A LEAK OF MILITARY INFORMATION
Brigadier-General Wilson sat at his desk in the headquarters building
at Palilo. In the spacious corridors outside orderlies hurried to and
fro, carrying messages from the several officers of the staff whose
offices joined that of the general.
Before him was a chart of his military district, and while he pondered
he juggled a score or more of different colored pins with little tags
attached to them. Those pins with blue heads represented soldiers of
his command in the field against the enemy while the ones with the
green heads were the ladrones or insurrectos, whom he had been fighting
without success for nearly six months.
“They jump about as if they were mounted in balloons,” he exclaimed
testily as he drew out several green-headed pins and replaced them in
accordance with recent information in other localities on the map. The
big headquarters clock ticked away in silence, while the gray-haired
veteran again lapsed into thought over his problem.
“Here are two regiments in the field,” he complained querulously;
“Gordon with two companies at San Juan, Baker with a company at
Binalbagan, Anderson and a battalion at Barotoc, Huse and a company
at Estancia, Pollard with two companies at Kapiz, Shanks with three
companies at Carles, Stewart with his rough-riders at Dumangas and Bane
with his two battalions as a flying column. That ought to give us some
results, and yet what have we to show for it?”
The general raised his thoughtful eyes, as his orderly’s step sounded
on the soft matting at his side.
“A telegram,” he exclaimed with a show of interest. “Tell Major Marble
I wish to see him,” he added, tearing open the yellow envelope.
“Whew!” he whistled in sudden consternation as he read the unwelcome
message. “They not only avoided Gordon but attacked San Juan in his
absence, cutting up ten of his men left to guard the town. This thing
has got to be stopped. There is a leak somewhere and I am going to put
my hand on it before I send out another expedition.”
He pushed the chart back on his desk and rose suddenly to his feet.
“Major,” he cried as the adjutant-general’s active figure entered the
office, “we are all a set of ninnies. Don’t start and look indignant,
sir,” he added in mock severity. “You are as bad as the rest, but Blynn
there is the worst of us all, for he can’t do what he’s employed to
do--you and I are only plain, blunt soldiers, while he is supposed,”
with fine scorn, “to be in addition lawyer and detective; a regular
secret service sleuth and all that.
“Here, read that,” he ended throwing the telegram on the desk. “You
see it’s the same old story, and ten more men butchered through our
stupidity.”
The general paced up and down his office with quick, energetic steps.
“I’ve a good mind to go out in the field myself,” he exclaimed, half to
himself. “I am tired of these silly, costly blunders.” Then he glanced
through the open door into the next office to his own. “Come here,
Blynn!” he hailed.
A stout, dark-visaged officer arose from a desk littered with countless
papers and came energetically toward him.
The older officer’s eyes roamed searchingly over his judge-advocate
general’s strong, massive frame; he gazed with kindling eyes at the
bronzed cheeks, the unbending directness of his black eyes, the firm
set to the bulldog jaws. Here surely was no weakling. He waved his hand
toward the adjutant-general, standing in stunned silence, the telegram
crumpled in his hand.
“That may interest you,” the general exclaimed as he turned away.
“The information was first hand, sir,” Captain Blynn’s bass voice
insisted after he had straightened the paper and read the unwelcome
message. “There’s been a leak.”
“Of course there’s been a leak,” the general announced hotly, “any
idiot would see that, but where? Where? that’s the question!”
Captain Blynn returned to his desk and drew out a bundle of papers
from a locked drawer. He glanced over them hurriedly. Every word was
familiar to him. Could he have made a mistake? Every witness whom he
had examined had given the same information. These natives had not
been coerced; they had come to him of their own volition. Espinosa had
vouched for each. Then he stopped, the papers fell from his hand to the
desk. No! it could not be possible! Espinosa was surely loyal. That
much was sure. For the space of a minute he was lost in thought. “I
shall test him,” he muttered, while he pressed a bell at his side.
“Tell Señor Espinosa over the telephone that I shall call on him in an
hour on important business,” he instructed the orderly who answered his
summons.
An hour later Captain Blynn mounted the high stairs of the wealthy
Filipino’s dwelling.
“Buenos Dias, El Capitan,” Señor Manuel Espinosa cried delightedly as
he pushed a chair forward for his visitor. But the smile died quickly
on the native’s face as Captain Blynn waved away the chair impatiently,
almost rudely, and in his typical way jumped into the very midst of the
matter in hand.
“Señor,” he exclaimed angrily, “I’ve been betrayed! Do you understand?”
he cried menacingly, his flashing eyes fixed on the crafty face
opposite him, while he shook his big, strong fist before the eyes of
the startled Presidente of Palilo. “Betrayed, that’s the word, and if
I can lay my hand on the hound, I’ll swing him to the eaves of his own
house-top.”
Señor Espinosa was silent, his crafty, bead-like eyes regarding closely
the angry, excited face of the judge-advocate.
“Captain Gordon went on a wild-goose chase, and when he returned he
found the insurgents had been in San Juan in his absence. Ten soldiers,
American men, were caught, trapped, and butchered. The natives who
brought me the information were vouched for by you and now you’ve got
to prove to me that you’re not a sneaking traitor!”
The captain’s words tumbled one after another so fast that the little
Filipino could grasp only half their meaning, but the last could not
be misunderstood. His brown face turned a sickly yellow, while his
frightened eyes sought instinctively for some weapon of defense from
this terrible American, who was strong enough to tear his frail body
limb from limb.
“Ah, señor capitan, is this your much-boasted American justice?” he
gasped in a weak voice. “Am I then judged guilty without hearing my
defense?” His voice became stronger as he proceeded. “Let us look over
this calmly,” he begged. “I, myself, have been betrayed. In embracing
the American cause, I have made many enemies among my people. I live
constantly in fear of assassination.” He stopped abruptly, his voice
choking and his eyes filled with tears of self-pity.
Captain Blynn had dealt with many different classes of men in his
twenty odd years of service. He had been a terror to the ruffians on
the Western frontier where he had been stationed during the several
Indian wars. The “bad men” had said when they had found Blynn against
them, “We might as well own up--we can’t fool Blynn.”
But here was a case that baffled him. In the hour before going to
this house he had after deep thought believed that after all Espinosa
was a traitor, and he had avowedly intended to force him to confess
his treason; but now in spite of these resolves, the captain was
weakening. After all might not the Filipino be innocent? At all events
he would listen to his defense.
Captain Blynn dropped his muscular hands, which had been creeping
menacingly toward the thin yellow throat of the Presidente, and sat
down suddenly in the chair which the native had previously offered him.
“Go on!” he ordered harshly. “I’ll suspend judgment, but remember, if
you can’t prove your innocence, I’ll give you water. Do you understand,
water! I’ve never given it, and I don’t believe in it, but if you can’t
show me how these men were butchered, I’ll fill you up to the neck with
it.”
Espinosa wetted his lips with his tongue and swallowed hard, but the
captain by taking the proffered chair had removed the native from the
terrifying influence of those powerful twitching fingers which he had
seen ready to throttle him, and he, in proportion to the distance away
of the cause of his fear, grew bolder.
“The señor capitan must know of my sincerity,” he pleaded in a weak
voice. “Have I not taken the oath of allegiance to the United States?
Do I not know the punishment for breaking that oath?”
Captain Blynn nodded his head. “Go ahead,” he commanded impatiently;
“cut that out, give me the unvarnished story.”
“The information which I gave you and which was sworn to by three
witnesses came from Juan Rodriguez,” Espinosa continued, dropping his
voice to a whisper and approaching closer to the American. Then he
stopped and glanced covertly at his listener’s startled face.
“Juan Rodriguez!” the judge-advocate general exclaimed half rising in
his excitement. “Then you believe that he has deliberately furnished
false information of the insurgents’ movements?”
While the two were talking a servant brought refreshments, which the
army man waved impatiently aside. Espinosa helped himself and as he did
so he followed his servant’s eye to a tightly rolled piece of paper
inside the salva. He drew it out hastily, unrolling it in silence,
feeling rather than seeing the captain’s eyes upon him, then he read
the few lines written therein. Here was a chance to redeem his good
name or at least save himself for this time from the fierce American.
He asked a question in the native language and received a monosyllabic
answer.
“This is very important,” he exclaimed suddenly turning to the American
officer. His voice was now joyful, full of confidence. “Two hundred
riflemen have landed at Dumaguete from Luzon. To-night they will be
encamped on a hill near Banate. You can attack them there before they
can join Diocno.”
Captain Blynn jumped to his feet, reaching out for the paper; he took
it, scrutinizing it closely--then stuck it quietly into his pocket.
Espinosa held out a trembling hand, bent upon regaining the note, but
Captain Blynn had turned away, picking up his hat and whip from the
table behind him.
“I shall myself go in command of this expedition,” he announced gruffly
as he moved toward the stairs, “and I shall expect you to accompany me,
señor. We shall start at sunset.”
Señor Espinosa feebly murmured his willingness, and after waiting
to see the burly figure of his visitor pass out through the wide
entrance, he turned and called for his servant.
“Tell the messenger I will speak to him,” he said as the muchacho
noiselessly entered.
A moment later a ragged native stood tremblingly before him, twisting
his dirty head-covering in his nervous hands.
Espinosa seated himself luxuriously in the chair recently vacated
by Captain Blynn. He had now regained his old confidence and cruel
arrogance, while he fired question after question at the uncomfortable
native.
The Presidente sat motionless in his chair long after his messenger
had gone. His servant came noiselessly into the room several times
but tiptoed away, believing his master was asleep. But Espinosa was
far from sleep, his brain was actively at work. How could he hold his
position and yet remain undiscovered to this terrible Captain Blynn? He
shuddered as he remembered those big hands as they worked longingly to
grasp his slender neck. He was not a fighting man; the inheritance of
his father’s Chinese blood mixed with the cruelty in the native strain
qualified him only for plotting. Others could do the fighting. His
brain and cunning would furnish them the means and opportunity. But
Rodriguez--he was too honest, and knew too much; he stood a menacing
figure in his path as the leader of his people. He had, however, set
the train of powder on fire, and now he would watch it burn. Once
Rodriguez was removed there were no others strong enough to thwart
him. Even Diocno bowed to his superior sagacity. Then he could cast
off this halter that he felt tightening about his neck. With Diocno
and Rodriguez out of the way, he could make terms with these childlike
Americans, and then with his fortune made shake the dust of the islands
forever from his feet.
An hour before sunset he arose and dressed himself for his ride,
ordering his servant to have his horse ready. The messenger had three
hours’ start; that would insure the escape of the Tagalos. Captain
Blynn would find that his information was true. He could not blame him
if the enemy had taken alarm and fled. As for the other matter, if the
Americans would only arrest Rodriguez he would see that he did not
interfere with his cherished plans for power. As he buckled on his
English made leggings, he whistled gaily an old Spanish air, one he
had heard in Spain; in his mind he saw the brightly lighted theatre,
the richly dressed people in the boxes. Some day he would be rich and
he would then be able to recline in a gilded box and cast disdainful
glances at an admiring crowd.
His joy would have been indeed short-lived and his castles in Spain
would have fallen as flat as the surface of the sea on a calm day if
he could have known that at that moment his messenger was lying dead
in the trail but half-way to his destination, suddenly overcome by the
terrible scourge of the camp, cholera.