[Illustration: _SOME ONE TURNED ON THE CURRENT_]
A
UNITED STATES
MIDSHIPMAN
IN THE
PHILIPPINES
_by_
Lt. Com. Yates Stirling Jr. U.S.N.
Author of
“A U.S. Midshipman Afloat”
“A U.S. Midshipman in China”
“A U.S. Midshipman in Japan”
“A U.S. Midshipman in the South Seas”
[Illustration]
Illustrated _by_ Ralph L. Boyer
THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
MCMXIII
COPYRIGHT
1910 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
[Illustration]
Introduction
The writer has attempted to describe in this volume the life of two
young midshipmen of the United States Navy, serving in a small gunboat
in Philippine waters.
The fighting between the United States troops and the lawless bands
of Filipino bandits (for they were bandits, more or less, after
Aguinaldo’s army had been dispersed) was in most cases “hand to hand”
and to the death. The navy had but small share in this war, but in some
instances the helpful coöperation of their web-footed brothers saved
the soldiers from embarrassing situations.
Midshipman Philip Perry and his classmate at Annapolis, Sydney Monroe,
first made their appearance in “A United States Midshipman Afloat.”
They had a part in stirring adventures during one of the frequent South
American revolutions. Here they became involved in diplomatic intrigue,
and had some success; but unfortunately diplomatic successes cannot
always be proclaimed to the world.
“A United States Midshipman in China” told of the adventures of the
same boys in China during a threatened uprising of fanatical Chinese
against the foreigners. Here again diplomacy counseled silence, and
their reward for saving the day was a mild rebuke from their admiral.
One of the principal characters in all three books is Jack O’Neil, a
typical modern man-of-war’s man.
These books are written in an endeavor to portray the life led by young
officers in the naval service. The writer’s own experiences warrant
the belief that the incidents are not unusual. The midshipmen are not
merely automatons. To one of Napoleon’s pawns an order was an order,
to be obeyed, right or wrong. But the doctrine, “their’s not to reason
why” when “some one has blundered” is no longer accepted as an excuse
for poor results. In these days of progress we court-martial an officer
who stubbornly obeys an order, when he knows that to do so will injure
the cause he has sworn to uphold.
Further account of the boys’ stirring adventures will be found in “A U.
S. Midshipman in Japan” and “A U. S. Midshipman in the South Seas.”
Contents
I. THE START FOR PALILO 9
II. A POLITE CAPTOR 25
III. A LEAK OF MILITARY INFORMATION 41
IV. LANDED IN CAPTIVITY 54
V. CAPTAIN BLYNN MARCHES 71
VI. THE “MINDINAO” 83
VII. THE GUNBOAT COÖPERATES 101
VIII. THE PRIVILEGES OF RANK 119
IX. THE KATIPUNAN SOCIETY 138
X. IN THE SHADOW OF A SUSPICION 158
XI. A TRAITOR UNMASKED 175
XII. THE MIDSHIPMEN RECONNOITRE 189
XIII. UNWELCOME COMPANIONS 212
XIV. CLEVERLY OUTWITTED 225
XV. A NIGHT OF ALARM 241
XVI. A FILIPINO MARTYR 259
XVII. A DARING PLAN 277
XVIII. A RIVER EXPEDITION 292
XIX. A WILLING CAPTIVE 308
XX. THE STRUGGLE FOR THE STRONGHOLD 324
XXI. THE GUNBOAT TAKES A HAND 336
XXII. THE ESCAPED OUTLAW 346
XXIII. COLONEL MARTINEZ 355
XXIV. THE GUNBOAT ON GUARD 366
XXV. CONCLUSION 377
Illustrations
PAGE
SOME ONE TURNED ON THE CURRENT _Frontispiece_
HERE WAS FREEDOM WITHIN HIS GRASP 69
“I AM IN COMMAND HERE!” 126
“HELLO, HERE ARE SOME CANOES!” 205
UP THE FACE OF THE CLIFF 288
HE GAZED DOWN INTO THE STILL FACE 333
A MAN STEPPED SILENTLY FROM BEHIND A TREE 356
A United States Midshipman In the Philippines
CHAPTER I
THE START FOR PALILO
The “Isla de Negros,” a small inter-island steamer, lay moored
alongside the dock in the turbulent waters of the Pasig River, the
commercial artery of the city of Manila. As the last of its cargo was
noisily carried on board by a swarm of half-naked stevedores, the
slender lines which held the steamer to the stone quay were cast off,
and with many shrill screeches from its high treble whistle the steamer
swung its blunt bow out into the strength of the current.
On the upper deck of the vessel, clad in white naval uniforms, two
United States midshipmen stood in silent contemplation of the activity
about them. They watched with undisguised interest the hundreds
of toiling orientals; resembling many ant swarms, traveling and
retraveling incessantly between the countless hulls of steamers and
lorchas and the long rows of hastily constructed storehouses facing
the river frontage. Here and there stood a khaki-clad sentry, rifle
in hand and belt filled with ball cartridges, America’s guardian of
the precious stores now being idly collected. Into these spacious
storehouses the sinews of war for the army of occupation were being
hoarded to be afterward redistributed among the small steamers plying
between the metropolis, Manila, and the outlying islands of the
archipelago.
The American army in the Philippines, always too small for the
stupendous task before it, was at last, owing to the added disaffection
of the tribes in the Southern islands, receiving the attention from
home which had long been withheld, and its numbers were being increased
by the arrival of every transport from the far-away homeland.
“We are here at last, Syd,” Midshipman Philip Perry exclaimed, a ring
of triumph in his voice as he turned toward his fellow midshipman,
Sydney Monroe. Friends of long standing were these two; for four
years at the Naval Academy at Annapolis they had been companions and
classmates, and during the past year they had together witnessed
stirring service in South America and in China.
“We’ve missed nearly six months of the war,” Sydney replied
querulously; “from the last accounts, Aguinaldo is on the run. Why,”
he ended mirthlessly, “the war may be over before we even see the
‘Mindinao.’”
“Pessimistic as usual,” Phil laughingly retorted; “where we are going,
in the words of the immortal John Paul Jones, they ‘haven’t begun to
fight.’”
The steamer had now swung her bow down river, and the chug of the
engines told the lads that they were fairly started on their voyage
to Palilo, the capital of the island of Kapay, where the gunboat
“Mindinao” was awaiting them.
“Hello, what’s this?” Phil exclaimed, while the engine bell rang with
throaty clanks, and the chugging of the engines ceased. The two lads
leaning inquiringly over the rail, saw a small navy launch steam
alongside the moving steamer; then a tightly lashed bag and hammock
were thrown on deck, and finally from the depths of the white canopied
awning there appeared the familiar form of a sailor, who sprang nimbly
on board, waving a parting good-bye to his mates, while the launch
swung away; and again the “Negros’” engines chugged noisily.
“Jack O’Neil!” the two lads cried, their faces beaming with surprised
pleasure as they grasped the newcomer’s hand.
“It’s me, sir,” the sailor declared ungrammatically though heartily,
highly delighted at his enthusiastic reception. “Telegraphic orders
from the admiral to report to Midshipman Perry, commanding the gunboat
‘Mindinao.’”
“But where’s your old ship, the ‘Monadnock’?” Sydney questioned
blankly. “We looked for her this morning as we came in on the cattle
boat from Hongkong. Is she in the bay?”
“Sure, sir, she is,” returned O’Neil, “over there at Paranaque keeping
the ladrones out of the navy-yard with her ten-inch guns. They made a
rush for it once, about six months ago, then the gugus had an army
and we were kept guessing; but a few brace of hot ten-inch birds,
exploding near them from our coffee kettle of a monitor soon made
’em change their minds. They decided they hadn’t lost nothing at the
navy-yard after all. But,” he ended, the enthusiasm dying out of his
voice, “that, I said, was six months ago; we’ve been bailing out there
ever since, awnings furled, guns loaded, expecting to be boarded every
night.” He made a gesture of utter disgust as he stopped.
“They don’t know anything, these gugus,” he began again, seeing that
his friends didn’t understand his disjointed explanation; “they won’t
try to board a man-of-war. They’ll attack you on shore; but as for
paddling out in their canoes to capture a steel monitor, it’s too
absurd. Yet we stood watch on and watch off every night waiting for
’em to board. Do you blame me, sir, for feeling happy when I got these
orders?” tapping his telegram against an awning stanchion. “This means
life again; like we had in the dago country and up with them pigtailed
chinks.”
The midshipmen slapped the loquacious sailor joyfully on the back.
“You’re not half as glad to be with us as we are to have you,” Phil
exclaimed frankly. “We’re just aching for something worth while--we’ve
been roasting up on the Yangtse River since you left us, doing nothing
except watch the grass burn up and the water in the river fall. I never
felt such heat.”
While the Americans were talking the little steamer slipped noisily
down the busy river and out on the bay made famous by Admiral Dewey on
that memorable May morning.
Corregidor Island lifted itself slowly out of a molten sea to the
westward. The “Negros’” bow was pointed out through the southern
channel, passing close to the precipitous island, standing like an
unbending sentinel on guard between the wide portals of the Bay of
Manila.
“A few guns over there on Corregidor would soon stop this talk of
our waking up some morning and finding Manila at the mercy of an
enemy,” Phil declared after studying the landscape earnestly. “But
these islands are too far away for our people at home to take much
interest. Half of them would be glad to see another nation wrest them
from us.--Hello! there’s one of those native lorchas,”[1] he added as
his keen eye discovered a sail some miles away almost ahead of their
steamer; “we passed one coming in this morning on the ‘Rubi.’ I looked
at her through the captain’s spy-glass; her crew were the ugliest
looking cutthroats I’ve ever seen. They reminded me of that picture
‘Revenge.’ Do you know it?” he asked suddenly turning to Sydney, and
then describing the picture in mock tragic tones: “A half score of
scowling Malays, in the bow of their ‘Vinta’; their curved swords in
their mouths and their evil faces lustful with passion and hope of
blood, approaching their defenseless victims. I hope the captain gives
them a wide berth, for I haven’t even a revolver.”
The Americans had so far discovered but few people on board the
steamer; the captain and pilot were on the bridge while on the lower
decks there were scarcely a dozen lazy natives, listlessly cleaning the
soiled decks and coiling up the confused roping.
“Do you think we are the only passengers?” Sydney asked as they entered
their stateroom to make ready for the evening meal.
Phil shook his head.
“No, there must be others, for I heard a woman’s voice in a cabin near
ours.”
As they again emerged on deck and walked aft to where their steamer
chairs had been placed, a young Filipino girl rose from her seat
and bowed courteously to the two young officers. Phil noticed as he
saluted that she was a remarkably pretty girl of the higher class
dressed in becoming native costume, and from her dark eyes there shone
intelligence and knowledge.
“Have I one of the señor’s chairs?” she asked in excellent Spanish. “It
was very stupid of me to have forgotten mine.”
Both lads remarked at once the air of good breeding and the pleasing
voice; the guttural lisp so common in the Malay was lacking. She could
not have appeared more at her ease and yet they saw by her dark skin
and straight black hair that no other blood than the native flowed in
her veins.
“This is my small brother,” she explained as a slight lad of about
seven came toward them from behind a small boat, resting on the skids
of the upper deck. “He is my only companion,” she added half shyly.
The midshipmen were at a loss how to talk to this girl of an alien
race. If her skin had been fair they would have welcomed her gladly,
seeing before them a pleasant two days of companionship before they
would arrive at their destination; but she belonged to a race whose
color they had been taught to believe placed her on a social footing
far beneath their own.
The girl seemed to divine the hesitancy in the midshipmen’s manner, and
for a second a slight flush spread over her dark cheeks.
Phil was the first to recover and break the embarrassing silence,
heartily ashamed of himself for his boorish manner.
“We are glad, señorita,” he commenced haltingly in Spanish which had
become rusty through lack of practice, “to have you use our chairs, and
also,” he ended lamely, “to have you with us. I fear we are the only
passengers.”
A few moments later a servant announced dinner, and the four took
their seats at a table spread on the upper deck after the custom of the
tropics.
“The captain will not be with us,” the girl explained as Phil’s eyes
rested inquiringly on the seat at the head of the table; “he begs that
we will excuse him, for he is navigating the ship through the entrance
to the bay.”
They sat down in silence; Phil’s seat was next to this remarkable girl.
In a few moments both lads had quite forgotten that her skin was dark,
so skilfully did she preside over the plentiful board, attentive to
their wants with the natural grace of one accustomed to dispense
hospitality.
“Juan and I are on our way to Palilo to join our father,” she explained
after the meal had fairly started. “I am very much concerned over
the bad news I have heard. Oh! I hope we shall not have war in our
beautiful island,” she added appealingly, “but the Filipinos are so
ignorant; they will follow blindly where they are led, and so many of
our educated men are at heart bad.”
“There has been some fighting there already?” Phil questioned.
“Yes,” she answered, “but it has been only guerilla warfare so far. My
father fears that reinforcements may come from the north. The natives
in Luzon are of the Tagalo race, and if they come after being driven
from their island by the American troops, we shall have the horrors of
war on Kapay.”
The midshipmen’s eyes sparkled; they were just about to express their
delight at this possibility when they suddenly realized that she was of
the same blood as those they were wishing to fight.
Phil was the first to see the reproving look in the girl’s eyes.
“You must not blame us, señorita,” he hastened to say apologetically.
“You see fighting is our business; we look for it the same as a
merchant looks for trade or a fisherman for fish.”
“I think your ideas are wrong, señor,” she replied quickly, but in a
caressing tone, to soften the sting. “Your duty is not necessarily
to fight, but to prevent fighting. The sisters in the convent taught
us that a soldier’s duty was to uphold the honor of his country. If
fighting only will accomplish this duty, then it is just to fight, but
in this case no honor is at stake. How can our people hurt the honor of
a great nation like yours?”
Phil blushed half angrily, half in shame. This girl of a dark race had
the temerity to tell him what was his duty, and he was defenseless, for
she was in the right.
“It is true, señorita, what you say,” Sydney came to the rescue, “but
peace for us is very monotonous, always the same eternal grind. War is
exciting; it stirs the blood and makes men of us.”
“Yes, señor,” the girl answered in a low, hard voice, “and it arouses
all the evil passions in us. We forget all our training, all our
ideals, all our instincts for good, and give way to the instincts of
the beasts. My people in war are not men, señor, they are demons.”
While the girl was talking the steamer had drawn closer to the lorcha
which Phil had sighted earlier in the afternoon. The night was not
bright; a crescent moon cast a dim light on the hull scarcely a hundred
yards on the weather bow. The breeze had freshened, and with wind free
the lorcha’s sails bellied out, giving it a speed almost equal to that
of the steamer.
“Why doesn’t he give that sail a wider berth?” Phil exclaimed suddenly
as the girl’s voice died away. “If she should yaw now, she’d be into
us.”
“Look out!” Sydney cried in alarm as the lorcha suddenly sheered to
leeward and the great mass of tautening canvas careened toward the
unsuspecting steamer.
The midshipmen were on their feet in an instant, while O’Neil came
running up from the deck below.
The Spanish captain, calling loudly to all his saints to witness that
it was not his fault, jammed the helm to starboard, throwing the
steamer’s bow away from the rapidly approaching lorcha. The engine bell
clanked riotously, as the excited Spanish captain rang for more speed.
Then the Americans’ blood froze in their veins, for the chugging of
the noisy engines had ceased in a wheezy wail, and the “Negros” lay
helpless, almost motionless in the path of the strange sail to windward.
The lads looked at each other in consternation. The suddenness of the
emergency had rendered them powerless to act.
“Was it only a stupid blunder? Or was it by design that the silent
lorcha had shifted its helm and stood down upon the demoralized
steamer?” were the questions that came into their minds.
A guttural hail from the lorcha accompanied by a fusillade of
rifle-shots put an end to all doubt.
“Pirates!” O’Neil gasped as he dislodged an iron crowbar from a boat
skid. “And there isn’t a gun among us.”
A bright glare suddenly darted from the bridge of the steamer as some
one turned on the current for the search-light, and the Americans saw
in the bright beam a motley crew of natives lining the lorcha’s rail,
their eager bodies crouched ready to spring upon the deck of their
helpless victim.
“Tagalos,” the girl cried out in sudden alarm as she instinctively put
her small brother behind her, shielding him from the flying bullets.
“Don’t do it, sir,” O’Neil commanded hoarsely as Phil started
precipitously forward. “We can’t stand them off, we’re too few. Here
we can make a stand if they attack us. We can’t save the ship.”
The lads saw at once the wisdom in O’Neil’s advice. No power could save
the ship from the terrible onslaught of that savage horde. The two
vessels came together with a mighty crash, and the air was rent with
harsh cries of triumph as the captors leaped on board, firing their
guns and slashing with their sharp bolos. The cries for mercy from the
cringing crew were soon swallowed up in the shrieks of pain and anger
as the vengeful victors satisfied their inherent love for blood.
The triumphant natives scaled the bridge deck, and in the bright glow
from the search-light, the Americans were horrified to see those on the
bridge, in spite of their hands held aloft in supplication, cruelly
butchered where they stood.
The Americans in mortal dread pressed their bodies close within the
deep shadow of the boats. The blinding glare from the search-light
aided them in their attempt to hide from the searching eyes of their
assailants. Phil and Sydney had manfully lifted the native girl and
her brother into the boat behind them and stood their ground ready to
protect them with their lives. So this was to be the end of their hopes
for adventure?--to be butchered, unarmed and in cold blood by a band of
lawless murderers.