A POLITE CAPTOR
The Americans were not kept long in suspense, although to the anxious
boys, huddled helplessly in the shadow of the boat, the time seemed
hours until the victorious and jubilant natives moved aft, bent on
annihilating those whom they believed were hiding from their search.
O’Neil grasped his weapon firmly, while the lads made a mental resolve
to seize the arms of the first natives within reach and sacrifice their
own lives as dearly as possible.
Suddenly the beam of the search-light swung directly aft, revealing to
the pirates the defenseless band of spectators to the recent tragedy.
The helpless passengers were confident now that all was over. As if in
broad daylight, they were visible to the outlaws. A volley from their
rifles would send them all to death.
Blinded by the bright light, they could but speculate as to the
movement of their enemies, but they well knew that they must surely be
advancing slowly, only awaiting the word to throw themselves on their
helpless victims.
What could be done? Phil realized only too vividly that something must
be done and quickly. A false move would condemn them all. Once those
wild men, steeped in the blood of the innocent, had commenced, even the
power of their leader could not stop them.
Then a girl’s voice, clear and commanding from behind them, made the
Americans gasp in wonder. O’Neil with his great club raised to strike
the misty figures just beyond his reach stiffened. The girl’s words
were unintelligible to the Americans, but to the advancing natives they
were like a flash of lightning from out of a clear sky. They stopped
short, and for a few seconds a deep silence reigned. The girl was
speaking in her native tongue. Phil cast a swift glance behind him; she
stood boldly upright in the bow of the boat, like a beautiful bronze
statue. The light threw her face in high relief against the black
background of sky. He saw the flashing eyes, the quivering straight
nostrils, and the scornful curve of her mouth. She finished speaking,
and still the silence was unbroken. From the gathered crowd the leader
advanced, his hand held above his head in mute sign of peace. Phil
could scarcely believe his eyes, but the girl’s low voice in his ear
caused his heart to beat tumultuously.
“He has accepted your surrender.” She spoke in Spanish. Then, with her
hands placed lightly on Phil’s shoulder she jumped down to the deck and
advanced to meet the native leader. At a few paces from her he halted,
and the Americans held their breath in wonder to see the bandit bow
low before her, raising her hand to his lips. Then he turned and gave
several harsh commands to his followers, who quietly dispersed.
Inside of but a few minutes the lorcha had disappeared in the night and
the “Negros” resumed its journey, the noisy engines chugging away just
as faithfully under their new masters.
The Americans, as they gathered about the table to finish the meal long
forgotten in the excitement of the attack, marveled at the outcome of
the affair.
“Who can she be?” Sydney whispered. “Why, she orders the ladrone leader
around as if she were a princess.”
Phil was about to reply when the girl herself appeared from the
shadows, followed by the native chief.
The lads regarded him with a mixture of feelings, admiration for his
soldierly bearing and disgust at the thought of the wilful butchery
they had seen him permit on the bridge of the steamer.
They recognized at once that these two were of the highest caste among
their people. The man’s face, almost perfect in contour, except in the
cruel lines of the mouth, beamed hospitably upon them.
The girl spoke quickly, breathlessly.
“Colonel Martinez wishes to meet the brave Americans who would have
fought unarmed against overwhelming odds and who had no thoughts of
asking for quarter.”
The Americans bowed, but the Filipino advanced, his hand outstretched.
Phil took it with almost a shudder. Why had this hand been withheld
while the Spanish captain and his officers were asking for mercy
scarcely five minutes before? Yet he knew that he had no choice but to
take the proffered fingers; he and his companions were in the power of
this man, the lines of whose mouth told what might happen if the native
leader’s pride was offended.
After shaking hands, Colonel Martinez went straight to the point. “You
belong to the country of our enemy, and being such you must remain
prisoners of war. We shall land at Dumaguete to-morrow, and if you will
give me your solemn parole not to bear arms against us, I shall send
you with an escort and safe conduct to Palilo. If not, I must send you
to the headquarters of my superior, General Diocno.”
Phil as spokesman bowed.
“We shall not give you our parole, colonel,” he said emphatically. “We
prefer to remain prisoners of war.”
“As you will,” the insurgent answered coldly, but his swarthy face
betrayed his admiration. “I shall assure you of my good offices with
our general. And now, I shall leave you, but I warn you that your lives
will be in danger if you leave this deck, or if you make the slightest
attempt to thwart my plans. I shall have your belongings brought back
here. You see I can take no chances, and I appreciate that you three
Americans are no mean antagonists.” He cast a look of admiration at
O’Neil, who had been listening in silence, his muscular fingers still
clasping the stout crowbar with which he would like to have brained
this pompous little Filipino.
“Beggars can’t be choosers, Mr. Perry,” O’Neil exclaimed with a wry
smile after the officer had departed, “and I guess it was a good thing
the girl knew how to get the ear of that there little bantam rooster.
In another minute, I’d have brained one of them, and then those words
she spoke would have had as much chance to be heard as the chairman’s
voice in a state convention.”
The Americans’ belongings were brought to them from their cabin by
several evil-looking natives, and very soon all were comfortable under
the awning, protected from the wind by the boat against which an hour
ago they had been about to make their last stand.
The sun awakened the Americans at an early hour the next morning. While
they were sipping their morning coffee, the lads gazed in admiration
at the beautiful scenery about them. The little steamer had during
the night wound its way past myriads of small islands, now but black
smudges astern. The high mountains of Kapay Island rose boldly from the
sea on their starboard hand. Ahead, becoming more distinct, was the
shore line toward which the steamer was now traveling at an increased
speed as told by the more rapid chugging of her engines.
“Hello,” Phil exclaimed as he cast a glance toward the bridge,
“something’s happening.”
Sydney and O’Neil followed his gaze. There on the bridge were Martinez
and the native pilot, who had apparently been spared in the attack of
the night before. Martinez was walking up and down excitedly, casting
an anxious glance ever and again off on the port quarter.
It was O’Neil who was the first to discover the reason for the evident
excitement of their captors.
“Smoke,” he exclaimed laconically, characteristically jerking his thumb
toward the islands astern fast being swallowed up in the glassy sea.
“They ain’t taking no chances. That stretch of shore yonder,” he added,
his gaze on the shore line ahead, “must be the mouth of the Davao
River.”
The lads gazed eagerly at the faint curl of smoke astern, but it gave
them but scant encouragement, for it was only too evident that before
the stranger, if it were one of the many small gunboats patrolling the
islands, could hope to get within gunshot of the “Negros,” the steamer
would have crossed the shallow bar of the Davao River and be safe from
the pursuit of the deeper vessel.
“If we could only stop her,” Phil lamented. “Smash those rickety
engines or haul fires in the boiler.”
O’Neil in answer cast a comprehensive glance at the sentries on guard
on the upper deck. The evil-looking natives were squatted in plain
sight, their loaded rifles held tightly in their brown fingers.
“Oh! for three good Krag rifles,” Sydney cried petulantly; “we could
clear this deck and then jam the steering gear there, and by the time
they could overpower us the gunboat, if it is one, would make them
heave to.”
In a short time the girl and her brother joined them, and the native
guards arose and moved farther away.
“It is one of your gunboats,” she announced smiling mischievously
at the evident pleasure of the midshipmen; “Colonel Martinez has
recognized her through his telescope. She is giving chase, but
Dumaguete is now scarcely twenty-five miles ahead, so I fear there will
not be a rescue.”
Phil calculated quickly. If Martinez could see the gunboat with his
glass to recognize her she could not be over ten to twelve miles
astern. The “Negros’” best speed was ten knots, which meant two and a
half hours before she could reach the river bar. He knew that several
of the gunboats were good for fifteen knots. If this were one of the
fast ones, which he earnestly prayed it was, in two hours and a half
the gunboat would be up to the “Negros.” His face brightened as these
figures awakened his hopes.
While the Americans went through the pretense of breakfast the “Negros”
steamed swiftly toward the shore, and they saw with rising hopes the
white hull of a large vessel raise itself slowly out of the deep blue
of the tropical sea.
Phil eyed the Filipino girl questioningly. He could tell nothing from
her sphynx-like face. Would she be glad to be rescued from this band
of outlaws or was she at home and safe among them? The respect shown
her by the leader and his men seemed to point to the conclusion that
she was of importance among her people. He knew not what were those
crisp words spoken the night before to prevent the fierce onslaught of
the natives, but they had calmed the storm. She had saved their lives,
that much was certain; and for that, even though she was at heart in
sympathy with this band of pirates, he owed her his gratitude.
His whole heart rebelled against the thought of captivity among the
insurgents. He knew it would be a living death. Poorly nourished and
without the necessities of life; exposed to the savage temper of a
people whose spirits fluctuated more rapidly than a tropical barometer,
there seemed but little to live for. Perhaps death would be happier!
His thoughts dwelt upon the stories he had heard of the atrocities
committed by this same Diocno upon American soldiers who had been
captured. Some of them he had buried alive in an ant-hill all but their
heads, with their mouths propped open and a train of sugar leading
to their swollen tongues. A cold shiver ran down his spine as his
imagination pictured the agony of these men as they slowly died.
“It’s the ‘Albany,’” O’Neil cried joyfully a minute later, “and do you
see the bone in her teeth? She’s making nearly twenty knots. Why, it’s
all over but the shouting. These little yellow runts will look well
when they are lined up against the wall at Cavite and shot for piracy.”
Phil held up his hand to demand silence from the excited sailor. He did
not know how much English the girl might know, and the ladrone leader
might learn the dire wish of the sailorman for him and his followers.
Then if the “Negros” escaped, his anger could be vented upon the
Americans. But the girl’s face did not betray that she had understood
the meaning of O’Neil’s words. The “Albany” was fast approaching, but
Phil knew that O’Neil must be overestimating the cruiser’s speed; the
most she could make, without special preparation, would be fifteen
knots, but, and his joy welled up into his eyes,--her six-inch guns! He
had seen them fired with accuracy at four miles.
The shore line ahead had now become distinct. The deep cut in the
surrounding hills betrayed the presence of the Davao River as it flowed
through them to the sea. Groves of high-topped palm trees appeared, a
deeper green against the emerald background, while the water stretching
toward them from the land polluted the sea with a dull brown stain--the
muddy water of the river. The town of Dumaguete could not be seen,
but from the curls of rising smoke, Phil knew it must be beyond the
first bend of the river and screened from view by the spur-like hill
stretching its length from the mountains behind to the water’s edge.
The girl sat between the two midshipmen, her small brother innocently
unconscious of the tragedy being enacted about him, playing joyfully
about the decks. Phil watched the child as a relief to his overanxious
mind. He had dislodged a wedge-shaped block of wood from under the
quarter boat, and was using it to frighten a large monkey which was
eying him grotesquely from on top of the tattered awning. The monkey
apparently did not enjoy the game, for he suddenly flew screeching at
the boy, his mouth opened viciously. The boy in his haste to escape
dropped the block of wood almost on Phil’s foot and the midshipman
determinedly placed his foot upon it. In that instant an idea had
occurred to him. His pulse beat faster, as the thought flashed into his
mind. He would use it as a last resort, even though it would bring the
howling mob of natives vengefully about their heads.
“Now she’s talking,” O’Neil exclaimed grimly, as a flash and a puff
of brownish smoke belched from the bow of the distant cruiser. The
Americans arose to their feet, their eyes held fascinatingly on the
cruiser. They knew that a hundred-pound shell was speeding toward
them at a speed of a mile in three seconds. The Filipino girl sat
unconcernedly sipping her coffee. She was as yet ignorant of the
meaning of that flash from a vessel nearly five miles away.
Far astern a column of water arose in the air and the distant shock of
the discharge came to their expectant ears.
Phil saw with sinking heart that the “Negros” had entered the
discolored water from the river. Ahead less than two miles the
ever-present bamboo fish weirs showed the commencement of the shallows
of the Davao River. His hopes died within him. The cruiser was not
making the speed he had hoped. She would hardly be in range before
the “Negros” had put the high spur of land between her and the enemy.
The cruiser, apparently seeing the quarry was about to escape, opened
a rapid fire in hopes of intimidating or crippling its prey; but the
range was too great. The shells hissed close to the stern of the
fleeing vessel; the boasted accuracy of American gunners was lacking.
“If she was only a thousand yards closer,” O’Neil cried in bitter
disappointment. “It’s only a matter of luck at this distance. Look
out,” he yelled as a shell struck the water with the noise of an
express train, within fifty feet of the fleeing “Negros.”
The Filipino girl’s face blanched, while the boy ran cowering to his
sister’s side. The danger to them seemed almost supernatural. The
girl’s lips moved, and Phil saw that she was praying. For a moment a
fear seized him. The thought of their danger was certainly unnerving.
A single shell exploding near them would send them all to eternity.
The fish weirs were now abreast the ship and the “Negros’” bow was
being guided into the narrow, tortuous channel of the delta. The
Filipino pilot on the bridge spun his steering wheel from side to side,
following the twisting channel. The quadrant with its rusty chain,
connecting the wheel and the rudder, clanked loudly at Phil’s feet. Now
was the time to put his daring plan in operation. He saw that the four
guards had taken refuge behind the boats, from which they peered out
with frightened eyes at the oncoming cruiser, dodging out of sight at
each screech of a shell. They had apparently forgotten the prisoners
whom they were guarding, for their rifles and belts were resting on
the hatch several yards away.
“When I give the word, you jump for those rifles and belts,” Phil said
in a low, intense voice, glancing covertly at the terrified girl at his
side. “I am going to jam the steering quadrant. When you get the guns,”
he continued, “take cover behind the boats. It may cost us our lives,
but anything is better than imprisonment among these people.”
O’Neil and Sydney breathed a gasping assent to the bold plan. Phil
watched carefully the quadrant; he saw it move slowly over until it
was hard astarboard. He reached down, grasping the boy’s block of wood
under his foot, then slid it slowly, amid the terrific noise of a
passing shell, toward the quadrant. He knew the wedge would hold the
rudder over and the “Negros,” unable to steer, would ground on the
edge of the channel, thus leaving her helpless to be captured by the
cruiser. He opened his mouth to give the signal for his companions to
act, when a shrill warning cry sounded in his ears and he was roughly
drawn back into his chair and the wedge dropped from his hands a foot
from its goal.