COMPENSATION
On the evening of December 24, 1900,--one of those dark nights in
the Philippines when the air seems so dense that you can almost
take hold of it with your hands--when the heavy clouds blanket the
earth so closely that the terrible thunders seem to shake the earth
in its orbit, with the deep-toned diapason of their melody--when
the lightening bugs flutter from twig to twig, revealing their
lanterned wings--when the human heart beats with a conscious thump
in anticipation of something awful--when those who are out alone
whistle to give themselves courage--when the zigzag openings rent
through the clouds by the vicious lightning flashes almost reveal
Eternity;--Christmas Eve, that sacred occasion which we all celebrate
and shall continue to celebrate till the end of time, to commemorate
the birth of our Christ,--a sharp-eyed, dare-devil Filipino crept
slowly out of the city of Ilagan along a foot-path toward the
Americans' camp about a mile north of that city.
When so near to the Americans that their out-posts were plainly visible
during the flashes of lightning, the Filipino spy crept into a bamboo
thicket not over fifty feet from an American sentry. After lying there
for a half hour, waiting for the storm to come, the native grew a
trifle bolder and arose to his knees. That moment the sharp eyes of
the sentry caught him.
"Corporal of the Guard!" called the sentry in a loud voice.
The corporal, being suspicious that something unusual was taking place,
in responding to the call took with him two armed privates.
Approaching the sentry, with light steps and in a crouching attitude,
the corporal said in a heavy whisper, "What's the matter, Jack?"
The sentry was standing with gun in hand, loaded, cocked, and with
bayonet fixed. Keeping his eye centered on the exact spot where he had
last seen the slowly gravitating figure before him, the guard said
in an undertone that denoted grave alarm, "Do you see that thicket
just to the left of that big mango tree?"
"Yes;" said the corporal in a whisper, "What's the trouble?"
"There's a man in there," said the sentry. "I saw him quite plainly at
first--and I think he's got a gun in his hand. You better watch out,
boys. He's still there."
The corporal and the two privates fixed the bayonets on their
Krag-Jorgensons, filled the magazines, slipped a shell into the
barrel of each rifle, cocked them, crouched close to the ground,
some ten feet apart, and began to move forward, a step at a time,
between the flashes of lightening. Each time it would flash, they
would peer into the thicket. Each step brought them nearer.
"There he lies!," said one of the privates in a quick out-spoken voice.
"Amigo," (a friend) said the stretched-out form, as three guns were
raised in unison with the anxious muzzles pointing directly at him.
"Este no quere combate" (you don't desire to fight), said the corporal,
in crude Spanish.
"Mucho amigo" (very friendly), came the reply.
"Vamose aque!" (come here), commanded the corporal.
With his eyes fixed in theirs, the Filipino raised himself slowly up
and came toward the three Americans who stood but twelve feet away.
"Take him by the arms," said the corporal to the two privates who were
with him, "while I look behind that rice-dyke to see if he had a gun."
"Here's what the rascal was up to," said the corporal, holding a
Mauser above his head. "Good thing you saw him when you did, Jack."
The storm was coming nearer; the first gust of wind had just struck
them. It blew back the Filipino's little checkered frock. The corporal
saw a glitter.
"Watch out! boys, he's got a machete under his coat," said the
corporal.
He was searched for more weapons and then marched inside the American
lines and taken directly to headquarters. A drum-head court was
convened at once and the prisoner led in.
With hands clinched, muscles taut, eyes piercing at the court, he
listened to the reading of the charge:
"Caught acting as a spy for the enemy in violation of the Articles
of War; armed, with intent to take the life of an American sentry
on guard!"
After the testimony had been taken, the prisoner was given a chance
to speak, but he absolutely refused to do so, even though addressed
in several different languages and dialects.
"He spoke Spanish to us as we captured him," interjected the corporal.
"GUILTY!"
said the lieutenant-colonel who was presiding, in a firm military
tone. "The court fixes the penalty at death, and sentences the prisoner
to be shot at sun-rise."
"Remove him, Sergeant, and detail a firing squad to execute the order
of the court!"
As the prisoner was led away, the lieutenant-colonel dropped his
chin in the palms of his hands as he rested his elbows on his knees,
and muttered in a semi-regretful way: "I hate to do it; but in the
past we have always been so chicken-hearted about punishing these
blood-thirsty natives that they have now come to regard our kindness
as cowardice. I can't help but feel that it will bring the war to a
close quicker if we deal with them hereafter with a good firm hand."
"I wonder what province the young fellow came from," said a major
who was sitting near.
"I really don't know," replied the lieutenant-colonel: "his face shows
him to be a Tagalo. Certain it is that he didn't come from Isabella
province in which we are now campaigning. I wouldn't be surprised if
Aguinaldo were near here and if he had sent this young dare-devil to
cut down our sentry, so as to make an attack upon us tonight during
the storm."
Toward morning the storm subsided. At day-break a comparatively shallow
grave was hastily dug near the edge of a little bamboo thicket on
a slightly elevated piece of ground. As the flickering rays of the
tropical sun began to shoot above the pale, ashen-gray hue of the
eastern horizon, the prisoner was led to the foot of his prospective
tomb. The firing squad took its place in line.
The guns had been carefully loaded in advance for their deadly work;
all but one contained blank cartridges. As usual, after loading, the
guns were intermixed, so that no man might know which one contained
the deadly bullet.
"Ready!" commanded the sergeant who had charge of the squad,--the
corporal having taken his usual place in line with his men.
"Click," went the hammers of the rifles in unison, as they were
brought to a full cock.
"Aim!" came the next command in a firmer tone. The soldiers brought
their rifles to their shoulders. Every barrel was pointed at the
chest of the prisoner, who now for the first time, began to tremble
and turn a sickly yellow.
"Fire!" commanded the sergeant.
"Bang!" went the united roar of the guns; and as the light powder smoke
cleared away and the echoes reverberated through the woods of northern
Luzon, the firing squad stepped forward to view their heroic dead.
A private jumped into the grave and turned the corpse over onto
its back.
That night Frank W. Pugh, of the regular army, a member of this
unfortunate firing squad, who died later at Fort Worth, Texas, of
fever contracted in the Philippines, sitting in his little dog-tent,
meditating, wrote in his diary, which is now preserved in the archives
at Washington with other relics of the war, the following appropriate
poem:
A CHRISTMAS COURT-MARTIAL
"The night was dark and threatening rain,
No stars were in the sky;
We caught him hiding in the pines--
A Filipino spy.
A slender youth with coal black eyes,
Brim full of frightened tears;
We turned him over to the guard,
I fear with callous jeers.
Next morning it was Christmas day,
The sun was shining hot,
A drum-head court had said, "The spy,
Is sentenced to be shot."
Erect before the officers,
He still disdained to speak,
Although a single crystal drop,
Empearled his olive cheek.
Upon a long and hurried march,
In light array, you see,
We could not take the boy along,
So stood him near a tree;
Told off the little firing squad,
And ordered it in line.
One gun was loaded in the lot--
I hope it was not mine.
Birds in the branches overhead
Sang softly in the heat.
The grave, a trench of steaming sand,
Gaped yellow at his feet;
He faced us with a dauntless air,
Although his lips were white;--
Our grim old Sergeant turned away,
He could not stand the sight.
A flash, a roar, a cloud of smoke,
And headlong to the ground
He fell face downward in the grave,
And died without a sound.
We turned him over on his back,
And DEATH the TRUTH confessed,
For through his open jacket peeped
A Woman's tender breast."
Marie Sampalit had earned her doom. After her grave had been filled,
the soldier boys placed at its head a cartridge-box lid on which they
inscribed the pitiful word,
"UNKNOWN."