company street. Stopping at the cook's tent, he inquired what there
was for dinner.
"Beans, bacon, and hardbread," was the reply.
"Tough menu for Christmas, eh, cook?"
Since their arrival, every turkey and duck had disappeared, and the
barrio offered nothing to enhance their limited ration. It was an
old trick; the natives objected to sharing their food with soldiers,
and as soon as any troops landed on the island, ever possible article
was spirited away into the jungle.
It was a bad day for every one. Most of the men were homesick, and
they all felt the shadow of impending disaster; only Lewis and his
confidants realized the seriousness of the situation, however.
"Corporal, take four men with bolos and cut six banana trees," called
Lewis. "Plant them in a row down the company street."
Curiosity and amusement were mingled with indifference as the men
started toward the thicket to execute the order. What had come
over the lieutenant? Obediently the trees were brought, and Lewis
superintended the planting. The squad was kept busy cutting ferns
and palms, and it began to dawn on the astonished men that they were
preparing for a holiday. The spirit was taken up generally, and the
gloom was gradually dispelled.
"Here, Jake, hang this mistletoe up over the folding doors," commanded
the corporal, handing him a bamboo shoot, and pointing to the tent
door. "Now when she comes asailin' in to dinner, all unaware of your
presence, smack her a good one, right on the bull's eye."
Laughter and shouts greeted this order, and when Kid Conner offered to
impersonate a lovely damsel and, with mincing step and bashful mien,
appeared at the opening, Jake was game, and a skuffle ensued. Shrieks
of merriment coming from the cook tent aroused Lewis's curiosity, and
even his weighty matters were forgotten when he beheld Irish cooky
on his knees before the incinerator arranging a row of well-worn
socks. Solemnly folding his hands he raised his eyes in supplication:
"Dear Santa, don't forget your children in this far-away jungle. We
are minus a chimney on this insinuator, but we are bettin' on you and
the reindeers just the same, to slip one over on us and come shinnin'
down a cocoanut-tree with your pack. Never mind the trimmin's and
holly, just bring plenty of cut plug and dry matches."
And so the day worn on. Toward noon the storm broke; runners announced
the approach of the sultan, and Lewis was far from calm when he gave
the order to admit him to camp.
"Piang," he said, "there is the deuce to pay, I know, but you stick
by your uncle, and we will pull through."
No insignificant nigger greeted Lewis this time. The sultan had come
in state. Where he had gathered his train, the men could not imagine,
but there he was, garbed in royal raiment, attended by slaves and
retainers. Solemnly the procession advanced. Advisers, wives, slaves,
and boys with buyo-boxes followed his majesty, who was arrayed in a red
silk sarong, grotesquely embroidered with glass beads, colored stones,
and real pearls. His hair was festooned with trinkets strung on wire,
and on his fingers were fastened tiny bells that jingled and tinkled
incessantly. They got on Lewis's nerves, and he quaked inwardly when
he realized why he was honored by this visit.
Finally when the members of the court had arranged themselves around
their master, he loftily signaled for his buyo; Lewis, nothing
daunted, motioned to his striker. Amid smothered laughter he produced
the lieutenant's pipe and tobacco, using a tin wash-basin for a
tray. Mimicking the actions of the royal slave the man salaamed before
Lewis and proffered the pipe. Lest the sultan should despise his barren
state, minus slaves, advisers, and wives, Lewis summoned Sergeant Greer
and directed him to remain beside him to share the honor of the visit.
When Lewis caught Irish cooky, arrayed in apron and undershirt, with
a basting spoon and a meat ax held at attention, making faces at his
old sergeant, the humor of the situation came over him, and he smiled
to himself as he looked at the scene before him: the banana-trees,
loosely flapping their wilted leaves, the socks idly waiting to
be the center of merriment again, the troop drawn up at attention,
regardless of the variety of uniform, and beyond, the _Sabah_, sole
reminder of civilization, bobbing at anchor.
Never removing his eyes from Lewis's face, the sultan completed
the ceremony of the buyo, and after deliberately rolling a quid of
betel-nut, lime-dust, and tobacco leaves, the august person stuffed
it into his mouth.
The trees rang with silence. Lewis thought his ears would burst as
he strained them to catch the first sound that was to decide his
fate. Faithfully Piang remained by his friend's side, despite the
angry glances directed toward him from the sultan's party; the lad
was fearful of the outcome of this tangle.
Finally the spell was broken. Women giggled, slaves flitted about,
administering to the wants of the party, and the interpreter rose to
deliver the complaint.
Had there not been a treaty of peace signed between Moroland and
America?
"Yes," replied Lewis. "And I am happy to serve a government that greets
the Moro as brother." The sultan stirred, perplexed by the reply.
"Then what right had that boat," asked the interpreter, pointing to
the _Sabah_, "to shell the barrio, destroying property and killing?"
This question was received by Lewis and the sergeant with grave
surprise. Solemnly they exchanged inquiring glances, then in
mock indignation glowered at the _Sabah_. The _Sabah_ disturb the
peace? When had that happened?
Insolently the interpreter related the story of the attack, and a
rustle of surprise and delight ran through the troop. Sorrowfully
Lewis and the sergeant shook their heads, and the sultan, puzzled
at first, began to realize that he was dealing with a new kind of
"Americano." The two men's heads bent lower and lower as they sorrowed
over the misdemeanor of their little boat. Weighed down with grief,
Lewis signaled Piang to prepare for his reply to the noble visitor.
How could he (Lewis) appease the powerful sultan for this mishap? What
amends could he make for the treachery of his little gunboat? Not
even he [his hands went up in imitation of the sultan's own gesture
of the day before] could help it, powerful officer though he was. It
was Christmas, a most holy day, and doubtless before dawn the truant
craft had slipped out of the harbor without permission and had gone
juramentadoing.
"Attention!" commanded Sergeant Greer, startling the troop into
rigidness. Their delight had almost expressed itself in a whoop.
With exaggerated gestures, Lewis continued.
Did the Moro not have similar customs? And did the sultan
not sympathize with him in his inability to stop this dreadful
practice in the Celebes Sea? American boats are dangerous on their
feast days, and no one can tell when they may go juramentadoing to
celebrate the occasion. That is the only custom they could celebrate
to-day. Look! [He pointed at the pitiful banana-trees.] There are no
gifts to adorn them with, no turkeys to kill; and the soldiers' hearts
are sad. But the _Sabah_ evidently appreciated her capabilities,
and doubtless before night she would again honor her country by
recklessly shelling the jungle.
At this moment from the _Sabah_ a shrill whistle echoed through the
forest, scattering the assembled guests in all directions. Some took
to trees, others threw themselves face down, on the ground.
The sultan was furious. He gruffly ordered his subjects back, and his
beady eyes glared at the impostor, but he was too much of a diplomat to
display his feelings further. The soldiers had been amused at first,
but they realized the danger of trifling with the sultan. Every tree
and corner of the jungle would respond with an armed savage, eager
to destroy them, should the order be given, and uneasy glances were
directed at the irate potentate. All the recent good humor and mirth
had vanished; only the sergeant and the lieutenant retained an air of
utter indifference. They quietly continued to smoke, gazing off into
the far horizon, oblivious of their surroundings. Were they pushing
that huge American bluff too far?
After long deliberation, the sultan apparently reached his
conclusion. He whispered an order, and several runners disappeared into
the jungle. Lewis heard the sergeant catch his breath, but the old
man preserved his dignity admirably. More silent waiting and smoking
followed. The sultan growled his displeasure as an adviser attempted to
give some piece of advice, displaying a far from lovely temper. Piang
valiantly stood his ground, ready to fight and die by his friend.
Finally sounds of the returning slaves reached the gathering. What was
coming? Armed savages? Or had he ordered his poison reptiles to be let
loose among the soldiers? The stillness was oppressive. No one moved,
and the sultan continued to study the averted face of the officer.
A sound floated to them, nearer, nearer. The men braced themselves
for a fight. But the sound? It was one they had all heard, a familiar,
homelike sound.
"Gobble-gobble!" It was answered from all directions. Gradually the
truth dawned on Lewis. He had won, and the warm blood rushed through
his tired limbs.
"Turkeys, by gosh!" shouted a recruit, and the cry was taken up by
the whole command, for slaves were pouring in with fowls of every
description. The sergeant vainly tried to establish order in the ranks,
but the reaction was too great. All the good humor and excitement of
the morning was restored, and the innate childishness of the soldier
began to assert itself.
"Here, Jake, hang this fellow up on that tree so he can salute his
majesty in true turkey fashion," shouted one man, and Jake, game as
usual, tossed a big gobbler up in one of the mock Christmas-trees. From
this point of vantage the bird made the jungle resound with its
protests, while the troop screamed with laughter as Jake undertook
to interpret the creature's address.
"Piang, what will we say to the old codger now?" asked Lewis.
"I ask for gift for _Sabah_; it keep her good," grinned the boy,
and when he delivered that message to his majesty, a smile nearly
destroyed the immobility of his features. A slave handed Lewis a
package done up in green leaves, and when he curiously loosened the
wrappings, a handful of seed-pearls, beautiful in luster and coloring
fell in his palm.
"Thank him for the _Sabah_, Piang. I guess this will ease her restless
spirit, all right. Tell him it will also serve as a balm for the
wounds of the men who were attacked by the juramentados."
Regally the old potentate rose to take leave. Lewis wanted to slap
him on the back in that "bully-for-you-old-top" manner, but the farce
must be completed. When the sultan paused opposite Lewis, measuring
him with those cruel, steely eyes, Lewis's only indiscretion was a
wavering of the eyelid, just one little waver, but it was very much
like a wink. There was undoubtedly a response in the other's eyes,
but that is between the sultan and Lewis.
As solemnly as they had come, the procession disappeared into the
jungle. The giant trees, smothered by vines and noxious growths,
swallowed the brilliant throng and seemed to symbolize the union
of the savage and the jungle. The sergeant's great, brawny hand was
extended and grasped by Lewis in appreciation of what they had been
through together.
Excitement reigned everywhere. The bedlam of fowls about to be
decapitated and the shrieks of the troopers vied with each other for
supremacy. Piang was being lionized by the men, toasted and praised
in high fashion.
When Lewis inspected the Christmas dinner, the old Irishman winked
a solemn wink, as he reminded the lieutenant of the discarded menu.
"You knew it all the time, sor; why didn't you put me on?" With a
noncommittal smile, Lewis proceeded on his usual inspection tour. After
he had returned to his tent and was settling himself to enjoy the
hard-earned meal, he was startled by an unusually loud outburst among
the men. It gradually dawned upon him what it was. "Three cheers
for the lieutenant! Three cheers for Piang!" was the cry that was
disturbing the jungle twilight.
NINTH ADVENTURE
THE BICHARA [1]
Piang was about to land for the first time at Zamboanga. His tribe
had looked with distrust upon the overtures made by Governor Findy,
and although they obeyed his command to appear at the _bichara_, they
were prepared to fight if necessary. Pagans, Mohammedans, Catholics,
and Protestants were ordered to assemble at Zamboanga to establish
peaceful trading relations, a thing that had never been dreamed
of in the belligerent Sulu Isles, and Americans as well as natives
were fearful of the outcome. The governor was severely criticized
for his experiment, but he had made a deep study of the Moros,
and was willing to run the risks of the present in his desire to
bring the light of freedom and peace to the misguided savages. After
centuries of oppression and outrages against them, the Moros had of
necessity become suspicious and cautious. Preyed upon by Jesuits,
Filipinos, and Spaniards, they had long ago found a ready bolo the
safest argument. Governor Findy had sent them word that they were
to be protected from their enemies, and that Americans were their
friends, but disturbing whispers of traps and bondage made the wild
folk hesitate to obey the summons.
Thus, a strange scene was being enacted at the Zamboanga wharf. From
all directions weird crafts made their way hesitatingly toward it. The
sentries were distrustfully scrutinized, but not a soldier was armed.
"See, Kali Pandapatan, I told you the new governor was good. He trusts
us and permits us to enter his barrio as friends." Proudly the tribe's
charm boy sprang from the war-prau, and, to the astonishment of the
soldiers, as well as the Moros, strutted up to the sergeant in charge
and offered his hand, American fashion.
"I'll be dinged, if it ain't Piang!" exclaimed Sergeant Greer. "Is
this your old man, Piang?" he asked genially, pointing to Kali
Pandapatan. The old chief stiffened at the apparent familiarity.
"Him big chief! Him Kali Pandapatan," hastily corrected Piang.
"Excuse me, sor; no hard feelings, I hope. Had a rough trip over,
I hear; how did you leave the missus?"
When the remark had been interpreted, a murmur rippled through
Kali's ranks, and hands flew to hips. No Moro permits his women to
be spoken of.
"What's all the fuss, kid?" asked the sergeant, innocently.
With an impish grin, Piang replied:
"Him no like talk about missus; him got twenty."
"The deuce he has!" laughed the sergeant. "Some old scout!"
The good-natured Irishman finally gained the confidence of the ruffled
potentate, and when Piang explained that he and the soldier were old
friends, Kali solemnly acknowledged the union with a stiff handshake.
"Ver' good," said the savage with a grin. Piang glowed with pride at
Kali's display of English.
"Now what do you know 'bout that?" commented Greer.
The savages were for all the world like packs of wild animals brought
to bay. Gaudy Bogobos from Davao brushed shoulders for the first time
with Sabanas and Kalibugans, and their snarls and bickerings boded
ill for the success of the bichara; but finally the natives huddled
together, linked by the common suspicion of their Christian enemy.
Before entering the town, every visitor was required to place
his weapons in the _lanceria_. Now a weaponless Moro is the most
embarrassed of men, with the possible exception of the dreamer who
finds himself at a party in pajamas. A Moro's idea of his costume,
arranged in order of its importance is: first, weapons; second, hat;
third, shirt, and, incidentally, trousers.
The timid creatures slunk along, looking suspiciously behind them, but
as the soldiers paid no attention to them, they gradually forgot their
enmity toward civilization and became engrossed in the new delights:
pink lemonade, pop-corn, toy balloons. They were beside themselves
with joy. When ice-cream was introduced, and they had been assured
that it would not burn them, their admiration was unbounded. Piang
surreptitiously slipped some of the heavenly sweet into his wallet
for future consumption and was dismayed a little later to find a thin
stream trickling down his leg and an empty wallet.
Governor Findy watched with interest the mingling of the many alien
people. Wily Chinamen behind their bamboo street-stalls ministered
to the wants of the throng, taking in trade bits of gold-dust and
trinkets of brass; Filipinos offered their wares, cooling drinks and
sweets. The Filipino's costume is very different from that of the
Moro. He wears stiff, white trousers, carefully creased and immaculate
shirts which hang outside the trousers. He wears no shoes, and his
short black hair is oiled and brushed very carefully.
"Now, it's many times I've been wonderin' what the advantage is in
wearin' your shirt outside your trousers," said Sergeant Greer to a
sentry. "That's what I call practical," and he pointed to an ice-cream
vender, industriously wiping a spoon on the tail of his shirt, before
offering it to a new customer.
There was great excitement over the coming _baile_ (ball). That night
savages and Christians were to enjoy the festivities side by side, and
marvelous tales of preparation were being circulated. Piang and Kali
Pandapatan wandered about the village, pausing here and there, filled
with awe at the novel sights. The value of garters as necklaces had
been discovered, and a brilliant crimson pair decorated the chief's
neck (he had gladly parted with five dollars' worth of gold-dust
for the treasure). Gilt collar buttons were forced into the holes
in his ears. Safety-pins and their surprises had to be investigated,
and an admiring throng crowded around, marveling at Kali's daring.
"Kali!" Piang exclaimed suddenly. "Look!"
Seated at a table in front of a Chino cafe, were three men in
earnest conversation: Alverez, a Filipino mestizo, who had acquired
by deception the Moro title, Dato Tamangung; his cousin Vincente; and
the Moro malcontent, Sicto. The two Filipinos were disloyal employees
of the government, already suspected of being the instigators of
unrest among the Moros. Sicto was a deserter from Kali's ranks and
was wanted by that august chief for many serious offenses. Dato Kali
Pandapatan scorned to report Sicto to the authorities. A Moro dato
is supreme and has the right to punish his subjects according to his
own lights. A woman, mingling with the gala bichara throng had a mere
stump for an arm; she was a thief and her hand had been severed to
prevent it from offending again. A man with face half covered showed
the savage justice dealt a liar; his mouth had been split from ear
to ear to permit easier passage of the truth. Sicto would be handled
according to Moro law, but not here.
Kali and Piang exchanged a knowing look, and Piang wandered off,
apparently seeking new pleasures, but furtively watching the three
men. He wormed his way through the crowd intent on a game of chess,
played by two venerable old Chinamen. A sudden "Sssshhh" from Sicto
interrupted Alverez's excited whisper, but not before Piang had caught
a few significant words:
"The baile--juramentado--Findy."
The little charm boy's heart beat violently, but his face never
changed expression. Juramentado! So some poor misguided fanatic
had been persuaded to assassinate the governor. He and Kali must
prevent the outrage, for had they not sworn allegiance to this new
chief? Piang feared that Sicto suspected the words had been overheard,
so he carefully avoided Kali and strolled on among the people. A
glance at his chief had warned Kali that trouble was in the air.
Sicto, Alverez, and Vincente moved off toward the dock.
"Sicto, did Piang hear what I said?" asked Alverez.
"Does the jungle hear the trumpeting of the elephant?" angrily
retorted Sicto.
"He hasn't spoken to any one yet," said Vincente, significantly. "We
had better get rid of him before--"
A whispered conversation followed, and Alverez finally exclaimed:
"I'll do it! Wait here. Watch Piang." Then he hurried off.
Without approaching Kali, or divulging the secret to any one, Piang
followed the men to the dock, and Sicto laughed softly as he watched
the unsuspecting boy walk into the trap. The little gunboat _Sabah_
was bobbing at her moorings, and Piang joined the crowd that was
gazing in wonder at the strange craft. A shrill whistle, signifying
the _Sabah's_ intention of immediate departure, so terrified the Moros
that some took to their heels while others sought the safety of tall
lamp-posts. Piang was laughing merrily when he was startled by a noise,
and turning, he saw Alverez and a soldier running toward him.
Instantly everything was confusion, and Piang realized that he was
the center of the excitement.
"Are you Piang?" asked the soldier, cautiously approaching him.
"Sure, me Piang."
"Hike! Beat it!" said the man, pointing to the _Sabah_.
What did he mean? Was Piang to be allowed to go aboard the boat?
The soldier made it very plain, finally, that such was the case, but
Piang insisted that he could not depart on a pleasure ride without
getting his chief's permission.
"_Sigi_, beat it, I tell you, _pronto_!" said the soldier impatiently,
emphasizing the command with a push. Almost before Piang realized it,
he found himself on the gunboat, which was slowly moving out toward
the channel. In his hand was a crumpled piece of paper which the
soldier had gingerly thrust into it.
"Here's your passport, kid," he had said with a grin. Piang carefully
unrolled the paper and stared at the queer American characters. A
sailor offered to translate it for him, but when he glanced over the
paper, he uttered a low whistle.
"Say, you go away back and sit down! Don't you come near me or any
one else, sabe?"
Piang recoiled before the look of disgust on the sailor's face. What
was the matter with every one? Why were they all afraid to come near
him, and where were they taking him? He summoned up enough courage to
ask who had written the letter, and when he was told that it was signed
by Governor Findy, he felt reassured. Surely if the good governor was
sending him somewhere, it would be all right. Disconsolately, Piang
crouched in a corner, watching sharks and dolphins sporting in the
foaming wake. He wondered how long the boat was going to be out, if
it would return in time for him to save the governor. When he started
toward a group of men to ask for information he was met with a shout.
"Get out of here, you!" they yelled, and poor Piang hurriedly retreated
to the stern. Much talk of the coming baile seemed to indicate that
the sailors expected to return before evening, so Piang patiently
squatted on a coil of rope, wondering when the mysteries of his errand
would be revealed to him.
The ocean is dotted with many lovely islands off Zamboanga. Somber,
lowering Basilan guards its secrets to this day; Sacol, home of Dato
Mandi, invites and then repels the intruder; tiny clumps of vivid
green rise out of the channel in the most unexpected places, as if
timidly wishing to investigate before adding their emerald mite to
crown the Celebes. The island toward which the _Sabah_ was making her
way seemed blacker and denser than its more frivolous neighbors. Two
staccato whistles warned the islanders of the _Sabah's_ approach,
and the beach was soon the scene of lively commotion. The engines
stopped, and the gunboat slid along easily. A boat was lowered. The
sailors were speaking in low voices; one looked toward Piang and
shook his head sadly.
"My task is not to be an easy one," thought the charm boy, but his
head went up proudly. These sailor men should see how a brave Moro
executed the commands of his superiors.
"Come on, kid," called a jacky, and just as Piang stepped over the
side a kindly sailor slipped a quarter in his hand. It was evidently
a gift, and the boy grinned appreciatively.