lake! How in tarnation did he get to us from this direction?" The men
silently exchanged glances, all remembering their fruitless attempts
to make a trail over the Dos Hermanas. Forcing water between the
parched lips, the corporal gently shook Piang. The boy opened his
eyes and shuddered.
"You're all right now, little 'un," the corporal said, and although
Piang did not understand the language, he responded to the kind tone
with a weak smile. Slowly getting to his elbow, he motioned toward
the garrison:
"_Hombre!_" ("Man!") he muttered. It was the only Spanish word he knew,
and the soldiers guessed that he wanted Lieutenant Lewis.
"Give him a lift, boys," said the corporal and set the example by
helping Piang to stand.
"Why, the boy's story is incredible, Lewis. It is simply impossible
that a gunboat could be at the bottom of Lake Lanao," General
Beech protested as he walked to and fro in front of his desk in the
administration building.
"If you will search the records at headquarters, sir, I think you
will find mention of three gunboats that were shipped to this island
by the Spanish government and disappeared mysteriously on the eve of
our occupancy."
And so it turned out. Inquiries among the older natives of the barrio
brought confirmation of the report, and weird tales of transporting
the diminutive gunboats in sections over the mountain passes began
to float about. Finally General Beech was convinced and gave the
necessary orders to equip and send an investigating party to the
lake. Piang was to be the guide.
The transport _Seward_ carried the troops around to Iligan, and the
struggle up the mountain trail to Lake Lanao began.
Sicto was the first to give warning of the approach. He came upon the
party one morning as they were breaking camp near the Marie Christina
falls and immediately dashed off to Marahui.
"The white devils are coming," he shrieked. "Piang, the traitor,
is leading them to us!"
Dato Grande assembled his council, and they awaited the coming
of the soldiers with misgivings. They had good reason to fear the
Americans. General Bushing had swept that district in his marvelous
campaign, and there was many a cripple among the lake people to
testify to the accuracy of his marksmen. But they were relieved by
the appearance of Ricardo, the interpreter, who explained to the dato
that the troops were not hostile, but had come to make friends with
the Moros.
Proudly Piang swung along at the head of the column, guiding them
to his recent platform home. Camp was pitched on the shore, and the
engineers commenced work at once. The boy impatiently waited for
the divers to fix their cumbersome suits, and when all was ready,
he plunged into the water and disappeared from view. The grotesque
figures floating down with him made Piang want to laugh. They looked
like huge devil-fish, and he wondered how they could stand the clumsy
dress. After he had led the men to the boat he came to the top and
swam with eyes down. If there were more boats, he wanted to find them
first. The men on the bank were watching his agile movements with
interest. With a shout he disappeared again. Yes, yes, there was a
second boat. And as he circled the sunken craft he spied another near
it. Striking out for the shore, he swam to where the general and the
lieutenant were waiting.
"What is he chattering about, Ricardo?" asked the general.
"He says he has seen the other two boats, sir."
"This is certainly a fortunate discovery, Lewis. I shall make a
report to Washington on the matter, and you shall be commended for
your sagacity."
The young officer flushed with pleasure, but replied:
"Thank you, sir, but I think the boy Piang deserves all the credit."
It was many days before the task was completed. The rice had remained
a mystery to the last, and the officers puzzled over the fact that it
had not rotted entirely. The first report from the divers confirmed
the rumor that the boats had been scuttled, presumably to prevent
the Americans from capturing them. They had all been loaded with
rice packed in sacks, and secured in tin-lined boxes. Until recently
it had been protected from the water, but something heavy from above
had fallen on them, crushing the outside coverings. The tortoise had
done the rest.
Another surprise awaited the troops. A diver brought up a handful of
Krag cartridges.
"This _is_ a mystery," said Lieutenant Lewis. "The Spanish never used
Krags; we were the first to bring them to this part of the world,
weren't we?"
A shadow crossed General Beech's face. Quietly he ordered the divers to
search for more ammunition. Silently they waited, and Lewis wondered
what had brought the sad expression to his chief's face. When the
divers brought up a wooden box half filled with cartridges, the two
officers bent over it; on one side, branded in the wood, was plainly
visible:
"Depot Quartermaster, San Francisco, Cal."
"I thought so," murmured the general.
"Well, what do you know about that!" exclaimed Lewis. "The public
has been wondering for years what became of the thousands of rounds
of ammunition General Bushing took with him on his spectacular march
through Mindanao. Murder will out. It is here!" He rubbed his hands
together in glee, laughing softly.
"How do you suppose this ammunition got here, Lewis?" General Beech
asked gravely.
"Why, dumped here, of course. Don't you remember the Sunday editions
at home proclaiming Bushing a hero because he had used more ammunition
and apparently done more fighting, than any one on record? Why didn't
he come out with the truth?"
General Beech colored at this injustice to his colleague.
"The usual hasty conclusion characteristic of Young America!" said the
General, sharply. "Do you know, young man, that General Bushing is not
only one of our ablest soldiers, but one of the most finished diplomats
in the service?" Lewis had never seen General Beech so agitated.
"This discovery will be no news to the war department; they are
in possession of the detailed account of the accident." He paused,
his eyes sweeping the lake. "Lewis, this lake is the site of a most
unfortunate accident. Out there," General Beech pointed toward the
center of the lake, "dozens of our soldiers were lost, and the public
will never know the tragic story of their fall. General Bushing
was trying to transport six rafts of ammunition across the lake
to the troops stranded at Camp Vicars. During a wild night storm,
the handful of men set out on improvised rafts, but half-way across
they were attacked from all sides and nearly annihilated. Only the
wisdom and bravery of General Bushing saved the entire detachment
from death; he ordered the ammunition thrown overboard and rescued
his remaining men after a hard fight. That the survivors, one and
all, have kept faith, and never divulged the story of the lost Krags,
proves the remarkable influence General Bushing had over his command,
for had the Moros got wind of this handy arsenal--!"
The day finally came when the tiny flotilla was at last raised, and,
gay in its paint and polished metal, gallantly rode at anchor. All the
lake tribes were assembled to witness the celebration, and they gazed
with wonder at the strange craft. Many Americans had been attracted to
the lake by news of the discovery, and the camp had grown to almost
twice its original size. Some of the officers' wives had endured the
hardships of the journey to witness the novel sight.
The boats were pronounced seaworthy and were to be tested. The
largest boat, the flagship, was decorated from one end to the other
with its faded pennants, but in the stern, proudly proclaiming its
present nationality, flew the Stars and Stripes. Under the flag
at the bow stood a sturdy, nonchalant figure, arms folded, head
erect. Condescendingly Piang swept the crowd of wondering natives
with his haughty eye. He paid no more attention to Sicto than to the
others. In his supreme self-confidence Piang scorned to report Sicto
to the authorities. He was clothed in a new dignity that put him far
above considering such an unworthy opponent as Sicto and he silently
cherished the hope that other opportunities to outwit the mestizo
would be granted him.
An order was given. A shrill whistle startled the jungle folk. The
engines throbbed, and one after another the boats responded. A cheer
went up from the banks.
Piang had been given the honor of renaming the boats. The smallest
one bore the name of his mother, Minka. The next was dedicated to the
memory of his tribe's greatest hero, Dato Ali, and characteristically,
on the bow of the flagship, beneath the boy's feet, glittered the
bright gold letters, "P-I-A-N-G."
EIGHTH ADVENTURE
THE JURAMENTADO GUNBOAT
The transport _Seward_ was approaching Jolo. Far in the distance the
sunset tinged the coast with myriads of delicate tints, softening the
harsh outline of the jungle. A flock of wild pigeons hovering over
the town, suggested domestic peace, which was far from the actual
state of affairs in that hotbed of intrigue. Glasses were trained on
the isolated garrison, a mere speck of civilization, hurled at the
foot of the jungle, and the excited tourists covered themselves with
glory by their foolish questions.
Queer, dark-skinned people in dirty, many-colored garments, looking
like a rainbow fallen in disgrace, greeted the newcomers in sullen
silence, their disapproval very evident. A quarantine officer boarded
and asked for the young lieutenant who was to join the Siasi garrison.
"Hello, Lewis! There is some uprising in Basilan. Jekiri again,
I guess. They want you up at headquarters immediately."
The chug-chug of the engine was the only sound as the trim little
gunboat _Sabah_ slipped along. Lewis had been given command of a
squad of cavalry and ordered to proceed to Basilan to put down any
outbreak that might threaten. "Juramentado," was whispered, and his
orders were not to allow the troops to become involved but to quell
any trouble that was brewing.
"A pretty big order for a shave-tail (greenhorn) Lewis," General
Beech had said at parting, "but I bet you and that dark shadow of
yours will make good." The hearty handclasp and kind smile warmed the
young officer's heart. General Beech was unusually young for his post
as division commander, and he had endeared himself to his followers
by his kindly manner and dignified directness, and Lewis would have
faced death for him.
"Thank you, sir," was all that he said, and "the dark shadow" salaamed
according to his custom.
That night as the Americans swung along under the dome of brilliant
stars, a question arose as to the meaning of juramentado.
"Piang," Lieutenant Lewis said, "tell us about this custom of your
people, won't you?"
Bashfully the boy hung his head and wriggled his toes. He was ashamed
of his fierce people since the good American had taken him into his
home, but they prevailed upon him to explain, and among them they
gathered the following story from his funny, broken English:
When a Moro wearies of life and wishes to take a short cut to paradise,
he bathes in a holy spring, shaves his eyebrows, clothes himself
in white and is blessed by the pandita. The oath he takes is called
_juramentar_ (die killing Christians), and he arms himself with his
wicked knife and starts forth. Selecting a gathering, well sprinkled
with Christians, he begins his deadly work, and as long as he breathes,
he hews right and left. Piang told them that he had seen one strong
Moro juramentado pierced by a bayonet, drive the steel further into
himself, in order to reach the soldier at the other end of the gun,
whom he cut in two before he died.
The horror on the faces of his listeners made Piang pause, but they
urged him on.
"Since we are headed toward Jekiri's sanctum, I guess it behooves us
to get all the dope goin' about these fellows," interjected a recruit.
Piang's big, black eyes filled with mystery when he described how
the juramentado rides to the abode of the blessed on a shadowy,
white horse, taller than a carabao, just as dusk is falling. Indeed,
he assured them that he had seen this very phenomenon himself and
shivered at the recollection of the unnatural chill and damp that
crept through the jungle while the spirit was passing.
"Bosh, Piang, you mustn't believe those fairy tales now. You are a
good American."
"Sure, me good American, now," grinned the boy.
There is nothing to differentiate the island of Basilan from the many
others in the Sulu group. The natives seemed far from hostile, however,
and Lieutenant Lewis remarked upon their docility to Sergeant Greer.
"Don't let 'em fool you, sir; they're not to be trusted," he replied.
"Oh, Sergeant, I think we are all too scared of the dirty beggars. If
we ever stop dodging them, they will stop lying in wait for us."
The old man's face did not reveal his misgivings, but he wondered
where this young upstart would lead the men and inwardly cursed the
war department for sending troops into the jungle under the command
of a baby. He was soon to change his opinion of this particular "baby."
Camp was pitched near the water's edge in a tall cocoanut grove that
supplied them with food and water as well as shade. The chores over,
liberty was granted to explore the island. The sergeant shook his head;
he seemed to feel the inexperience of the new officer and overstepped
the bounds of discipline when he warned him again of the treachery
of the natives, advising him to keep the men in camp.
"That will do, Sergeant," replied the lieutenant. The old man stiffened
into a salute, wheeled, and disappeared down the company street.
At sunset retreat was sounded, and after all the men had been
accounted for, they gathered around the fires. Picturesque natives
mingled with the jolly soldiers, bartering and arguing over trifling
purchases. Through the warm fragrance, unfamiliar sounds kept
reminding Lewis that he was far from home. The twilight deepened
into night, and pipe in hand, he reviewed the strange scene. Folks at
home were celebrating Christmas Eve. Somewhere the snow was falling,
bells jingling, and a mother's prayers were being whispered for the
far-away boy in the Sulu jungle. Little Piang was squatting at his
feet, silently watching the scene, happy because he was near his
master. Suddenly the boy jumped up, dashed into the crowd, and yelled:
"Juramentado!"
A tall Moro, without any warning, had begun to shriek and whirl,
cutting to and fro with his terrible campilan, and before any one could
prevent, he had felled two troopers. With a howl, Lewis plunged into
their midst, pistol leveled, but before he could pull the trigger,
the Moro buried the sword in his own vitals and pitched forward, dead.
"See, another!" cried Piang.
Just in time a bullet from the lieutenant's revolver silenced another
deadly fanatic. They had slipped into the gathering, well concealed
beneath enshrouding green sarongs, but Piang's quick eye had detected
them before they had a good start.
"Piang has saved us from a terrible row, boys," said Sergeant Greer,
and when the wounded were cared for, the rough soldiers tossed the
graceful boy on their shoulders and paraded through the camp, much
to the delight of the hero.
"I go to find the sultan to-morrow, sir?" asked Piang. "Him at
Isabella, and I must give him Kali Pandapatan's message."
"Well, Piang, I am with you. I'm going to face that old codger and
tell him what I think of his fiendish tricks of killing us off by
this beastly juramentado, when he claims to be at peace with America."
Lewis learned many things during the trip, and Piang delighted in
guiding his friends through the jungle he loved so well, through the
grass eight feet high, under trees laden with strange fruits. Monkeys
were swinging in the trees chattering and scolding the intruders.
"You want monkey, sir?" asked Piang.
"Can you catch one without hurting it?"
"You watch Piang," chuckled the boy. The others hid, and Piang
struck a match. The tree, full of curious little people, shook as
they scampered about trying to see what Piang was doing. He paid no
attention to them, and as he struck match after match, they gradually
crept nearer. Shielding the flame from the inquisitive creatures,
he excited their curiosity until they were unable to resist, and
soon one hopped to the ground. Another came, and another. Piang paid
no attention to the visitors, continuing to hide the flame in his
hands. Lewis almost spoiled it all by laughing outright, for it was
indeed a ridiculous sight to see the little wild things consumed with
curiosity. Walking upright, their funny hands dangling from the stiff
elbows, they advanced. One venturesome little gray form clinging to
the branch overhead by its tail, timidly touched Piang's shoulder. It
paused, touched it again, and finally confidently hopped upon it,
all the while craning its neck, making absurd faces at the sulphur
fumes. Two little arms went around Piang's neck; a soft little body
cuddled up against him, and all the while the monkey twisted and
turned in its efforts to discover the mystery of the flame.
The click of a camera sounded like a gunshot in the intense stillness,
and up the trees went the little band in a flash, all but the prisoner
in Piang's arms.
"Great, Piang," called Lewis. "I hope the picture will be good,
for it was the strangest sight I ever saw in my life."
"Oh, me love monkeys," replied the boy, stroking and soothing the
frightened creature. "You want this one?"
"No, let the little beast off, I couldn't bear to cage it up." A banana
and some sugar repaid the monkey for the experiment and after he was
free, he followed the travelers, chattering and begging for sweets.
When they came to Isabella, capital of Basilan Island, Piang scurried
off in search of the sultan. The men amused themselves watching
the excitement they created. An American soldier is a wonderful and
dreadful thing to these wild folk.
"The sultan, he out in other barrio. Me catchim." This being
interpreted meant that Piang would guide them to his house.
When they finally came to a clearing, Lewis wondered why Piang stopped
in front of a filthy hut, half-way up two cocoanut-trees; he was
impatient to be off, as he wanted to reach the sultan's palace before
dark. Piang was arguing with a dirty woman cleaning fish in the river.
"Piang, what's the idea? Let's get on," impatiently said Lewis.
"This His Excellency Paduca Majasari Amiril Sultan Harun Narrasid's
house," replied Piang with awe.
"Gee, what a name!" exclaimed Lewis. "And to go with that dugout,
too. Say, Piang, I suppose we could call the old chap Pad for short?"
Piang grinned, but instantly went on his knees, head touching the
ground as a sullen, dark face, a white scar slashed across the cheek,
appeared at the opening.
"What does the beggar mean by that grunt, Sergeant?" asked Lewis.
"That's the old boy himself, sir, wanting to know why you have
disturbed his royal sleep."
Lewis was dumfounded! This dirty, insignificant creature the sultan! He
wanted to laugh, but the solemn little figure, prostrate before the
man, made him say quietly:
"Piang, get up, I want you to talk to him."
Timidly the boy raised his eyes to his august lord; another grunt
seemed to give Piang permission, for he rose and faced Lewis.
"What you want Piang to say? Be careful. He not like joke and might
chop off Americanos."
Lewis realized it was no trifling matter to meet this scoundrel alone
in the jungle, far from reinforcements. His message was simple, short,
and impressive:
"Ask him why the devil he allowed those juramentados to invade
my camp?"
With much ceremony Piang addressed the sultan, bowing and scraping
before him. The low, ugly growls in response made Lewis furious,
but he refrained from showing his anger. The sultan's reply amazed him.
He expressed his regrets indifferently, that the camp had been
disturbed. But (he threw up his hands to indicate his helplessness)
who could stop the sacred juramentado? Not he, powerful sultan that
he was. To-day was a feast of the Mohammedans. To-day was a most
holy day, and, of course, the sultan could not be held responsible
if some of his men had become excited. True, many good Americans had
met their death in this way; it was most unfortunate, but how could
it be stopped? Did the Christians not have their Christmas, and did
they not kill turkeys and cut trees? The Moros are a fierce people
and celebrate their feast days in a more violent manner.
Poor Lewis! Thoroughly exasperated, he tried to argue through Piang,
but finding it hopeless, he told the boy to finish Kali Pandapatan's
business with the sultan as quickly as possible.
Discouraged, he started back through the jungle, wondering how many
more fanatics had broken loose during his absence. The sultan was
deliberately picking the troops off, a few at a time, always insisting
that he was at peace with the Americans. The war department, many miles
away, was unable to understand the situation. Orders required that
the Moro receive humane treatment, and forbade any drastic measures
being taken against the juramentados, saying time would cure it. It
was outrageous, and intelligent men were being made fools of by the
sultan, who understood the state of affairs perfectly.
The jungle began to irritate Lewis; it was a constant fight. The
terrible heat, the tenacity of the vines and undergrowth seemed
directed toward him personally, as he stumbled and fought his way
along. How impossible to deal with the crafty sultan according to
Christian standards! He should be given treatment that would bring
him to terms quickly, and Lewis longed to get a chance at him.
Suddenly an idea flashed into his head. He hurried Piang, bidding
him find a shorter cut home, as night was gathering.
"Sergeant Greer, come to my tent immediately," ordered the lieutenant
when he had looked over the camp and found everything safe.
"Allow no one to enter, orderly," he said and closed the flaps.
"Sergeant, I have a plan and I need your experience and advice to
carry it out. That old sultan is a fiend, and I am going to get him!"
"That's been tried many times, sir, and he is still ahead of the game."
But after Lewis had talked rapidly for a few minutes, disclosing
the plan that was slated to best his majesty, a smile broke over the
weather-beaten features of the sergeant, and he slapped his thighs
in appreciation.
"Well, sir, we can try it, and if it does work, headquarters will
flood you with thanks; if it fails, and I warn you it might, you will
be cut into hash either by the sultan or the war department." This
was good advice from the old soldier.
"I know it, Sergeant, but I am going to take the risk if you are with
me." The enthusiastic young man dashed out of the tent to make the
necessary preparations for the great event.
Christmas morning dawned sultry and heavy. The mist lifted after
reveille and the troops were astonished that the _Sabah_ had
disappeared. Their surprise was greater to find a corporal in charge
of the camp. There was a positive order that no trooper should enter
the barrio, and an air of mystery hung over the whole camp. Where
was the gunboat, the lieutenant, the sergeant, and the interpreter,
Piang? The corporal shook his head to all these questions.
Suddenly rapid firing was heard in the direction of the barrio,
and every soldier seized his gun and ran into the company streets,
but the corporal, calm and undisturbed, dismissed them.
Nervously the men wandered about; the two wounded men became the center
of attraction and related for the hundredth time their sensations
when the juramentado had struck them down. They were not seriously
wounded, but the cruel cuts were displayed, and they did not prove
an antidote to the tenseness of the situation.
The firing had ceased after about ten minutes, and new sounds took
its place: wails and shrieks, the crackling of bamboo, told the story
of the burning village. But who had attacked the town? The corporal
smiled to himself, quietly.
Cheerily a whistle rang out, sending the men running to the beach;
there was the _Sabah_, tripping jauntily through the water toward
her recent mooring-place, and on her deck, smiling and waving, were
the missing men.