He was a Colonel with enough dignity to rule the universe, but he
knew no more about music than a pig does of navigation. With his
regiment he was slipping up on a Filipino town at night. It was
purely a clandestine movement--orders were given in whispered tones
by tiptoeing orderlies. The men were holding their bayonet scabbards
against their legs to obviate screeching and rattling, and every
effort was made to minimize the sounds of a marching body of men.
The Colonel with the battalion on the right had arrived within charging
distance of the insurgent trenches. It was the pre-arranged plan for
all the companies to arrive on this line before the general advance
would be made. When all were ready, the charge would be sounded by
the Colonel's bugler.
The battalion with the Colonel was all ready for the bloody charge. Not
knowing if the companies of the other battalions had arrived, the
impatient commander sent his adjutant, mounted on a native charger, and
his bugler, mounted on a Missouri mule, down the line to investigate.
When all was in readiness, the adjutant was to have the bugler sound
the charge, when the whole khaki-clad line, like a thousand demons,
would set up that awful, "gu gu" terrorizing "Yankee yell," and wade
into the unwary Tagalos with cold steel.
The adjutant and his bugler found that the companies on the left
were yet some distance to the rear. The former, while waiting for
the companies to come up, dismounted to tighten his saddle-girth,
while the latter busied himself looking for some signs of life in
the enemy's trenches not two hundred yards ahead. His mule dropped
his head in a dozing attitude. He suddenly appeared inspired, raised
his head high in the air, looking toward the insurgent lines. Then,
with a grunt, as if of satisfaction, elevated his chin, began working
his huge ears backward and forward in a pumping motion, and set up a
long-drawn "A-w-e ye! a-w-e ye! a-w-e ye! a-w-e ye!" in threatening
tones, which sounded through the midnight air for miles around.
The faithful animal had not finished his challenge when the deep voice
of the Colonel rang out completely drowning it, giving commands for
the charge. He flashed his saber, and gallantly led the only battalion
on the line into the midst of thousands of dusky soldiers--he had
heard the mule sound the charge.
It was a brilliant victory. The town fell with but a single American
casualty--that casualty left the bugler without a mount.
"BULL'S-EYE" KELLEY AND THE FIRE-BUG.
Where is there a soldier whose name is dry on the muster-rolls who
has not heard of "Bull's-Eye" Kelley? Kelley gained his enviable name
of "Bull's-Eye" by having spent twenty-two successive seasons on the
target-range without ever making a "bull's-eye." As a reward for long
and honest service--not for marksmanship--he was warranted a sergeant,
and went with his regiment to the Philippines.
While the regiment was doing garrison duty at one of the interior towns
in Luzon, it was constantly harassed by the little rebels. One dark
night in June they made a determined effort to drive the Americans
out. The regiment had run short of officers, so this night Kelley was
in command of his company. He was a strict disciplinarian--so much
so that when out of his hearing the privates referred to him as the
"Duke of Ireland."
The night of this attack his orders were to keep his men lying
flat on the ground and perfectly quiet. There was to be no talking,
whispering, coughing, or smoking; or, as Kelley himself expressed it,
"no nothin'" would be allowed.
All sorts of insects, including lightning-bugs as big as incandescent
lights, were singing and flying about, causing the men to put their
hands and faces through a most unique series of gymnastics.
The rebel fire was becoming alarmingly effective. Although they knew
nothing of the location of Kelley's company, yet stray bullets coming
that way had already hit two of his men, instantly killing one of
them. He suspected that something was betraying his position. Looking
down the line, he was horrified to discover what was unmistakably a man
smoking. Flushed with anger, he shouted louder than his instructions
would have permitted, "Hie there, me man! put thet cigaroot out,"
but the light remained undisturbed. "I say there, ye insultin' divil
of a rekroot, put out thet cigaroot," stormed the enraged Kelley.
In reply came the low, mourner's-bench, meek voice of a South Carolina
recruit: "It hain't a cigaroot, Sergeant; it's a lightnin'-bug as
big as a search-light on 'Pin-Head' Hebb's mustache."
The undaunted Kelley was not to be beaten thus, but sternly commanded:
"I don't give a dom what 'tis, put it out."