A TALE OF MORO BLACKMAIL
"That's what they will do--if anything," nodded Lieutenant Prescott. "A
charge is the wisest thing for the brown rascals, if they are bent on
winning here. They know now about how many men I have, and they know
that my men are regulars. The Moros have plenty of rifles, and I judge
that they're well off in ammunition, but they can't shoot as well as
American regulars. On a charge, however--in close, hand-to-hand
fighting--these Malays are not to be despised. They always fought
hand-to-hand in the old days, and it's in their blood."
With that expression of his views, Prescott, aided by his acting first
sergeant, began to hustle the soldiers into line around the house,
forming the men in a rectangle at about fifteen yards distant from the
walls of the building.
The soldier of to-day must often fight lying on his stomach. These men
of B Company crawled to their stations, dragging their rifles after
them.
Pop! pop! pop! The Moros were watching, and fired from time to time,
irregularly. A prostrate man is hard to hit at a few hundred yards.
These pot-shots serve to bother and irritate soldiers getting into
position.
As soon as each soldier was in place he began burrowing with his
intrenching tool. It is surprising how quickly a man lying down can dig
a little ditch and throw up the dirt on the outside.
First, each man dug his own ditch. As soon as he had this completed he
connected his ditch with that of the men next to him. Within thirty
minutes the men of B Company, without having a man hit by the pot-shots
of the enemy, were well intrenched. From time to time some of the
soldiers, under orders, ceased their digging to take a few shots
themselves, just to keep the Moros from growing too bold.
As soon as the encircling trench had been dug Prescott detailed four
men, with picks and shovels furnished by the elder Seaforth, to throw up
a trench wall in front of the main door of the house, so as to permit
any one safely to enter or leave the house by that door.
"That'll do, Sergeant," nodded Lieutenant Prescott at last.
"It would take a three-inch field piece, sir, to make an impression on
this wall of dirt," smiled Sergeant Hal.
"Now, I'll look after this part of the ground, Sergeant; you go around
to the south side--and be vigilant."
Hal Overton stepped out from behind the wall, carrying his rifle in the
hollow of his left arm. As he showed himself above the low wall of the
regular trench, exposing his head and trunk, the Moros began to take
notice.
Pop! pop! pop! Bullets struck all about the young sergeant, sprinkling
dirt over him.
"Keep your head below the top of the trench wall, Sergeant!" called
Lieutenant Prescott sternly. "We can't afford to have you hit. Shield
yourself. Don't be afraid of any one suspecting you of cold feet!"
So Hal, though he made a slight grimace, contented himself with
crouching low and progressing slowly.
Barely had Sergeant Hal gained his own post, with Private Kelly on his
right hand, when a furious fusillade broke out from the southward.
"Keep your heads down, all of you!" shouted the young sergeant. "Don't
be too curious about what the Moros are doing. If you keep your heads
down the rascals can't hit you, and it won't do us any harm to let them
waste their ammunition. Don't any man fire without orders."
"They're doing some good shooting, Sarge, at last," remarked Private
Kelly, as the showers of bullets peppered the top of the trench and
sprinkled dirt over the crouching soldiers.
"The only good shooting, Kelly, is that which cuts up the enemy,"
rejoined Hal. "The goo-goos are not hitting any of us, and we're not
losing anything by saving our ammunition."
"Goo-goos" is an old name applied to the Philippine raiders. Whenever a
native grows tired of fighting, or wants to enter a town for the purpose
of getting information, he hides his arms, then enters Uncle Sam's
lines, pretending that he is a "good" man, and not a rebel against the
authority of the United States Government. From this the soldiers have
learned to allude to all fighting Filipinos as goo-goos.
"Lend me your trenching tool, Kelly?"
"Sure, Sarge."
With this implement Hal Overton burrowed a small hole through the top of
the trench. Thus, without exposing himself too much, he was able to keep
an eye on the distant grove in which the Moros had found cover.
"I'll let you spell me on this watch, from time to time, Kelly," said
Hal.
"I'll be glad to, Sarge, for I'll admit that I'm anxious to know what
the goo-goos are doing."
"At present they're not trying to advance," replied Sergeant Overton,
"and that's about all we're interested in. As long as they stay where
they are, and waste their ammunition, they'll not bother us much."
In the meantime Lieutenant Prescott was seated in a chair behind the
high wall of dirt before the house door. The elder Seaforth occupied
another chair.
"Have you any idea, sir, how you incurred the wrath of these Moro
rascals?" asked the young lieutenant.
"By refusing to pay blackmail," replied the planter bluntly.
"Then you were asked to pay money to some of these native chieftains?"
"No."
"Eh?"
"I wasn't asked; I was commanded to do so," replied Mr. Seaforth slowly.
"When you speak of the Moro rascals, Lieutenant, don't conclude that all
of the Moros are bad, or even troublesome. The truth is that most of the
Moros on the island of Mindanao are good fellows. They're lazy, but not
notably vicious. There are a few of the old-time chiefs--dattos, they
call 'em--who make trouble every now and then. These dattos never
respected the Spanish Government, and they don't feel any more kindly
towards the United States Government. That is because these dattos have
always lived by plunder, and they always intend to do so. For one
thing, these raiding dattos don't like to have white men on Mindanao.
The spread of civilization here means that the old-time dattos will be
driven into the wilds, and that there won't be any more plunder or
blackmail money to live on. These Moros out yonder wouldn't have
bothered me, this time, if I had paid the money their chief demanded."
"How much did he want, Mr. Seaforth?"
"Ten thousand dollars."
"Whew! That would be a good deal of money to pay out."
"For the sake of peace, and a chance to carry on my plantation business,
Lieutenant, I might have paid it--if once would have been enough. But it
wouldn't have been. If I had acceded to his demand the datto would have
let me alone for this year. He would have sent the same demand next
year, however. In fact, the datto would have put me down on his list as
being good for ten thousand dollars a year tribute. The first year that
I failed to pay this tribute my plantation would be destroyed, and
myself, my family and friends put to the knife. So it's either fight or
get out of here for good. It seems a strange thing, doesn't it,
Lieutenant, to live under the Stars and Stripes, and yet to have to pay
tribute to a savage for the right to do business?"
"It isn't right, it can't be, sir--and by the great howitzer, Uncle Sam
will put a stop to all this business!" replied Lieutenant Prescott
hotly.
"I hope so," returned Mr. Seaforth. "The Datto Hakkut, however, has been
doing business here on Mindanao since before the Spaniards left, and my
opinion is that he will do business as long as he lives. This fellow
Hakkut is a wily old scoundrel, who often falls into traps set for him
by our soldiers. Yet, just when the soldiers are about to close the
trap, they find that Hakkut isn't there. His escapes are marvelous."
"Did Hakkut himself come to see you, Mr. Seaforth?" inquired the young
lieutenant.
"Hakkut? I've never seen the fellow, nor has any other white man around
here, so far as I know."
"Then he sends a regular collector for the money?"
"Yes. He has a new collector this year."
"A Moro?"
"The fellow looks to me more like a Tagalo. He's a sharp, keen, little
business man--of his peculiar type."
"A Tagalo?" mused Lieutenant Prescott. "By Jove, I wish you'd give me a
close description of the fellow."
"Perhaps I can do better than that," proposed Mr. Seaforth, rising.
"When the collector was here my son succeeded--without the rascal's
knowledge--in getting a snapshot at him. I think I can find the photo."
Disappearing into the house, the planter soon returned, handing the
young officer a card. Prescott gazed at the photo, then called out:
"Men, pass the word for Sergeant Overton to report here. Tell him that
his orders are to keep under cover while on the way here."
Hal soon appeared, crouching behind the trench, and sheltered by the
high dirt wall.
"Sergeant, have you ever seen this fellow in the photo?" inquired the
lieutenant, with a smile, passing the card to Overton.
"I should think I have, sir. This is Vicente Tomba."
"Can't be a doubt about it, can there?"
"Not unless Tomba has a twin brother, sir."
"And to think that we had that little rascal in arrest!" muttered the
lieutenant. "It was a sad day for Mindanao when Tomba escaped from our
guard house."
Then, after a pause, Prescott continued:
"By the way, Mr. Seaforth, how long has Draney been on his present
plantation?"
"I don't know, Lieutenant. He's been there longer than I have resided
here."
"Has he ever been troubled by the Moros?"
"They have never attacked him, Lieutenant. Draney must pay some tribute
to the Datto Hakkut."
Lieutenant Prescott and Sergeant Hal Overton glanced quickly at one
another, though neither spoke.
"That is all, Sergeant," said the officer, by way of dismissal. "Return
to your men."
"Very good, sir."