but the destiny of the soldier and sailor is one of absolute
uncertainty. This time the unexpected appeared in the shape of an
order, directing that the cruiser proceed at once under forced draft
to Manila, a distance of 1400 miles. All kinds of rumors ran afloat,
the one predominating being that a German ship caught smuggling arms
to the insurgents had been fired on by the gun-boat _Nashville_; this,
however, seemed absurd, though not improbable. It was evident, at any
rate, that something of a serious nature needed repairing, as
consultations in the admiral’s cabin by the flag-officers and captain
were at fever heat. The following day at dawn, coaling ship was
commenced by a motley throng of natives, who kept a continuous stream
of coal pouring into the bunkers, which by night-fall contained two
hundred and fifty tons. At two bells (9 o’clock) the ship had been
thoroughly cleansed, and at four bells (10 o’clock) anchors were
weighed, and the “bull-dog of war” ploughed madly through the waters
of the phosphorous deep. Fair weather prevailed throughout the voyage,
alleviating to some extent the labor of the coal-passers below, who by
their strenuous efforts kept the cruiser under forced draft, driving
her through the “briny” swells and into Manila Bay in less than four
days. Casting anchor in the harbor of Cavite, booms were spread,
launches lowered, and we immediately learned of our mission, of the
terrible massacre of Company “G” of the Ninth Infantry, General
Chaffee’s old command, at the hands of the barbarous bolo-men of
Samar, the company having been taken by surprise while at breakfast.
Most every person is familiar with the horror of this massacre on the
Island of Samar in October, 1901; of how the savages stealthily crept
upon the sentries, dispatching them with a thrust of the bolo, as one
might blow out a flame, so adroit and silent was the operation; how,
at a signal given, one detachment secured the arms in the barracks, as
another made the fatal charge at the mess-hall, where one of the
bloodiest struggles ensued that has been recorded since the battle of
the “Alamo,” one or two soldiers of a whole company miraculously
escaping to tell the tale.
Great activity was at once begun on board the vessel, when it was
learned that the army and navy were to co-operate in suppressing
hostilities among the ferocious tribes of this jungle island, whose
leader, the squinty-almond-eyed insurgent General Lukban, had
defiantly sneered at foreign authority. Provisions and ammunition were
stored in the hold, numerous three-inch rifles, Colt automatics, and
one-pounders secured on deck, while four Kentucky mules to be used in
dragging the guns occupied stalls amidships. After the munitions of
war had been carefully stored and the minor details of the expedition
completed, Major (now Colonel) L. W. T. Waller, with his battalion of
three hundred marines, boarded the cruiser. This gallant battalion had
recently returned from China, where their valiant bravery before the
gates of Pekin had been attested by the troops of all nations.
What a scene this was on board a man-of-war!――seven hundred sailors in
the fashion of the sea, and three hundred marines in the garb of the
field, all ready, as mad Anthony Wayne said, to storm hell if
necessary.
One of the most magnificent military scenes and inspired feeling I
have ever experienced was on that balmy October morning in the year
1901, as I reported to Admiral Rodgers, six bells and underway. The
band had struck up, “Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching,” as
the entire sortie joined in the singing:
“Damn, damn, damn the Filipinos,
Pock-marked, almond-eyed ladrones,
And beneath the starry flag
We’ll civilize them with the ‘Krag,’
Then we’ll journey to our old beloved homes.”
This was a gala day for all on board; burnished bayonets glittered in
the noonday’s sun, while the khaki uniforms of the soldiers of the sea
contrasted with the immaculate white of the sailors.
The officers of the battalion to a man were soldiers, like those of
the St. Louis battalion, thorough in the art of war; men who had
proved themselves in active service; unlike a few under whom I served,
who broke into the army in ’98 and earlier, whose non-commissioned
officers were required to draw their topographical outlines, and who,
were it necessary to depend on their merits in civil life, would
suffer incompetency in a country grocery.
The voyage down the coast was one grand round of pleasure; apparently
it was “an excursion” for the men who had fought their way through
Tien Tsin on to Pekin, and with Riley’s battery, the Ninth and the
Fourteenth Infantry, had battered, rammed, fired, and scaled the walls
of the Forbidden City. On the gun-deck of the man-of-war talented
musicians of the battalion kept an incessant flow of music in action,
a piano accompanying the popular songs of the sea and field, as
rendered in their true originality by some whose bones were doomed to
bleach on the gruesome battle-fields of Samar.
Lieutenant “Jack” Gridley, ever popular with the officers and men, in
whose company the writer had served, cheerfully announced the
proceedings of the programme. It was far from our thoughts that night
that this brave son of the captain of the historic _Olympia_, after
braving the dangers of war, must suffer the wiles of the grim reaper
in peace, in the terrible explosion aboard the battleship _Missouri_.
About midnight of the second day, while cruising along the coast of
Samar, under the cover of darkness, signal-lights could be seen dimly
burning at points of vantage. With the aid of night binoculars a camp
of insurgents was discovered bivouacked along the side of the
mountains, several miles up the coast from Catabalogan. A powerful
search-light thrown on this scene made the enemy clearly visible, and
great activity could be seen among the insurgents, as if startled by
impending danger. With great accuracy of aim an eight-inch shell was
dropped in the camp; this was followed by a bombardment of the coast,
in which the broadside batteries flashed their deadly munitions of
war, creating terrible havoc and demoralizing the enemy. Dropping
anchor in the harbor of Catabalogan, the cruiser was met by the
_Zafiro_, which conveyed the battalion to Balangiga, the scene of the
slaughter of the Ninth.
The following day the sad news of the death of Midshipman Noya reached
the _New York_, being the first naval officer killed in the Samar
campaign. Cadet Noya was of the class of 1900, Annapolis Academy; his
death was attributed largely to the fact of his having worn a white
uniform on shore. At about five o’clock in the evening of October 27,
1901, accompanied by half a dozen sailors, he went ashore at
Nippa-Nippa near the bay to look for suspected smugglers. Sending four
of the men into the town, he remained on the beach while the two men
in the boat retired about two hundred yards from shore. His white
uniform evidently attracted attention, and unseen by him a dozen
bolo-men crept upon the officer; there was a noiseless rush, he was
felled with a bolo wound and his pistol taken, with which they shot
him. The men in the boat, hearing his cry, leaped overboard and half
waded, half swam to his rescue; they reached him while he was still
conscious. “Men, be very careful; they have taken my revolver,” he
murmured, and died. The remains were placed in the boat (the others
having returned) and taken to Catabalogan. A sailor had wig-wagged
across the bay, and as the body arrived at the dock it was met by a
cortege consisting of General Smith, Admiral Rodgers, Chaplain
Chidwick, and others.
Some time was spent in making primary arrangements for the final
resting-place, which consisted, in that hostile country at that time,
of turning over the sod and organizing a firing squad. A heavy rain
fell as the procession was formed at the dock in the following order:
Military band, detachment of soldiers, naval band, detachment of
sailors, body, pall-bearers, and mourners, consisting of members of
the army and navy. To the slow music of a dirge, the procession moved
out of town to the little National cemetery on the hill-side. Here the
mourners drew up about the grave while the solemn burial service was
read by Chaplain Chidwick, who took this occasion to make a few
remarks on the character of the deceased. As the chaplain concluded
his remarks, the firing squad of soldiers drew up, and three sharp
clear volleys rang out over the open grave, followed by the
ever-beautiful sound of “taps,” concluding the service. As the first
clods fell in the grave, the military band struck up a lively two-step
and led the procession back to town; at the same time the rain ceased,
the clouds rolled away, and glorious sunshine covered the land,
symbolic of the beauty of life beyond the grave.
Samar is one of the large islands of the Philippines group, lying west
of the archipelago between Mindanao and Luzon. Catabalogan, on the
western slope, is the chief town and capital. Along the coast there is
considerable cultivation, but the balance of the island is
mountainous, rugged, and sharp, with high precipitous declivities,
rocky defiles, and deep gullies, surrounding and entangling which are
dense jungles almost impenetrable; such were the haunts of the savage
bolo-men, who, like the “Fuzzy Wuzzy” of Kipling, were sociable but
full of fight.
An order issued by General Smith read as follows: “All soldiers on the
islands of Samar and Leyte must be armed at all times, arise an hour
before daybreak and stand under arms till breakfast; any officer whose
men shall be surprised through disobedience of these orders will be
punished as a court-martial may direct. Scouting parties must be kept
up incessantly, crops destroyed, villages burned, and smugglers
killed; the enemy must be made to feel, as General Sherman said, that
‘War is hell.’”
A paragraph from the general’s congratulations on the success of the
expedition read: “Success by barefooted Americans began at Valley
Forge, and I am proud to know that the same indomitable spirit which
won in spite of obstacles, over one hundred years ago, has shown
itself in Samar.”
A fleet of small gun-boats captured from the Spanish had been doing
yeoman service around Samar, in cutting off supplies to Lukban’s
forces from the other islands. They had destroyed hundreds of barotes
and burned numerous villages. In fact the Island of Samar was
completely blockaded, with the exception of the narrow strip of the
Gandarra Straits separating the island from Leyte. A spy in the habit
of a friar arrived on the vessel in the darkness of the night, with
the information that banco after banco loaded with rice was being
smuggled across the straits. Volunteers were called for, to ascend
this small channel in a steam-launch. Having volunteered for this
special duty, we set to work at once, our complement consisting of
four midshipmen, four marines, and four sailors. Stripping the canopy
off the steam-launch, two one-pounders were mounted fore and aft,
while a Colt automatic resting on a tripod occupied the centre of the
boat. Each man carried, besides his rifle and revolver, a belt
containing three hundred rounds of ammunition and an extra bandoleer.
About midnight, with fires secured, we shoved off under cover of
darkness for the entrance to the channel. On reaching it we could see,
in the distance along its shores, a fire dimly burning; steaming
quietly through the stream, closely hugging the shore, about two miles
had been covered from the ship, when a cumbersome object was seen
drifting across the straits. “Ah! a banco,” was whispered, as if
uttered by the voice of a buccaneer. The midshipman in command
immediately trained the forward one-pounder as near the water line of
the “smuggler” as could be discerned through the gloom. As the
coxswain swung the launch to a port side position in a shallow eddy,
the aft one-pounder and Colt automatic were trained for operation.
Each man crouched close to the gunwale as the order to halt was given
by the “middy” at the forward gun. This command was replied to by a
shot, momentarily followed by a whizzing fusillade of steel-jackets in
dangerous proximity, several penetrating the smoke-funnel. As the low
bang of the one-pounders rang through the midnight, the sweeping
rattle of the Colt automatic played its deadly missiles like
rain-drops on a tin roof. Unearthly yells arose from the surface of
the straits, as the banco was seen to sink. At this juncture a volley
rang out from the opposite shore; turning the Colt in the direction
where the flash of the guns could be seen, the beach was swept and
jungle riddled, silencing the guns of the enemy. While rescuing a
native who in the agony of fear and bewilderment was drowning near the
launch, several shots were fired from the jungle on our side of the
stream. It being impossible to train the Colt from the position we
held, we waded to the beach, where, creeping to an opening in the
jungle, we pumped volley after volley with our “Krags” into the
surrounding wilderness. As the moon broke through the clouds, the
silhouette of a group of natives could be seen prowling on the
opposite shore some distance up the straits. Having accomplished our
mission, we returned to the ship with a live specimen of the spoils,
who for safe keeping was confined to a cell in the “brig.” Next
morning the savage was loath to talk until, after a breakfast of cold
salmon, he told us that the banco contained eight natives, of whom he
was the sole survivor, that their cargo consisted of rice consigned to
Lukban’s forces in Samar. A detail escorted the prisoner ashore, where
he was turned over to the army. The following day the small gun-boat
_Garduqui_, of the “mosquito fleet,” was ordered into the channel,
sounding her way clear through the straits. The natives were hemmed in
on all sides and reports of smuggling ceased.
Near Balayán, as a member of a landing party that stormed and burned a
number of villages, I secured a unique relic, in the shape of a
Spanish trumpet that had served some hidalgo in the days of the
empire.
Every day brought news to the cruiser of the excellent work of the
soldiers and marines. In carrying out the orders of Generals Smith and
Hughes, the boys were sweeping everything before them, driving the
murderous natives to either death or surrender. Victor, who had led
the assault in the slaughter of the Ninth Infantry, had fallen victims
to the marines, and the splendid culmination to a successful campaign
was the surrender of twelve hundred bolo-men with their various
implements of warfare.
After swearing allegiance to the United States, these savage jungle
warriors were allowed their freedom.
The island having been pacified, a number of the troops were recalled,
though the blockade was continued by the _Vicksburg_, _Nashville_, and
the small gun-boats of the mosquito fleet.
The flag-ship _New York_, having completed her mission in the Samar
campaign, steamed back to Luzon, where a fortnight was spent in Manila
Bay ere she steamed out, under an azure sky, to the shores of fair
Japan.
Back to the land of the “Rising Sun”
Where the blood-red poppies grow,
To the minarets of the Inland Sea
And the “geishas” of Tokio.
NOTE.
This being merely a narrative of that part of the Samar
campaign that fell under my personal observation, without
any pretence to an elaboration or an historical account, I
desire to say that it would be doing a great injustice to
the gallant battalion of marines, conveyed by the flag-ship
_New York_ to the scenes of the depredations of the
treacherous natives, were I not to inform the reader that,
in order to portray in detail the hardships endured by the
men of Major Waller’s command, it would be necessary to have
a more comprehensive knowledge of the data, and a very keen
ability, in order to expedite the union of the composite
stages of this diversified expedition: of the harassing and
almost incredible obstacles countered; the personal courage,
determination, and zeal, each step treading its own dangers;
the attack upon the overwhelming force of insurgents in the
cliffs along the Sojoton River, where it was necessary to
elevate the three-inch field-pieces till they were almost
vertical, the cliffs being nearly two hundred feet high, and
well-nigh impregnable; the attempts at scaling these cliffs
by means of bamboo ladders; the various engagements in which
innumerable insurgents and many Americans were killed; the
travel of hundreds of miles through jungle wilderness, by
the half-starved, bare-footed marines; the burning of one
hundred and sixty-five shacks _en route_ to Liruan, where
death lurked in concealed spear-pits; the terrible execution
of the Colt automatics; the revolt of the native help, their
execution, and the sensational court-martial that followed,
attended by the honorable exoneration of the defendants, et
cetera; of the admirable work of the army, and fourth
company of Macabebe scouts, and numerous side-lights on this
novel campaign of warfare, that would tax the fertile brain
of the experienced author in their portrayal.
VIII.
The Cowboy Soldier, a Coincidence
Departure for New Orleans――Arrival at the Capital――The
Soldiers――Peach Tree Street, Atlanta――Christening of the
“Peace-togs”――New Orleans――The Levee――Creoles――The Race-track――A
Quadroon-ball――The Farandole and La Bourree――Madame La Bouchere,
Goddess of Sorcery――The Mardi Gras――The Plaza de Goiti,
Manila――The Coincidence.
One crisp wintry afternoon late in the month of January, 1899, having
bade adieu to a party of boon companions at a little railway station
in the Blue Ridge mountains of Pennsylvania, I ensconced myself on the
cushions of the smoking-compartment of the Black Diamond Express, lit
a cigar, and ran through the pages of a popular magazine, possessed
with a feeling of satisfaction that my destination, New Orleans, lay
under the warmth of Southern skies, free from the bleak winds of the
North, and with that suavity manifest in a person whose most arduous
responsibilities are those of pleasure seeking and curious notions.
Though having touched both Florida and Texas, I had never been as far
south as the crescent city at the mouth of the Mississippi, so that on
this trip it was my object to appease an insatiable desire by
thoroughly acquainting myself with the natural and historical charms
of this quaint old Southern city, and particularly witness the
festivities of the Mardi Gras.
In picturing New Orleans in phantasm, I had always had a conception of
a beautiful city of Spanish architecture, dotted with churches and
cathedrals whose chimes pealed sweetly overhead, and along whose
flagstone streets the beautiful Creole belles vied in angelic accord
with their more dusky sisters, the quadroons; darkies rolling cotton
bales on the levee, their negro melodies interspersed with the deep
sonorous steam-boat whistles on the wide-spreading river; haunts of
the vendetta and the mafia; southern homes shaded by palmetto, whose
confines exhaled in fragrant quintessence the aroma of magnolia; dusky
“Dinahs” in red bandannas picking cotton, as the old negroes thrummed
the banjoes near the cabin where the pickaninnies played around the
door. These were my early impressions of the gulf-cities of
“Dixie-land,” and how many are there who have seen the dramatization
of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” or read George W.
Cable’s stories of the Creoles of Louisiana, who have not pictured
just such scenes as these?
On my arrival at Washington, D. C., the sun shone bright in southern
warmth, in combative contrast to the bleak sweeping winds of the
north, and, having ample time in which to reach New Orleans before the
beginning of the Mardi Gras season (St. Valentine’s Day), I decided to
see some of the points of interest overlooked on previous visits to
the capital. One in particular was the trip to the tomb of General
Washington, at Mount Vernon, a short but very beautiful ride by
steam-boat on the Potomac River.
During this period two weighty questions were being handled by the
silver-tongued orators of the Senate,――namely, the ratification of the
peace treaty and the retention of the Philippine Islands. For three
days I attended this session of Congress to hear the elucidating
arguments on these subjects, as propounded by Senators Foraker, Hoar,
Tillman and Vest, who seemed to handle in arbitrary opposition the
burden of the questions. These debates were exceedingly interesting,
the eloquent orators at times becoming so animated as to cast
parliamentary rules asunder, and occasionally requiring the necessity
of being rapped to order by the Speaker of the House.
After spending several pleasant days in Washington, I journeyed to the
Pennsylvania Railroad station to catch my train on the “Sea-board Air
Line” for the city of Atlanta. While having my ticket validated for
berth reservation, a very military-looking soldier appeared at the
window of the ticket-office and made inquiries regarding a train for
Atlanta, Georgia. Having been recently mustered out of the service, I
sought to learn the fellow’s regiment; addressing him interrogatively,
I was informed that he had enlisted in Philadelphia, and was _en
route_ to Fort McPherson, Georgia, to join the Third United States
Cavalry. Although the fellow appeared very military, he said this was
his first enlistment, but that he had just stepped out of the stirrups
of a saddle in the Indian Territory, where his experience as a cowboy
he related in a most interesting manner. Boarding the train together,
we were ere long engaged in a hand of “seven up,” as the wheels
clipped off the miles at the rate of forty-eight per hour.
At Columbia, South Carolina, the train was boarded by a large number
of soldiers of the Second Tennessee Volunteer Infantry, who had
recently been mustered out with their regiment, and were _en route_ to
their respective destinations. Two sergeants――namely, Clark and
Gautrell, two very agreeable fellows――joined us in a sociable game of
cards. Although they had served in a Tennessee regiment, their homes
were in Georgia. The conversation from this point on was all war talk
and “broncho-busting.” The cavalryman’s interesting anecdotes of
branding and roping cattle, the tedium of the “round-up,” the
vigilance necessary in protecting calves from the howling coyote, the
breaking of horses, and his simple life as a cow-puncher in Oklahoma
and the Indian Territory, were as fascinating as “Pony-tracks” by
Frederick Remington. Before reaching Atlanta he gave me his name,
Harry K. Loomis, and said he hoped to be assigned to Troop “M” of the
Third. I handed him a card with my permanent address, at the same time
wishing him a successful career as a soldier, and hoping the fates
would ordain the continuation of a friendship that had so suddenly and
unexpectedly sprung up between us like a preordained affinity.
Before we had alighted from the train, Gautrell and Clark had decided
to see the Mardi Gras at New Orleans, and it pleased me greatly to
have the company of two such jolly chaps, whose liberation from the
arduous duties of a soldier animated them with a spirit that brooked
no restraint.
On our arrival in the city, we journeyed to a hotel, where, after
washing the cinders from our eyelashes and submitting to a tonsorial
operation, we sat down to a good substantial Southern breakfast.
Following this Loomis bade the party good-by and left to catch his car
for his post of duty. As he left the grotto-like café of the
Poindexter Hotel, Sergeant Gautrell remarked, “There is about as
soldierly a fellow as I ever met.” “Yes,” replied Clark, “and only a
recruit at that.”
The soldiers had some shopping in the line of purchasing an outfit of
“peace-togs,” as the war was over and they desired to get on a footing
with the common herd, as they termed the civil throng; so, promising
to meet the boys that afternoon, I hopped on a Peach Tree street-car
and rode out to the old ground of the “Cotton Exposition,” where I
spent a few hours, including my return, which was footed most of the
way for the purpose of gazing on those beautiful old Southern homes,
with their unfenced lawns extending to the sidewalks, likened unto the
suburban route leading to Willow Grove, Philadelphia, though far in
advance in nature’s loveliness. Old colonial mansions of stained wood
and light-gray stucco――sacred to the tread of the marshals of a lost
cause and the chivalrous knights of antebellum days, whose fortunes
suffered terrible wreck and ruin as the Yankees went marching through
Georgia――dot the large and splendid thoroughfare for miles on either
side of the long rows of sombre maples; broad piazzas, once handsome,
now grown picturesque, draped by the clinging myrtles and jessamines
that shed their bright petals in the sunlight; orange-blossoms in
drooping sympathy with the indifferent but ever-beautiful magnolia in
brilliant contrast, dispelling all doubt as to the ancestral
aristocracy of these manorial mansions.