you, Billy? Who wants the colonel? He and the 'brig' rode
over to the Presidio an hour ago--ain't got back. Come in; I've started a
fire in our oil stove." A puff of warm air blew from the interior and
confirmed the statement. It was well along in summer and, not a dozen
miles away to the east, men were strolling about with palm-leaf fans and
wilted collars. Here, close to the gray shores of the mighty sea,
blankets and overcoats were in demand. Hospitably the older officer
tugged at the lacings of the military front door, swore between his set
teeth when the knots, swollen by the wet, withstood his efforts and then
shouted:
"Sergeant-major; send somebody here to open this."
A light footstep sounded on the springy board floor, nimble fingers
worked a moment at the cords, then the flap was thrown open and the
adjutant's office stood partially revealed. It was a big wall tent backed
up against another of the same size and pattern. Half a dozen plain
chairs, two rough board tables littered with books, papers and smoking
tobacco, an oil stove and a cheap clothes rack on which were hanging
raincoats, ponchos and a cape or two, comprised all the furniture. In a
stout frame of unplaned wood, cased in their oilskins and tightly rolled,
stood the colors of the famous regiment; and back of them, well within
the second tent where one clerk was just lighting a camp lantern, were
perched on rough tables a brace of field desks with the regimental books.
The sergeant-major, a veteran of years of service in the regulars, sat at
one of them. A young soldier, he who had unfastened the tent flap to
admit Lieutenant Gray, was just returning to his seat at the other. Two
orderlies lounged on a bench well beyond and back of the sergeant-major's
seat, and a bugler, with his hands in his pockets, was smoking a short
brier-root pipe at the opposite or back doorway. Woe to the enlisted men
who sought the presence of the colonel or adjutant through any other
channel. The sergeant-major would drop on him with the force of a
baseball bat.
"Who all are over yahnduh at the chief's?" asked the adjutant, as soon as
he had his visitor well inside, and the soft accent as well as the quaint
phraseology told that in the colonel's confidential staff officer a
Southerner spoke.
"All the brigade and most regimental commanders 'cept ours, I should say,
and they seem to be waiting for them. Can't we send?" was the answer, as
the junior whipped off his campaign hat and sprinkled the floor with the
vigorous shakes he gave the battered felt.
"Have sent," said his entertainer briefly, as he filled a pipe from the
open tobacco box and struck a safety match. "Orderly galloped after him
ten minutes ago. Blow the brigade and battalion commanders! What I asked
you was who are the women up there?"
"No, you didn't! You said, 'who all are up yonder?' I'm a sub, and
s'posed you meant _men_--soldiers--officers. What have I to do with
anybody in petticoats?"
"And I'm a grizzled vet of a dozen years' duty, crows' feet and gray
hairs a-comin'," grinned the adjutant, pulling at a long curly mustache
and drawing himself up to his full height of six feet, "and when you're
as old as I am and half as wise, Billy, you'll know that a pretty girl is
worth ten times the thought our old frumps of generals demand. My name
ain't Gordon if I haven't a mind to waltz over there through the mist and
the wind just to tell them I've sent for Squeers. Then I'll get a look at
the girls."
"I've got to go back," said Billy, "and you've no business to--with Mrs.
Gordon and an interesting family to consider. What tent'd the ladies go
to? _I_ didn't see 'em."
"Mrs. Gordon, suh," said the adjutant, with placid superiority,
"considers it a reflection on her sex when I fail to pay it due homage.
Of course you didn't see the ladies. The party was shown into the
general's own domicile. Couldn't you see how many young fellows were
posing in picturesque attitudes in front of it? Awe Hank!" he suddenly
shouted to an officer striding past the tent in dripping mackintosh.
"Goin' up to division headquarters? Just tell the staff or the chief I've
sent an orderly galloping after Squeers. He's halfway to the Presidio
now, but it'll be an hour before they can get back." The silent officer
nodded and went on, whereat Gordon made a spring for the entrance and
hailed again.
"Say, Hank! Who are the damsels?"
The answer came back through the fog:
"People from the East--looking for a runaway. Old gent, pretty daughter,
and pretty daughter's prettier cousin. Heard the orders?"
"Damn the orders! They don't touch _us_. Where do they come from?"
"D'rect from Washington, they say. Three regiments to sail at once,
and----"
"Oh, I know all that!" shouted Gordon impatiently. "It was all over camp
an hour ago! Where do they--the girls--come from? What's their name?"
"Wasn't presented," was the sulky reply. "Let a lot of stuffy old women
show up in search of long-lost sons and those fellows at headquarters
unload them on us in less than no time, but a brace of pretty girls--!
Why, they double the gate guards so that no outsider can so much as see
them. Billy, here, knows 'em. Ask him."
By this time the youngster had ranged up alongside the adjutant and was
laughingly enjoying the latest arrival's tirade at the expense of the
headquarters' staff, but at his closing words Lieutenant Billy's grin of
amusement suddenly left his face, giving way to a look of blank amaze.
"_I_ know 'em! I haven't been east of the Big Muddy since I was a kid."
"They asked for you all the same, just after you started. 'Least one of
'em did--for What's-his-name?--the chief's military legal adviser, came
out bareheaded and called after you, but you were out of hearing. He said
the cousin, the prettiest one, recognized you as you skipped away from
the general's tent and pointed you out to her friend. Somebody explained
you were running an errand for one of those aides too lazy to go himself,
and that you'd be back presently."
"Then go at once, young man," said the adjutant, laying a mighty hand on
the junior's square shoulder. "Stand not upon the order of your going,
but git! Never you mind about the colonel. He won't be _here_ until after
he's been _there_, and he's in for a rasping over this morning's
inspection. Just look at the report. Sergeant-major, send me Colonel
Colt's report!" he called aloud, tossing his head back as he spoke, "Come
in, Parson; come out of the wet." And, eager enough to read a famous
inspector's criticisms of the appearance of the regiment, the officer
addressed as Parson shoved briskly into the tent.
The young soldier who had opened the tent flap a few minutes before came
forward with a folded paper which, in silence, he handed the adjutant and
turned back to his desk. Mr. Gordon took the paper, but his eyes followed
the soldier. Then he called, somewhat sharply:
"Morton!"
The young fellow stopped at the dividing crack between the two tent
floors, and slowly faced the three officers. He was slender, well built,
erect. His uniform fitted him trimly, and was worn with easy grace, his
hands and feet were small and slender, his eyes and hair dark and fine,
his features delicate and clear cut, his complexion a trifle blistered
and beaten by the harsh winds that whistled in every day from the sea,
and, as he turned, all three officers were struck by its extreme pallor.
"You're sick again, Morton," said the adjutant somewhat sternly. "I
thought I told you to see Dr. Heffernan. Have you done so?"
"I--wasn't sick enough," faltered the young soldier. "I was all right a
minute or two--or rather this morning, sir. It'll be over presently.
Perhaps it was the smell of the oil that did it--the stove is close to my
desk."
But Gordon continued to look at him doubtfully.
"Move your desk across the tent for the present, anyhow," said he, "and
I'll speak to the doctor myself. With all this newspaper hullabaloo about
our neglect of the sick," continued he, turning to his friends, "if a man
changes color at sight of a smash-up he must be turned over to the Red
Cross at once. What is it, orderly?" he finished suddenly, as the tent
flaps parted and a soldier in complete uniform, girt with his belt of
glistening cartridges, stood at salute, some visiting cards in his gloved
hand.
"Lieutenant Gray here, sir?" was the comprehensive answer. Then, catching
sight of the young officer who stepped quickly forward, he held forth the
cards.
"The adjutant-general's compliments, sir, and he'd be glad if the
lieutenant would come over at once."
Gray took the cards, curiously studied them and then read aloud, one
after the other, and placing the topmost underneath the other two as soon
as read.
"MR. LISPENARD PRIME."
"MISS PRIME."
"MISS AMY LAWRENCE."
It was the last name that lay uppermost at the end, receiving particular
attention, and the Parson noted it.
"That's the pretty cousin, Billy," quoth he. "Case of the last shall be
first, don't you see? Scoot now, you lucky boy, and tell us all about it
later."
But Gray was still gazing dreamily at the cards.
"I'm sure I never met any of them before in my life," said he. "There
must be some mistake. Yet--that name--sounds familiar--somehow," and
"that" was the only name now in sight. "I'm off," he suddenly announced,
and vanished.
There was a sound of light, quick footsteps on the flooring of the
rearward tent at the same time. The sergeant-major glanced up from his
writing; looked at a vacant desk, then at the clock, then, inquiringly,
at his regimental deity--the adjutant. It was just the hour of the day at
which all manner of papers were coming down from division and brigade
headquarters to be duly stamped, noted and stacked up for the colonel's
action. This was the young clerk Morton's especial function, but Morton
had left the office and was gone.