THE GUNBOAT COÖPERATES
As the two midshipmen stepped over the gangway of the “Mindinao” a
figure arose from a seat on the quarter-deck and hurried eagerly toward
them.
“I’ve been waiting an hour for you,” Major Marble exclaimed excitedly.
“The general wants you to start as soon as possible for Binalbagan.
Baker’s men have had a fight; we got some news, and then the wire was
cut; our signal corps men have already gone out to find the break.
Tillotson and fifty men will be on board inside of an hour.”
The midshipmen’s eyes opened wide with excitement.
“We’re getting up steam, sir,” O’Neil volunteered. “I thought something
was in the wind when I seen the major come aboard, so I asked him and
he told me what we was to do.”
“Good for you,” Phil exclaimed, throwing an appreciative glance at the
trusty boatswain’s mate.
“Baker is in the field and a sergeant and twenty men are holding the
post,” Major Marble continued, “but if the natives are in great force
such a handful cannot last long.”
An hour later, Lieutenant Tillotson, a thin, blonde-haired youngster,
marched his khaki-clad men on board and joined the little group of
officers about the table on the quarter-deck.
Phil gave the young soldier a look of close scrutiny as he unbuckled
the revolver from about his slim waist and laid it on the hatch top.
There was nothing soldierly in the newcomer’s appearance, and Phil
unconsciously gave a sigh of disappointment. On the officer’s collar
between the crossed rifles was a single numeral.
“And a regular, too,” he thought.
“Good luck,” Major Marble cried as he passed over the gangway on to the
dock while the gunboat heaved up its anchor from the muddy bottom of
the river and steamed swiftly for the outer harbor.
Phil studied carefully the chart in his miniature wheel house forward.
“Ninety miles,” he mused as he stepped off the distance to Binalbagan.
“At this speed we’ll be in by daylight.”
The three sat long over their dinner on the cool quarter-deck, while
the gunboat sped rapidly along the coast of Kapay. Forward, the
soldiers and sailors fraternized, speculating upon the morrow’s work.
The naval men’s faces were keenly excited. The long-looked-for fun had
commenced. They were almost willing to hope that Captain Baker’s men
were having a stiff time of it, so that the guns of their boat could
have a chance to speak their disapproval to the insurgents. Lieutenant
Tillotson sat coolly contemplating his coffee cup. To him these
expeditions meant but one thing: discomfort.
“What’s the chance for a fight?” Sydney asked the army man.
Tillotson shook his head. “None,” he replied, “unless we can catch them
by surprise. This gunboat would scare off an army of insurgents. They
don’t like them.”
“But we shall surprise them,” Phil cried enthusiastically. “We’ll get
there before daylight, hit the enemy from behind and crumple him up. I
dare say, though, the fight will be finished before we arrive.”
Tillotson shook his head. He was non-committal. “News travels fast in
this country, and it’s only twenty-five miles by road to Binalbagan,”
he said.
“Have you been there?” Phil asked, all interest.
“No,” Tillotson replied carelessly.
“What is your plan?” Phil inquired quickly.
Tillotson eyed the lad, his blue eyes wide with astonishment, while a
superior smile curved the corners of his mouth.
“Plan?” he asked. “Why, just to land, that’s all; isn’t that enough?”
“Yes, but,” Phil urged, “it’ll be dark, and if fighting is going on,
we may get between the two fires. I got myself in that fix once, and I
know how it feels.”
Tillotson’s eyes opened wider. He took a closer look at this young
midshipman.
“What does he know of being under fire?” he thought. Tillotson was a
first lieutenant; he had served in Cuba and in the Philippines, but
his active duty until his assignment to the regiment whose number he
now wore on his collar had been only at a desk at headquarters.
“What service have you seen?” he inquired of Phil in a patronizing
voice. “Were you in the battle of Santiago, or Manila Bay, perhaps?”
“No--not those,” Phil answered quickly, awe in his voice; “only a few
skirmishes, that’s all,” he added sheepishly, “in South America and in
China.”
“Have we then had trouble in those places recently?” Tillotson inquired
in mild surprise, and in a voice calculated to annoy his listeners.
“Not very lately,” Phil answered; “the South American trouble was
over a year ago and in China about six months ago. They were only
small rumpuses. I dare say you didn’t hear about them.” Phil’s pride
was touched, for he knew that many papers had given full and even
exaggerated accounts of both fights, and his name and Sydney’s had been
glowingly mentioned.
“I suppose I must have been out in the field at the time,” Tillotson
explained indifferently, “so I didn’t see the papers.”
“Hadn’t we best make up a plan of just how we’re going to do this
thing?” Phil urged, returning to his point and being guided by his
training at the Naval Academy, which had taught him to be methodical in
all things.
Lieutenant Tillotson regarded the lad coldly. “You can plan for
yourself,” he replied. “I’ve been fighting these insurgents for some
months and my men know my plans by heart: they comprise just one word:
‘Forward.’”
After the lieutenant had gone to his cot and was sound asleep, the
midshipmen adjourned to the brightly lighted chart house to discuss the
situation.
“This rank business is what is hurting the army and navy too,” Phil
exclaimed testily. “Just because a man has one more stripe on his
sleeve he thinks he knows more than every one below him, and considers
a suggestion from a subordinate unpardonable insubordination, almost
akin to mutiny. Well, Mr. Tillotson can keep his own plan, but, Syd, I
am going to work out our end of it.” While Phil spoke he drew the chart
toward him and glanced carefully at the land in the neighborhood of
Binalbagan.
“Do you see that marsh behind the town?” he exclaimed suddenly to
Sydney whose eyes were upon the chart. “That’s probably mangrove, and
they can’t get through that, so if they’re attacking, it’ll be from
the side. If Tillotson lands his men to the northward and we take a
position to the southward we ought to make a big haul. I told O’Neil to
have the Colt gun ready and if it comes out as I hope it will, we’ll
land it there,” pointing to a spot on the chart showing a low hill to
the left of the town.
Sydney agreed heartily with Phil’s plans, and berated soundly the
attitude of the army man.
“I suppose,” Phil said in apology for him as they parted, one to turn
in, the other to keep watch until midnight, “that he’s had so much
fighting he’s grown careless.”
At midnight Phil was awakened, and relieved Sydney on the bridge, while
the latter went below to get a few hours’ sleep before he would be
needed in the work to be accomplished. Phil gazed through the darkness
ahead of the gunboat; the dim outline of the land along which they
were traveling could be seen on the port hand. The coast was bald and
he knew he could without danger run as close as he desired to its
precipitous cliffs. The more he thought of the scornful carelessness
of the young lieutenant the angrier he became. What right had he to
consider such an expedition one to require no plans? What if he landed
in an ambush?
“He should consider the lives of his men,” he exclaimed hotly.
The midshipman already knew that a large part of the garrison were
not at Binalbagan, having gone on an expedition to the north coast; a
sergeant and twenty men had remained to guard the men’s barracks and
supplies, to say nothing of the natives who had professed friendship to
the Americans and lived close under their protection. These poor souls,
Phil knew, were between two fires; if the soldiers were defeated they
would be killed by their enraged countrymen, while if their countrymen
claimed and received aid from them they would at once be put in prison
by the Americans, and yet if they refused to subscribe to the cruel
demands of the insurgents their lives would pay for their rashness as
soon as they wandered outside of their village.
He paced restlessly the silent bridge. His men he could see sleeping
under the awning just below him. The man at the wheel, his eyes on the
compass, and the lookout on the forecastle were alone awake and alert.
The hours dragged by. A faint blush of dawn was visible on the eastern
horizon when Phil through his powerful night-glass could recognize the
chief landmark near the town of Binalbagan, a deep notch in the rugged
coast hills through which the river in the season of rains flowed to
the sea. It was as yet too dark to discover the town, and Phil knew
that the hull of the gunboat could not be seen from shore until the
sun had almost risen above the horizon. The last point of land was
rounded, and the gunboat’s bow was directed toward the locality where
he knew the town was even then in the throes of an attack from a savage
enemy. His heart rose in his throat as his mind dwelt upon the gruesome
possibilities if the handful of soldiers had been overpowered by their
numerous foe. It was almost with a sigh of relief that, as the gunboat
approached nearer the shore, he indistinctly recognized the faint
flashes of flame from rifle fire. At least the soldiers, or some of
them, were still alive.
All hands had been called, and on the deck of the “Mindinao” there was
a scene of great activity. Boats were cast loose and supplied with the
accessories of war. A grim Colt gun was mounted on its tripod ready to
be carried ashore to hurl its five hundred shots a minute at the foe.
Lieutenant Tillotson, after a rapid inspection of his men, approached
the two midshipmen on the bridge. Phil had slowed the gunboat. With
a leadsman in the chains, calling out the depth of water, he was
now steering directly for the small, serpent-like flashes showing
distinctly against the dark background of the hills.
“It looks like a big fight,” Phil exclaimed excitedly as the lieutenant
reached his side.
“These people make a lot of noise,” the latter replied nervously. “I
am not afraid of their rifles; the bolo is their weapon. By Jove!” he
exclaimed, after taking another long look at the scene. “It is a big
fight. I’d no idea they had so many rifles on the island. My fifty men
won’t be a drop in the bucket.” He turned upon Phil, alarm in his eyes.
“I shan’t land under that fire. Our men are doubtless intrenched in the
convent and can hold out till daylight, then when it gets light enough
to see, you can easily drive the insurgents off with your guns.”
Phil gazed at the army man in undisguised surprise. What did he mean?
Was this the same Tillotson whose only order was “forward”? Here they
were, undiscovered, with fifty soldiers, a Colt gun and a gunboat. It
was a chance a landing party seldom had to deal its enemy a severe blow.
“There must be five hundred riflemen surrounding the town,” Tillotson
continued, with more assurance, believing from Phil’s silence that he
had agreed with his plan of attack. “It would be foolhardy to risk my
men against such odds.”
“He does think of his men, then,” Phil thought contemptuously.
The gunboat had now stopped and lay motionless on the quiet sea.
Without orders four boats fully manned with ready sailormen were
noiselessly lowered from the davits. Stalwart arms lifted the Colt gun
and placed it in the bow of a cutter. Phil gave a last careful search
through his glass at the shore line, scarce a thousand yards away.
He could see the shadowy form of the big white cathedral from which
tongues of flame darted incessantly. To the right the long, low convent
building was silent. The soldiers had seized the church and inside its
shelter they were making their last stand. Phil was assured that they
would be safe until their ammunition was exhausted, and his experience
had taught him that soldiers in such straits, unless there was an
officer to control them, would use up their last cartridge before
thinking of the dire consequences. To husband ammunition was not their
concern. Even as the lad gazed the enemy’s flashes appeared closer to
the cathedral. They were closing in; a final rush might land these
savages under the very walls of the church. His hand shook violently
and almost a sob escaped him as a bright flame suddenly appeared on the
convent roof.
“They have set the convent on fire,” Phil exclaimed in an awed whisper.
Then he turned fiercely on the army man.
“What are your plans now?” he asked almost roughly.
Lieutenant Tillotson drew himself up stiffly.
“At sunrise all will be clear,” he angrily insisted. “It would be worse
than murder to land now; as you said last night,” he added, seemingly
grasping at a straw, “we would be between two fires.”
Phil gave him an impatient glance. “Come on, Syd!” he exclaimed
eagerly, leading the way down from the bridge.
O’Neil had his four boats ready at the gangway; two for the soldiers
and the others for the men of the gunboat who could be spared from the
guns.
The lads gripped each other’s hand in silence as Phil stepped on the
gangway ladder leading to the boat. The soldiers by one accord had
crowded aft, their rifles in hand and cartridge belts bulging with
extra ammunition. Some had even filled the inside of their blue flannel
shirt with more precious cartridges.
“Aren’t we going, sir?” the sergeant asked, gazing through the darkness
for his lieutenant.
Phil shook his head. He was too angry to speak. Then suddenly without
command the soldiers filed, at first hesitatingly, casting anxious
glances behind them, into the awaiting boats.
“Syd,” Phil said in a low, tense voice, “you know the plan. Keep those
cordite shells away from our own men. Get as close in as you can; don’t
hesitate to run her ashore if necessary. If I am not mistaken we’ve got
these natives in the closest box they’ve ever been in.”
The four boats waited in silence at the gangway. Phil had taken his
place with O’Neil in the boat carrying the Colt gun.
“Tell Lieutenant Tillotson we’re ready,” Phil said in his natural voice
to Sydney on the gangway.
Lieutenant Tillotson strolled aft slowly, his eyes on the streak of
dawn ever increasing in the eastern sky.
“Come on, Tillotson,” Phil said harshly; “we’ve wasted too much time
already.”
Lieutenant Tillotson stopped on the gangway and glared angrily at the
composed midshipman below him.
“I’d like to know,” he sneered, “what business a midshipman has to give
orders to his superior officer.”
“I’ll give you one more chance, Tillotson,” Phil said in a stern, tense
whisper; he did not wish the men to hear. He could see even in the dim
light the surprised, incredulous look on the faces of his sailors.
“Will you please get aboard?”
The lieutenant remained motionless, a dark scowl on his face.
“Shove off,” Phil ordered harshly.
The boats cleared the gangway. The sailors dipped their oar blades,
ready to follow the leading boat in which was Phil and the trusty Colt.
“Come back here,” the lieutenant cried, seeing he had gone too far. But
Phil’s jaw was set and he turned to him a deaf ear.
“It’s his own fault,” Phil confided to O’Neil at his side. “I didn’t
order his men in the boats; they got in without orders, as any decent
men would do. What is it, O’Neil, just pure cold feet?” he asked
suddenly.
“Partly that, sir,” O’Neil answered, “but Lieutenant Tillotson is not a
coward; he’s just overcautious and a bit of a braggart. He didn’t like
attacking in the dark.”
The four boats pulled with oars muffled in toward the dim shore. Phil
steered his boat for a point behind the long fringe of flashes, where
the insurgent firing line was established, creeping ever closer to
the handful entrenched behind walls that would soon be too hot to
hold them. He had abandoned his first plan and now was landing all of
his mixed command to the left of the town. If he could land without
discovery, the first the enemy would know of his presence would be the
horrifying, crackling report of the machine gun.
“There, steer for that,” Phil breathed as a mound-like hill took shape
out of the darkness.
With eyes straining and faculties alert for the first premonition of
danger, Phil directed his boat forward. The gunboat had been swallowed
up in the night astern. The shore grew more distinct. The church now
stood out prominently, silhouetted against the background of flames
from the burning convent. Even as he gazed the gun fire from the church
seemed to slacken and against the bright glow he could see indistinctly
natives swarming toward the burning building. Their number seemed
myriad; surely those could not be all riflemen. Then he turned cold as
he suddenly grasped the sinister meaning--they were bolo-men. For each
rifleman, at least four natives armed with bolos are assigned. They are
the guardians of the precious rifle. To obtain an insurgent gun, five
men must be slain. These men, armed with weapons in the use of which
every native is proficient, were advancing to rush upon the trapped
men when the heat of the fire and the smoke had driven them from the
shelter of the church’s protecting walls.
So intent had Phil been that the boat, before he realized it, had
grounded on the sandy beach and the men had jumped overboard into the
shallow water. Once on the beach, he superintended the securing of the
boats and then led the way toward the point he had selected for the
first position to be occupied. The enemy were only a few hundred yards
away, but so intent were they on the accomplishment of their cruel
purposes, that the shadowy forms of the men from the sea, stealing
quietly through the short grass and against a background of darkness,
were not discovered.
Phil’s quick eyes suddenly discovered some one approaching from a
direction away from the enemy. He gripped his revolver firmly, not
knowing how many more men might be behind the figure discovered. As the
Americans approached the newcomer, a native suddenly raised his hand
and called loudly:
“Amigo, hua carta.”[2]
A blow from O’Neil’s revolver butt was the answer, while Phil grasped
the letter which had been held in the stricken man’s hand, placing it
carefully in his breast-pocket. Then a warning cry rang out, followed
by a rifle-shot, the hot blast of which almost burned Phil’s cheek,
while a wiry form struck boldly right and left with his keen blade in
the very midst of the startled Americans.