It is night again, the battle of Bayan is now fought and indeed very
gloriously won. The last reports of the yet warm cannon have ceased to
echo through the distant hills and ravines. The khaki-clad warriors and
laurel-crowned victors, blood stained and weary from the struggle of the
recent battle, have sought a well earned and much needed repose. But
their sleep is not one of comfort or rest, for they have contentedly
lain down uncovered on the cold damp ground.
The shrill notes of the bugle call them from their dreamy slumbers at an
early hour and their first duty is to finish burying the dead and lend
what aid is possible to the sick and wounded, who were too sick and
exhausted at this time to be removed over the rugged trails to the
hospitals at Malabang.
To do this it was absolutely necessary to establish a camp, somewhere
adjacent to the centre of hostilities.
It was then that the post of Camp Vicars, now so widely known throughout
the nations of the earth, first had its origin. It was so named in honor
of the brave and ever dauntless soldier, Lieut. Vicars, who
unfortunately lost his life from a wound received, while heroically
engaged in the capture of the stronghold.
Everything is now placid, hostilities had ceased for a time at least,
the Moros driven as they were from their forts, and stockades, which had
been their sole protection for centuries past against all foreign
invasion, had sought shelter from the yet unconquered tribes wherever it
could be had, offering scarcely any resistance or hostilities to the
troops then at the camp.