_BY E. ALEXANDER POWELL_
WHERE THE STRANGE TRAILS GO DOWN
THE NEW FRONTIERS OF FREEDOM
THE ARMY BEHIND THE ARMY
THE LAST FRONTIER
GENTLEMEN ROVERS
THE END OF THE TRAIL
FIGHTING IN FLANDERS
THE ROAD TO GLORY
VIVE LA FRANCE!
ITALY AT WAR
_CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS_
WHERE THE STRANGE TRAILS GO DOWN
[Illustration: A _real_ wild man of Borneo
A Dyak head-hunter using the _sumpitan_, or blow-gun, in the jungle of
Central Borneo]
WHERE
THE STRANGE TRAILS
GO DOWN
SULU, BORNEO, CELEBES, BALI, JAVA,
SUMATRA, STRAITS SETTLEMENTS,
MALAY STATES, SIAM, CAMBODIA,
ANNAM, COCHIN-CHINA
BY
E. ALEXANDER POWELL
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS AND MAP
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1921
COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Published October, 1921
PRINTED AT
THE SCRIBNER PRESS
NEW YORK, U. S. A.
To
THE WINSOME WIDOW
MARGARET CAMPBELL McCUTCHEN
WHO, DESPITE COUNTLESS DISCOMFORTS,
ALWAYS KEPT SMILING
FOREWORD
It is a curious thing, when you stop to think about it, that, though of
late the public has been deluged with books on the South Seas, though
the shelves of the public libraries sag beneath the volumes devoted to
China, Japan, Korea, next to nothing has been written, save by a
handful of scientifically-minded explorers, about those far-flung,
gorgeous lands, stretching from the southern marches of China to the
edges of Polynesia, which the ethnologists call Malaysia. Siam,
Cambodia, Annam, Cochin-China, the Malay States, the Straits
Settlements, Sumatra, Java, Bali, Celebes, Borneo, Sulu ... their very
names are synonymous with romance; the sound of them makes restless the
feet of all who love adventure. Sultans and rajahs ... pirates and
head-hunters ... sun-bronzed pioneers and white-helmeted _legionnaires_
... blow-guns with poisoned darts and curly-bladed krises ... elephants
with gilded howdahs ... tigers, crocodiles, orang-utans ... pagodas and
palaces ... shaven-headed priests in yellow robes ... flaming
fire-trees ... the fragrance of frangipani ... green jungle and
steaming tropic rivers ... white moonlight on the long white beaches
... the throb of war-drums and the tinkle of wind-blown
temple-bells....
But it is not for all of us to go down the strange trails which lead
to these magic places. The world's work must be done. So, for those who
are condemned by circumstance to the prosaic existence of the office,
the factory, and the home, I have written this book. I would have them
feel the hot breath of the South. I would convey to them something of
the spell of the tropics, the mystery of the jungle, the lure of the
little, palm-fringed islands which rise from peacock-colored seas. I
would introduce to them those picturesque and hardy figures planters,
constabulary officers, consuls, missionaries, colonial administrators
who are carrying civilization into these dark and distant corners of
the earth. I would have them know the fascination of leaning through
those "magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas, in faery
lands forlorn."
I had planned, therefore, that this should be a light-hearted,
care-free, casual narrative. And so, in parts, it is. But more serious
things have crept, almost imperceptibly, into its pages. The
achievements of the Dutch empire-builders in the Insulinde, the
conditions which prevail under the rule of the chartered company in
Borneo, the opening-up of Indo-China and the Malay Peninsula, the
regeneration of Siam, the epic struggle between civilization and
savagery which is in progress in all these lands--these are phases of
Malaysian life which, if this book is to have any serious value, I
cannot ignore. That is why it is a mélange of the frivolous and the
serious, the picturesque and the prosaic, the superficial and the
significant. If, when you lay it down, you have gained a better
understanding of the dangers and difficulties which beset the
colonizing white man in the lands of the Malay, if you realize that
life in the eastern tropics consists of something more than sapphire
seas and bamboo huts beneath the slanting palm trees and native maidens
with hibiscus blossoms in their dusky hair, if, in short, you have been
instructed as well as entertained, then I shall feel that I have been
justified in writing this book.
E. ALEXANDER POWELL.
York Harbor, Maine,
October first, 1921.
AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT
For the courtesies they showed me, and the assistance they afforded me
during the long journey which is chronicled in this book, I am deeply
indebted to many persons in many lands. I welcome this opportunity of
expressing my gratitude to the Hon. Francis Burton Harrison, former
Governor-General of the Philippine Islands, and to the Hon. Manuel
Quezon, President of the Philippine Senate, for placing at my disposal
the coastguard cutter _Negros_, on which I cruised upward of six
thousand miles, as well as for countless other courtesies.
Brigadier-General Ralph W. Jones, Warren H. Latimer, Esq., and Major
Edwin C. Bopp shamefully neglected their personal affairs in order to
make my journey comfortable and interesting. Dr. Edward C. Ernst, of
the United States Quarantine Service at Manila, who served as volunteer
surgeon of the expedition; John L. Hawkinson, Esq., the man behind the
camera; James Rockwell, Esq., and Captain A. B. Galvez, commander of
the _Negros_, by their unfailing tactfulness and good nature, did much
to add to the success of the enterprise. I am likewise under the
deepest obligations to Colonel Ole Waloe, commanding the Philippine
Constabulary in Zamboanga; to the Hon. P. W. Rogers, Governor of Jolo;
to Captain R. C. d'Oyley-John, formerly Chief Police Officer of
Sandakan, British North Borneo; to M. de Haan, Resident at Samarinda,
Dutch Borneo; and to his colleagues at Makassar, Singaradja,
Kloeng-Kloeng, Surabaya, Djokjakarta, and Surakarta; to the Hon. John
F. Jewell, American Consul-General at Batavia; to the Hon. Edwin N.
Gunsaulus, American Consul-General at Singapore; to J. D. C. Rodgers,
Esq., American Chargé d'Affaires at Bangkok; to his late Royal Highness
the Crown Prince of Siam; to his Serene Highness Prince Traidos
Prabandh, Siamese Under Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs; to his
Serene Highness Colonel Prince Amoradhat, Chief of Intelligence of the
Siamese Army, who constituted himself my guide and cicerone during our
stay in his country; to the French Resident-Superior at Pnom-Penh; and
to the other French officials who aided me during my travels in
Indo-China. His Excellency J. J. Jusserand, French Ambassador at
Washington and his Excellency Phya Prabha Karavongse, Siamese Minister
at Washington, provided me with letters which obtained for me many
facilities in French Indo-China and in Siam. Nor am I unappreciative of
the many kindnesses shown me by James R. Bray, Esq., of New York City;
by Austin Day Brixey, Esq., of Greenwich, Conn.; and by Dr. Eldon R.
James, General Adviser to the Siamese Government. I also wish to
acknowledge my indebtedness to A. Cabaton, Esq., from whose extremely
valuable study of Netherlands India I have drawn freely in describing
the Dutch system of administration in the Insulinde. I have also
obtained much valuable data from "_Java and Her Neighbors_" by A. C.
Walcott, Esq., and from "_The Kingdom of the Yellow Robe_" by Ernest
Young, Esq.
E. ALEXANDER POWELL.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. MAGIC ISLES AND FAIRY SEAS 1
II. OUTPOSTS OF EMPIRE 25
III. "WHERE THERE AIN'T NO TEN COMMANDMENTS" 50
IV. THE EMERALDS OF WILHELMINA 74
V. MAN-EATERS AND HEAD-HUNTERS 99
VI. IN BUGI LAND 126
VII. DOWN TO AN ISLAND EDEN 143
VIII. THE GARDEN THAT IS JAVA 163
IX. PROSPECT RULERS AND COMIC OPERA COURTS 189
X. THROUGH THE GOLDEN CHERSONESE TO ELEPHANT LAND 208
XI. To PNOM-PENH BY THE JUNGLE TRAIL 246
XII. EXILES OF THE OUTLANDS 270
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
A _real_ wild man of Borneo _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
Hawkinson taking motion-pictures while descending the
rapids of the Pagsanjan River in Luzon 10
Members of Major Powell's party landing on the south
coast of Bali 10
The bull-fight at Parang 22
Dusun women 60
Dyak head-hunters of North Borneo 60
The Jalan Tiga, Sandakan 70
A patron of a Sandakan opium farm 70
Catching a man-eating crocodile in a Borneo river 112
Major Powell talking to the Regent of Koetei on the
steps at Tenggaroeng 124
State procession in the Kraton of the
Sultan of Djokjakarta 124
Some strange subjects of Queen Wilhelmina 130
The volcano of Bromo, Eastern Java, in eruption 170
A Dyak girl at Tenggaroeng, Dutch Borneo 200
A Dyak head-hunter, Dutch Borneo 200
The captain of the body-guard of "The Spike of the
Universe" 200
A clown in the royal wedding procession at Djokjakarta 200
An elephant hunt in Siam 228
King Sisowath of Cambodia 234
Rama VI, King of Siam 234
Colorful ceremonies of Old Siam 238
Transportation in the Siamese jungle 248
The head of the pageant approaching the camera in
the palace at Pnom-Penh 266
Dancing girls belonging to the royal ballet of the
King of Cambodia 268
MAP
Malaysia 28
WHERE THE STRANGE TRAILS GO DOWN
CHAPTER I
MAGIC ISLES AND FAIRY SEAS
When I was a small boy I spent my summers at the quaint old
fishing-village of Mattapoisett, on Buzzard's Bay. Next door to the
house we occupied stood a low-roofed, unpretentious dwelling, white as
an old-time clipper ship, with bright green blinds. I can still catch
the fragrance of the lilacs by the gate. The fine old doorway,
brass-knockered, arched by a spray of crimson rambler, was flanked on
one hand by a great conch-shell, on the other by an enormous specimen
of branch-coral, thus subtly intimating to passers-by that the owner of
the house had been in "foreign parts." A distinctly nautical atmosphere
was lent to the broad, deck-like verandah by a ship's barometer, a
chart of Cape Cod, and a highly polished brass telescope mounted on a
tripod so as to command the entire expanse of the bay. Here Cap'n
Bryant, a retired New Bedford whaling captain, was wont to spend the
sunny days in his big cane-seated rocking-chair, puffing meditatively
at his pipe and for my boyish edification spinning yarns of adventure
in far-distant seas and on islands with magic names--Tawi Tawi,
Makassar Straits, the Dingdings, the Little Paternosters, the Gulf of
Boni, Thursday Island, Java Head. Of cannibal feasts in New Guinea, of
head-hunters in Borneo, of strange dances by dusky temple-girls in
Bali, of up-country expeditions with the White Rajah of Sarawak, of
desperate encounters with Dyak pirates in the Sulu Sea, he discoursed
at length and in fascinating detail, while I, sprawled on the verandah
steps, my knees clasped in my hands, listened raptly and, when the
veteran's flow of reminiscence showed signs of slackening, clamored
insistently for more.
Then and there I determined that some day I would myself sail those
adventurous seas in a vessel of my own, that I would poke the nose of
my craft up steaming tropic rivers, that I would drop anchor off towns
whose names could not be found on ordinary maps, and that I would go
ashore in white linen and pipe-clayed shoes and a sun-hat to take
tiffin with sultans and rajahs, and to barter beads and brass wire for
curios--a curly-bladed Malay kris, carved cocoanuts, a shark's-tooth
necklace, a blow-gun with its poisoned darts, a stuffed bird of
paradise, and, of course, a huge conch-shell and an enormous piece of
branch-coral--which I would bring home and display to admiring
relatives and friends as convincing proofs of where I had been.
But school and college had to be gotten through with, and after them
came wars in various parts of the world and adventurings in many
lands, so that thirty years slipped by before an opportunity presented
itself to realize the dream of my boyhood. But when at last I set sail
for those far-distant seas it was on an enterprise which would have
gladdened the old sailor's soul--an expedition whose object it was to
seek out the unusual, the curious, and the picturesque, and to capture
them on the ten miles of celluloid film which we took with us, so that
those who are condemned by circumstance to the humdrum life of the
farm, the office, or the mill might themselves go adventuring o'nights,
from the safety and comfort of red-plush seats, through the magic of
the motion-picture screen. When I set out on my long journey the old
whaling captain whose tales had kindled my youthful imagination had
been sleeping for a quarter of a century in the Mattapoisett graveyard,
but when our anchor rumbled down off Tawi Tawi, when, steaming across
Makassar Straits, we picked up the Little Paternosters, when our tiny
vessel poked her bowsprit up the steaming Koetei into the heart of the
Borneo jungle, I knew that, though invisible to human eyes, he was
standing beside me on the bridge.
* * * * *
Until I met the young-old man to whom those magazines which devote
themselves to the gossip of the film world admiringly refer as "the
Napoleon of the movies," it had never occurred to me that adventure has
a definite market value. At least I had never realized that there are
people who stand ready to buy it by the foot, as one buys real estate
or rope. I had always supposed that the only way adventure could be
capitalized was as material for magazine articles and books and for
dinner-table stories.
"What we are after" the film magnate began abruptly, motioning me to a
capacious leather chair and pushing a box of cigars within my reach,
"is something new in travel pictures. Like most of the big producers,
we furnish our exhibitors with complete programmes--a feature, a
comedy, a topical review, and a travel or educational picture. We make
the features and the comedies in our own studios; the weeklies we buy
from companies which specialize in that sort of thing. But heretofore
we have had to pick up our travel stuff--where we could get it from
free lances mostly--and there is never enough really good travel
material to meet the demand. For quite ordinary travel or educational
films we have to pay a minimum of two dollars a foot, while really
unusual pictures will bring almost any price that is asked for them.
The supply is so uncertain, however, and the price is so high that we
have decided to try the experiment of taking our own. That is what I
wanted to talk to you about."
"Before the war," he continued, "there was almost no demand in the
United States for travel pictures. In fact, when a manager wanted to
clear his house for the next show, he would put a travel picture on the
screen. But since the boys have been coming back from France and
Germany and Siberia and Russia the public has begun to call for travel
films again. They've heard their sons and brothers and sweethearts tell
about the strange places they've been, and the strange things they've
seen, and I suppose it makes them want to learn more about those parts
of the world that lie east of Battery Place and west of the Golden
Gate. But we don't want the old bromide stuff, mind
you--mountain-climbing in Switzerland, cutting sugar-cane in Cuba,
picking cocoanuts in Ceylon. That sort of thing goes well enough on the
Chautauqua circuits, but it's as dead as the corner saloon so far as
the big cities are concerned. What we are looking for are unusual
pictures--tigers, elephants, pirates, brigands, cannibals, Oriental
temples and palaces, war-dances, weird ceremonies, curious customs,
natives with rings in their noses and feathers in their hair, scenes
that are spectacular and exciting--in short, what the magazine editors
call 'adventure stuff.' We want pictures that will make 'em sit up in
their seats and exclaim, 'Well, what d'ye know about that?' and that
will send them away to tell their friends about them."
"Like the publisher," I suggested, "who remarked that his idea of a
good newspaper was one that would cause its readers to exclaim when
they opened it, 'My God!'?"
"That's the idea," he agreed. "And if the pictures are from places that
most people have never heard of before, so much the better. I'm told
that you've spent your life looking for queer places to write about. So
why can't you suggest some to take pictures of?"
"But I've had no practical experience in taking motion-pictures," I
protested. "The only time I ever touched a motion-picture camera was
when I turned the crank of Donald Thompson's for a few minutes during
the entry of the Germans into Antwerp in 1914."
"Were the pictures a success?" the Napoleon of the Movies queried
interestedly. "I don't recall having seen them."
"No, you wouldn't," I hastened to explain. "You see, it wasn't until
the show was all over that Thompson discovered that he had forgotten to
take the cap off the lens."
"Don't let that worry you," he assured me. "We'll take care of the
technical end. We'll provide you with the best camera man to be had and
the best equipment. All you will have to do is to show him what to
photograph, arrange the action, decide on the settings, obtain the
permission of the authorities, the good-will of the officials, the
co-operation of the military, engage interpreters and guides, reserve
hotel accommodations, arrange for motor-cars and boats and horses and
special trains, and keep everyone jollied up and feeling good
generally. Aside from that, there won't be anything for you to do
except to enjoy yourself."
"It certainly sounds alluring," I admitted. "The trouble is that you
are looking for something that can't always be found. You don't find
adventure the way you find four-leaf clovers; it just happens to you,
like the measles or a blow-out. Still, if one has the time and money
to go after them, there are a lot of curious things that might pass for
adventure when they are shown on the screen."
"Where are they?" the film magnate asked eagerly, spreading upon his
mahogany desk a map of the world.
It was a little disconcerting, this request to point out those regions
where adventure could be found, very much as a visitor from the
provinces might ask a New York hotel clerk to tell him where he could
see the Bohemian life of which he had read in the Sunday supplements.
"There's Russian Central Asia, of course," I suggested tentatively.
"Samarkand and Bokhara and Tashkent, you know. But I'm afraid they're
out of the question on account of the Bolsheviki. Besides, I'm not
looking for the sort of adventure that ends between a stone wall and a
firing-party. Then there are some queer emirates along the southern
edge of the Sahara: Sokoto and Kanem and Bornu and Wadai. But it would
take at least six months to obtain the necessary permission from the
French and British colonial offices and to arrange the other details of
the expedition."
"But that doesn't exhaust the possibilities by any means," I continued
hastily, for nothing was farther from my wish than to discourage so
fascinating a plan. "There ought to be some splendid picture material
among the Dyaks of Borneo--they're head-hunters, you know. From there
we could jump across to the Celebes and possibly to New Guinea. And I
understand that they have some queer customs on the island of Bali,
over beyond Java; in fact, I've been told that, in spite of all the
efforts of the Dutch to stop it, the Balinese still practise _suttee_.
A picture of a widow being burned on her husband's funeral pyre would
be a bit out of the ordinary, wouldn't it? That reminds me that I read
somewhere the other day that next spring there is to be a big royal
wedding in Djokjakarta, in middle Java, with all sorts of gorgeous
festivities. At Batavia we would have no difficulty in getting a
steamer for Singapore, and from there we could go overland by the new
Federated Malay States Railway, through Johore and Malacca and Kuala
Lumpur, to Siam, where the cats and the twins and the white elephants
come from. From Bangkok we might take a short-cut through the Cambodian
jungle, by elephant, to Pnom-Penh and----"
"Hold on!" the Movie King protested. "That's plenty. Let me come up for
air. Those names you've been reeling off mean as much to me as the
dishes on the menu of a Chinese restaurant. But that's what we're
after. We want the people who see the pictures to say: 'Where the
dickens _is_ that place? I never heard of it before.' They get to
arguing about it, and when they get home they look it up in the family
atlas, and when they find how far away it is, they feel that they've
had their money's worth. How soon can you be ready to start?"
"How soon," I countered, "can you have a letter of credit ready?"
Owing to the urgent requirements of the European governments, vessels
of every description were, as I discovered upon our arrival at Manila,
few and far between in Eastern seas; so, in spite of the assurance that
I was not to permit the question of expense to curtail my itinerary, it
is perfectly certain that we could not have visited the remote and
inaccessible places which we did had it not been for the lively
interest taken in our enterprise by the Honorable Francis Burton
Harrison, Governor-General of the Philippines, and by the Honorable
Manuel Quezon, President of the Philippine Senate. When
Governor-General Harrison learned that I wished to take pictures in the
Sulu Archipelago, he kindly offered, in order to facilitate our
movements from island to island, to place at my disposal a coast-guard
cutter, just as a friend might offer one the use of his motor-car.
There was at first some question as to whether the Governor-General had
the authority to send a government vessel outside of territorial
waters, but Mr. Quezon, who, so far as influence goes, is a Henry Cabot
Lodge and a Boies Penrose combined, unearthed a law which permitted him
to utilize the vessels of the coast-guard service for the purpose of
entertaining visitors to the islands in such ways as the Government of
the Philippines saw fit. And, in a manner of speaking, Mr. Quezon is
the Government of the Philippines. Thus it came about that on the last
day of February, 1920, the coast-guard cutter _Negros_, 150 tons and
150 feet over all--with a crew of sixty men, Captain A. B. Galvez
commanding, and having on board the Lovely Lady, who accompanies me on
all my travels; the Winsome Widow, who joined us in Seattle; the
Doctor, who is an officer of the United States Health Service stationed
at Manila; John L. Hawkinson, the efficient and imperturbable man
behind the camera; three friends of the Governor-General, who went
along for the ride; and myself--steamed out of Manila Bay into the
crimson glory of a tropic sunset, and, when past Cavite and Corregidor,
laid her course due south toward those magic isles and fairy seas which
are so full of mystery and romance, so packed with possibilities of
high adventure.
[Illustration: Hawkinson taking motion-pictures while descending the
rapids of the Pagsanjan River in Luzon
His camera is set up astride of two native dugouts lashed together]
[Illustration: Members of Major Powell's party landing on the south
coast of Bali
Mrs. Powell being carried ashore by sailors. The _Negros_ in the
distance]
* * * * *
Governor-General Harrison believed, by methods that are legitimate, in
adding to the American public's knowledge of the Philippines, and it
was owing to his broad-minded point of view and to the many cablegrams
which he sent ahead of us, that at each port in the islands at which we
touched we found the local officials waiting on the pier-head to bid us
welcome and to assist us. At Jolo, which is the capital of the Moro
country, two lean, sun-tanned, youthful-looking men came aboard to
greet us: one was the Honorable P. W. Rogers, Governor of the
Department of Sulu; the other was Captain Link, a former officer of
constabulary who is now the Provincial Treasurer. In the first five
minutes of our conversation I discovered that they knew exactly the
sort of picture material that I wanted and that they would help me to
the limit of their ability to get it. For that matter, they themselves
personify adventure in its most exciting form.
Rogers, who was originally a soldier, went to the Philippines as
orderly for General Pershing long before the days when "Black Jack" was
to win undying fame on battlefields half the world away. The young
soldier showed such marked ability that, thanks to Pershing's
assistance, he obtained a post as stenographer under the civil
government, thence rising by rapid steps to the difficult post of
Governor of Sulu. A better selection could hardly have been made, for
there is no white man in the islands whom the Moros more heartily
respect and fear than their boyish-looking governor. Mrs. Rogers is the
daughter of a German trader who lived in Jolo and died there with his
boots on. A year or so prior to her marriage she was sitting with her
parents at tiffin when a Moro, with whom her father had had a trifling
business disagreement, knocked at the door and asked for a moment's
conversation. Telling the native that he would talk with him after he
had finished his meal, the trader returned to the table. Scarcely had
he seated himself when the Moro, who had slipped unobserved into the
dining room, sprang like a panther, his broad-bladed _barong_
describing a glistening arc, and the trader's head rolled among the
dishes. Another sweep of the terrible weapon and the mother's hand was
severed at the wrist, while the future Mrs. Rogers owes her life to the
fact that she fainted and slipped under the table. I relate this
incident in order to give you some idea of the local atmosphere.
A few weeks before our arrival at Jolo, Governor Rogers, in compliance
with instructions from Manila, had ordered a census of the inhabitants.
But the Moros are a highly suspicious folk, so, when some one started
the rumor that the government was planning to brand them, as it brands
its mules and horses, it promptly gained wide credence. By tactful
explanations the suspicions of most of the natives were allayed, but
one Moro, notorious as a bad man, barricaded himself, together with
five of his friends, three women and a boy, in his house--a nipa hut
raised above the ground on stilts--and defied the Governor to enumerate
_them_. Now, if the Governor had permitted such open defiance to pass
unnoticed, the entire population of Jolo, always ready for trouble,
promptly would have gotten out of hand. So, accompanied by five
troopers of the constabulary, he rode out to the outlaw's house and
attempted to reason with him. The man obstinately refused to show
himself, however, even turning a deaf ear to the appeals of the village
_imam_. Thereupon Rogers ordered the constabulary to open fire, their
shots being answered by a fusillade from the Moros barricaded in the
house. In twenty minutes the flimsy structure looked more like a sieve
than a dwelling. When the firing ceased a six-year-old boy descended
the ladder and, approaching the Governor, remarked unconcernedly: "You
can go in now. They're all dead." Then Rogers called up the
census-taker and told him to go ahead with his enumeration.
The provincial treasurer, Captain Link, is a lean, lithe South
Carolinian who has spent fifteen years in Moroland. He is what is known
in the cattle country as a "go-gitter." It is told of him that he once
nearly lost his commission, while in the constabulary, by sending to
the Governor, as a Christmas present, a package which, upon being
opened, was found to contain the head of a much-wanted outlaw.
"I knew he wanted that fellow's head more than anything else in the
world," Captain Link said naïvely, in telling me the story, "so it
struck me it would be just the thing to send him for a Christmas
present. I spent a lot of time and trouble getting it too, for the
fellow sure was a bad hombre. It would have gotten by all right, but
the Governor's wife, thinking it was a present for herself, had to go
and open the package. She went into hysterics when she saw what was
inside and the Governor was so mad he nearly fired me. Some people have
no sense of humor."
Atop of the bookcase in Captain Link's study--the bookcase, by the way,
contains Burton's _Thousand and One Nights_, the _Discourses_ of
Epictetus, and President Eliot's tabloid classics--is the skull in
question, surmounted by a Moro fez. Across the front of the fez is
printed this significant legend:
THIS IS JOHN HENRY
JOHN HENRY DISOBEYED CAPTAIN LINK
_Sic Transit Gloria Mundi_
While we are on the subject, let me tell you about another of these
advance-guards of civilization who, single-handed, transformed a
worthless island in the Sulu Sea into a veritable Garden of the Lord
and its inhabitants from warlike savages into peaceful and prosperous
farmers. In 1914 a short, bespectacled Michigander named Warner was
sent by the Philippine Bureau of Education to Siassi, one of the
islands of the Sulu group, to teach its Moro inhabitants the rudiments
of American civilization. Warner's sole equipment for the job
consisted, as he candidly admitted, of a medical education. He took
with him a number of Filipino assistants, but as they did not get along
with the Moros, he shipped them back to Manila and sent for an Airedale
dog. He also sent for all the works on agriculture and gardening that
were to be had in the bookshops of the capital. For five years he
remained on Siassi, the only white man. As even the little inter-island
steamers rarely find their way there, months sometimes passed without
his hearing from the outside world. But he was too busy to be lonely.
His jurisdiction extended over two islands, separated by a narrow
channel, but this he never crossed at night and in the daytime only
when he was compelled to, as the narrow channel was the home of giant
crocodiles which not infrequently attacked and capsized the frail
native _vintas_, killing their occupants as they struggled in the
water.
Warner, who had spent four years among the Visayans before going to
Siassi, and who was, therefore, eminently qualified to compare the
northern islanders with the Moros, told me that the latter possess a
much higher type of intelligence than the Filipinos and assimilate new
ideas far more quickly. He added that they have a highly developed
sense of humor; that they are quick to appreciate subtle stories, which
the Tagalogs and Visayans are not; and that they are much more ready to
accept advice on agricultural and economic matters than the Christian
Filipinos, who have a life-sized opinion of their own ability. When the
day's work was over, he said, he would seat himself in the doorway of
his hut, surrounded by a group of Moros, and discuss crops and weather
prospects, swap jokes and tell stories, just as he might have done with
lighter skinned sons of toil around the cracker-barrel of a cross-roads
store in New England. He added that he was sadly in need of some new
stories to tell his Moro protegés, as, after six years on the island,
his own fund was about exhausted. But he was growing weary of life on
Siassi, he told me; he wanted action and excitement; so he was
preparing to move, with his Airedale, to Bohol, in the Visayas, where,
he had heard it rumored, there was another white man.
Still another of the picturesque characters with whom I foregathered
nightly on the after-deck of the _Negros_ during our stay at Jolo was a
former soldier, John Jennings by name. He was an operative of the
Philippine Secret Service, being engaged at the time in breaking up the
running of opium from Borneo across the Sulu Sea to the Moro islands.
Jennings is a short, thickset, powerfully-built man, all nerve and no
nerves. Adventure is his middle name. He has lived more stories than I
could invent. Shortly before our arrival at Jolo Jennings had learned
from a native in his pay that a son of the Flowery Kingdom, the
proprietor of a notorious gambling resort situated on the
quarter-mile-long ramshackle wharf known as the Chinese pier, was
driving a roaring trade in the forbidden drug. So one afternoon
Jennings, his hands in his pockets and in each pocket a service
automatic, sauntered carelessly along the pier and upon reaching the
reputed opium den, knocked briskly on the door. The Chinese proprietor
evidently suspected the purpose of his visit, however, for he was
unable to gain admittance. So that night, wearing the huge straw
sun-hat and flapping garments of blue cotton of a coolie, he tried
again. This time in response to his knock the heavy door swung open.
Within all was black and silent as the tomb. The lintel was low and
Jennings was compelled to stoop in order to enter. As he cautiously set
foot across the threshold there was a sudden swish of steel in the
darkness and the blade of a _barong_ whistled past his face, slicing
off the front of his hat and missing his head by the width of an
eyelash. As he sprang back the door slammed in his face and he heard
the bolts shot home, followed by the sound of a weapon clattering on
the floor and the patter of naked feet. Realizing that the men he was
after were making their escape by another exit, Jennings hurled
himself against the door, an automatic in either hand. It gave way
before his assault and he was precipitated headlong into the inky
blackness of the room. Taking no chances this time, he raked it with a
stream of lead from end to end. Then, there being no further sound, he
swept the place with a beam from his electric torch. Stretched on the
floor were three dead Chinamen and beside them was enough opium to have
drugged everyone on the island. That little episode, as Jennings
remarked dryly, put quite a crimp in the opium traffic in Jolo.
* * * * *
Cockfighting, which is as popular throughout the Philippines as
baseball is in the United States, finds its most enthusiastic devotees
among the Moros, every community in the Sulu islands having its cockpit
and its fighting birds, on whose prowess the natives gamble with
reckless abandon. Gambling is, indeed, the _raison d'être_ of
cockfighting in Moroland, for, as the birds are armed with four-inch
spurs of razor sharpness, and as one or both birds are usually killed
within a few minutes after they are tossed into the pit, very little
sport attaches to the contest. The villagers are inordinately proud of
their local fighting-cocks, boasting of their prowess as a Bostonian
boasts of the Braves or a New Yorker of the Giants, and are always
ready to back them to the limit of their means.
Some years ago, according to a story that was told me in the
islands--for the truth of which I do not vouch--an American destroyer
dropped anchor off Cebu, the second largest city in the Philippines.
That night a shore party of bluejackets, wandering about the town in
quest of amusement, dropped in at a cockpit where a main was in
progress. Noting the large wagers laid by the excited natives on their
favorite birds, the sailors offered to back a "chicken" which they had
aboard the destroyer against all the cocks in Cebu. The natives,
smiling in their sleeves at the prospect of taking money so easily from
the Americanos, promptly accepted the challenge and some hundreds of
pesos were laid against the unknown bird. At the hour set for the fight
the grinning sailors appeared at the cockpit with their "chicken," the
mascot of the destroyer--a large American eagle! Ensued, of course, a
torrent of protest and remonstrance, but the money was already up and
the bluejackets demanded action. So the eagle was anchored by a chain
in the center of the pit, where it sat motionless and apathetic, head
on one side, eyelids drooping, apparently half asleep--until a cock was
tossed into the pit. Then there was a lightning-like flash of the
mighty talons and all that was left of the Cebuan champion was a heap
of bloodied feathers. The "match" was quickly over and the triumphant
sailors, collecting their bets, departed for their ship. Ever since
then there has been a proverb in Cebu--"Never match your cock against
an American chicken."
Governor Rogers informed me that, in compliance with a cablegram from
the Governor-General, he had arranged a "show" for us at a village
called Parang, on the other side of the island. The "show," I gathered,
was to consist of a stag-hunt, shark-fishing, war-dances, and pony
races, and was to conclude with a native bull-fight. One of the
favorite sports of the Moros is hunting the small native stag on
horseback, tiring it out, and killing it with spears. As it developed,
however, that there was no certainty of being able so to stage-manage
the affair that either the hunters or the hunted would come within the
range of the camera, we regretfully decided to dispense with that
number of the programme.
When we arrived at Parang it looked as though the entire population of
the island had assembled for the occasion. The native police were
keeping clear a circle in which the dances were to take place, while
the slanting trunks of the cocoanut-palms provided reserved seats for
scores of tan and chocolate and coffee-colored youngsters. We were
greeted by the Panglima of Parang, the overlord of the district, who
explained, through Governor Rogers, that he had had prepared a little
repast of which he hoped that we would deign to partake. Now, after you
know some of the secrets of Moro cooking and have had a glimpse into a
Moro kitchen, even the most robust appetite is usually dampened. But
the Governor whispered "The old man has gone to a lot of trouble to
arrange this show and if you refuse to eat his food he'll be mortally
offended," so, purely in the interests of amity, we seated ourselves at
the table, which had been set under the palms in the open. I don't know
what we ate and I don't care to know--though I admit that I had some
uneasy suspicions--but, with the uncompromising eye of the old Panglima
fixed sternly upon us, we did our best to convince him that we
appreciated his cuisine.
But the dancing which followed made us forget what we had eaten. During
the ensuing months we were to see dances in many lands--in Borneo and
Bali and Java and Siam and Cambodia--but they were all characterized by
a certain monotony and sameness. These Moro dancers, however, were in a
class by themselves. If they could be brought across the ocean and
would dance before an audience on Broadway with the same savage abandon
with which they danced before the camera under the palm-trees of
Parang, there would be a line a block long in front of the box-office.
One of the dances was symbolical of a cock-fight, the cocks being
personified by a young woman and a boy. It was sheer barbarism, of
course, but it was fascinating. And the curious thing about it was that
the hundreds of Moros who stood and squatted in a great circle, and who
had doubtless seen the same thing scores of times before, were so
engrossed in the movements of the dance, each of which had its subtle
shade of meaning, that they became utterly oblivious to our presence or
to Hawkinson's steady grinding of the camera. In the war-dance the
participants, who were Moro fighting men, and were armed with spears,
shields, and the vicious, broad-bladed knives known as _barongs_, gave
a highly realistic representation of pinning an enemy to the earth with
a spear, and with the _barong_ decapitating him. The first part of the
dance, before the passions of the savages became aroused, was, however,
monotonous and uninteresting.
"Can't you stir 'em up a little?" called Hawkinson, who, like all
camera men, demands constant action. "Tell 'em that this film costs
money and that we didn't come here to take pictures of Loie Fuller
stuff."
"I think it might be as well to let them take their time about it,"
remarked Captain Link. "These Moros always get very much worked up in
their war-dances, and occasionally they forget that it is all
make-believe and send a spear into a spectator. It's safer to leave
them alone. They're very temperamental."
"That would make a corking picture," said Hawkinson enthusiastically,
"if I only knew which fellow was going to be speared so that I could
get the camera focussed on him."
"The only trouble is," I remarked dryly, "that they might possibly pick
out _you_."
* * * * *
In Spanish bull-fights, after the banderillos and picadores have
tormented the bull until it is exhausted, the matador flaunts a scarlet
cloak in front of the beast until it is bewildered and then despatches
it with a sword. In Moroland, however, the bulls, which are bred and
trained for the purpose, do their best to kill each other, thus making
the fight a much more sporting proposition. The bull-fight which was
arranged for our benefit at Parang was staged in a field of about two
acres just outside the town, the spectators being kept at a safe
distance by a troop of Moro horsemen under the direction of the old
Panglima. After Hawkinson had set up his camera on the edge of this
extemporized arena the bulls were brought in: medium-sized but
exceptionally powerful beasts, the muscles rippling under their sleek
brown coats, their short horns filed to the sharpness of lance-tips.
Each animal was led by its owner, who was able to control it to a
limited degree during the fight by means of a cord attached to the ring
in its nose. When the signal was given for the fight to begin, the
bulls approached each other cautiously, snorting and pawing the ground.
They reminded me of two strange dogs who cannot decide whether they
wish to fight or be friends. For ten minutes, regardless of the jeers
of the spectators and the proddings of their handlers, the great brown
beasts rubbed heads as amicably as a yoke of oxen. Then, just as we had
made up our minds that it was a fiasco and that there would be no
bull-fight pictures, there was a sudden angry bellow, the two great
heads came together with a thud like a pile-driver, and the fight was
on. The next twenty minutes Hawkinson and I spent in alternately
setting up his camera within range of the panting, straining animals
and in picking it up and running for our lives, in order to avoid being
trampled by the maddened beasts in their furious and unexpected
onslaughts. The men at the ends of the nose-ropes were as helpless to
control their infuriated charges as a trout fisherman who has hooked a
shark. With horns interlocked and with blood and sweat dripping from
their massive necks and shoulders, they fought each other, step by
step, across the width of the arena, across a cultivated field which
lay beyond, burst through a thorn hedge surrounding a native's patch of
garden, trampled the garden into mire, and narrowly escaped bringing
down on top of them the owner's dwelling, which, like most Moro houses,
was raised above the ground on stilts. It looked for a time as though
the fight would continue over a considerable portion of the island, but
it was brought to an abrupt conclusion when one of the bulls,
withdrawing a few yards, to gain momentum, charged like a tank
attacking the Hindenburg Line, driving one of its horns deep into its
adversary's eye-socket, whereupon the wounded animal, half-blinded and
mad with pain, turned precipitately, jerked the nose-rope from its
owner's grasp, and stampeding the spectators in its mad flight,
disappeared in the depths of the jungle.
[Illustration: The bull-fight at Parang
There was a sudden bellow, the two great heads came
together with a thud like a pile-driver, and the fight was on
The spectators were kept at a distance by Móró horsemen
under the Panglima]
"That," announced the Governor, "concludes the morning performance.
This afternoon we will present for your approval a programme consisting
of pony races, a carabao fight, a shark-fishing expedition, and, if
time permits, a visit to the pearl-fisheries to see the divers at work.
This evening we will call on the Princess Fatimah, the daughter of the
Sultan, and tomorrow I have arranged to take you to Tapul Island to
shoot wild carabao. After that----"
"After that," I interrupted, "we go away from here. If we stayed on in
this quiet little island of yours much longer, we shouldn't have any
film left for the other places."