Timmons was a recruit private in an infantry regiment, and, when
stationed in a temperance community, was a mighty good soldier. True
to his steel, he met death in the general advance from San Fernando,
in August, 1899. He was one of those jolly, good natured fellows who
can sit in the mud and crack jokes, and sing standing in water to
his arm-pits. And what is better, he possessed the happy faculty of
imparting his exuberance to his long-faced, homesick, and downcast
fellow-privates. His temper was as smooth as a becalmed sea, and
seldom was it that a ripple passed over the smooth surface. There
was just one word in the soldier's vocabulary that would disturb him,
but this word never failed to bring on a typhoon. This innocent yet
magic word was "carabao," the name of the water buffalo, the beast
of burden that formed the American "cracker line" in the Philippines
before the introduction of the ever-faithful mule. This is how it
came to have such a terror for poor Timmons:
His regiment was undergoing its training on the "firing-line," and
his company furnished twelve men daily for the "lunette," a kind of
detached bastion about 800 yards in front of the line in the direction
of the enemy. This was a lonesome detail. Just twelve men to man an
isolated little fort, the enemy known to be in great numbers not more
than four or five miles away. It came Timmons' turn to go on this duty
for, the first time. The detail, in command of a sergeant, marched
out at sundown and relieved the men who had been on the previous
twenty-four hours. The old guard turned over its orders and at the
same time reported having seen some armed "gugus" in the direction
of the Mariquina River, which ran in front of the "lunette" about a
thousand yards away, the intervening space being an open rice-field.
The old guard marched off and the new one on, throwing off their
blanket-rolls and making themselves as comfortable for the night
as possible. But two men at a time were required to remain awake
and vigilant.
Night came on as black as the enemy they were fighting, and with it
all the breath-stopping and hair-raising noises that the myriads of
flying and crawling animals of that war-ridden country produces. There
was the "vantriloquest" bird, gifted with a voice that is the essence
of all that is frightful and hideous in sounds--forty demons running
amuck and coming your direction.
In painful harmony was the low, deep tones the "chuck me," whose
vocal cords are tuned after the left end of the key-board of the
pipe organ. Then there were slimy lizards, chameleons, tree-frogs,
scorpions, and wonderful bugs, all with voices peculiar to their
families. There were lightning-bugs as big as jack-o'-lanterns,
and tarantulas with round and velvety bodies, and a spread of legs
that would cover a frying-pan. All this and the known presence of
a sneaking enemy was enough to test the nerves of veterans, so its
effect on recruits can easily be imagined.
Timmons' time to remain awake and go on post duty arrived. Jones,
who called himself an old "vet," because he had served in Cuba,
went on with "Tim," as his comrades called him. Their turn began
at midnight. The Sergeant, who had posted them, was soon lying down
taking a non-commissioned officer's sleep--one eye closed, the other
on the _qui vive_. Both sentries were on the alert. Many suspicious
noises came to their ears, and imaginary murderous-looking "niggers"
were seen lurking in the grass, behind rice-dykes, and lying crouching
on the ground. If "Tim" discovered something that he was certain was a
death-dealing boloman, he would tiptoe over to Jones and hold a council
of war. That worthy--the old "vet"--would dispense nerve-soothing
whispers in his ears, and he would return to his post a less nervous
"rookey."
The time dragged wearily on, and finally arrived when they were about
to be relieved. The blackest of the night was on. Jones left his post
to arouse the Sergeant and acquaint that official with the hour. "Tim"
was now alone. A slowly moving figure loomed up before him not fifty
yards away. Then came the sounds of heavy tramping feet. The sounds
were rapidly drawing nearer. There, before his dilated eyes, dimly
outlined, and within pistol-shot, was the enemy in great numbers,
who would soon close around the little garrison and murder them to
a man. What should he do? His orders were strict about giving undue
alarms, but if he wasted a moment longer, there would be no time for
defense. If he left his post to arouse his comrades, the enemy would
rush upon them. No. He would give the alarm by firing and one dead
Filipino would be the result of it. He nervously raised his rifle,
took deliberate aim at the advancing figures, and fired. There was a
sickening thud, a heavy fall, and low, deep moans. The men were aroused
and manned the fort. The Sergeant ordered a general fusillade. The
regiment was in the trenches in a moment and remained there till dawn.
The first light of day revealed, lying in a great pool of his own
blood, "Big Bill," the bull buffalo that drew the headquarters
water-cart, who had been out grazing that night.