joyful scenes of these quaint and lovely homes, under whose eaves
avowals bound by the ties of love have been softly whispered; refusals
sometimes spoken, fidelity having previously been pledged; where no
heed was paid to false news clandestinely carried from schools for
scandal; where coquetry was at a minimum; where lies no doubt were
sometimes nourished by the organs of deceit, and where passion yielded
to the tempter only in platonic affection under the twig of the
mistletoe. Such were the chivalrous thoroughbred characteristics of
these people to the manner born.
If the reader who has never journeyed along the quaint old Peach Tree
street of Atlanta, Georgia, can imaginatively depict the moonlight
scene of Julia Marlowe in “Barbara Frietchie,” he will have a monomial
fac-simile of these old-time Southern homes.
Returning to the bright stimulating thoroughfare fronting the
Poindexter Hotel, I alighted from my car and entered the café, where I
learned that the soldiers had not yet returned. After visiting various
places of interest, including the Confederate museum, I returned to
the hotel and wrote letters until about 4 o’clock, when the boys
launched on the scene in brand-new spick and span attire, everything
completely modern. They had made inquiries about the train for New
Orleans, which was scheduled to leave Atlanta at 12.02 midnight, over
the “Sunset” route, giving us ample time to attend the theatre. Clark
proposed a christening of the “togs”; this suggestion was emphasized
and perfunctorily executed with libations of mint-julep. After making
reservations for the “sleepers,” we purchased tickets for the
“Primrose and West” minstrels. Gautrell said he felt like a new clock
after shedding his “war-clothes,” and proposed an augmentation to the
christening; entering a “grill,” the order was soon taken and filled
to the connoisseurship of the “Kentucky colonel.”
After a few rounds of this delicious Southern beverage, we repaired to
the Poindexter, checked our baggage through to New Orleans, and dined
sumptuously on teal and water-cress. As the coffee and cigarettes were
being served, a trombone “rag” burst forth from the minstrel band near
the entrance to the theatre; as the last notes of this died away, we
hastened to the parquet, arriving in time for the grand opening scene.
Having enjoyed the show, our grips were collected at the hotel, and a
short walk to the station found us in ample time for the train. As the
Pullman vestibule sleepers rolled in, we were not long in getting
aboard and having the porter arrange the berths for a night of restful
sleep.
The trip by rail through the Gulf States was enlivened on either side
by scenery of commanding excellence. Cards were played, and the dusky
porter was playfully bullied to the delight of the news-butcher who
seemed to dote on the porter’s repartee. The most important cities our
trip included were Birmingham, Montgomery, and Mobile. After crossing
Lake Pontchartrain, I observed, from the dining-car window, the
crescent-shaped site of our destination. On the arrival at the station
near the levee, my eyes immediately feasted on what had previously
been a dream: Negroes humming a medley as they rolled the huge cotton
bales along the levee and aboard the Mississippi steam-boats; a
happy-go-lucky bunch of darkies whose hard work commands a
compensation of two bits per hour. Gautrell and Clark, being from
Georgia, smiled at the interest I took in this scene. Strolling along
Canal Street, we switched to the left at the Clay monument and entered
St. Charles Street, where after a walk of two blocks we entered the
magnificent St. Charles Hotel. “Everything taken, gentlemen,” was the
clerk’s pert response to our request for accommodations. “The Mardi
Gras season,” he said, “in the city of _Nawrleans_ is one lawg week
fo’ the hotels, and without makine reservations in advance, the
chances fo’ accommodations is a foa cod draw.” He, however, directed
us to a splendid place, in fact preferable to the hotel, a small row
of flats on Carondelet Street, with modern conveniences and near the
heart of the city. Here we engaged rooms, free from the busy whirl and
the bang, jam, smash, of the trunk-line populace.
The city was being profusely arrayed in its holiday attire for the
famous Creole fiesta, the Mardi Gras, which was but three days off.
Large arches were nearing completion, windows were being decorated
with the prettiest designs, while every building, from its gable to
the wainscoting or foundation, presented a striking spectacle with its
flabelliform folds of orange and black drapery.
A splendid trolley system affords an elegant view of the entire city,
every car leaves and returns to the Clay monument on Canal Street;
from these can be seen the beautiful government buildings, colleges,
churches, cathedral, race-course, and the historic city park, on whose
sombre site, in the days before the rebellion, the affairs of honor
were settled with the keen blade of the rapier or flash of the pistol,
the staid old oaks remaining as monuments, but unable to bear
testimony to the duels they sheltered in past generations. Lake
Pontchartrain, a broad expanse of water connecting with the Gulf of
Mexico, is the daily scene in season of fishermen making a haul of the
finny denizens of all species.
Riding out Ursuline Avenue you see, flying over the paddock and
immense grandstand of the world-renowned race-track, the colors of the
Crescent City Jockey Club gently floating in the breeze; the grassy
carpet of the inclosure, encircled by the red-shale turf, around which
the lithe-limbed thoroughbreds dash for the wire in incommunicable
antagony, exerting every fibre as if conscious of the triumph of a
victory. Here may be seen during the winter meet the most noted
race-horses, trainers, jockeys, judges, bookmakers, plungers, touts,
and race-course patronage of the modern turf, some backing the
favorites, while others (experienced handicappers) play the long
shots. After the races, “Farbachers” café on Royal Street, a famous
resort for the turf element, was daily the evening scene of
extravagant gayety, particularly by those patrons whose plunging had
been favored by fortune.
It had occurred to Gautrell, himself of French extraction, that he had
often heard of New Orleans “gumbo” as being a dish _par excellence_;
having sauntered into this famous hostelry, “okra gumbo” for three was
ordered. Unlike “chilli-concarni,” the staff of life of the Mexicans,
“okra gumbo,” though prepared from okra, meats, and vegetables, is
devoid of cayenne pepper flavor. Clark, who had evidently never
sampled “tobasco sauce,” remarked that catsup came in very small
bottles in New Orleans, at the same time drawing the stopper and
pouring the fiery liquid over his “gumbo” like so much
“Worcestershire.” As the tears filled Clark’s eyes, he said, “Fellows,
if this is what you call _par excellence_, go to it, but none of it
for mine,” then, with a mouthful of ice, signalled the waiter.
“Waiter,” he said, “kindly remove this bonfire and bring me a
pineapple-frappée quick.” “Gumbo” was relished by the balance of the
party, but Clark could never be induced to give it another trial.
The pool-rooms of the races along Royal Street are attractive halls of
amusement; bookmakers screened from the patrons as the clerks of a
bank; blackboards, on which appear the names of the horses, jockeys,
weight carried, odds, and pedigrees, decorate the walls, everything
being conducted with the same business decorum and excitement
attending the stock operations of the New York “curb.” The telegraph
ticks off the condition of the weather, the arrival of the horses at
the post, the start, their position at the quarter, the half, the
three-quarters, in the stretch, and under the wire, as a well-trained
voice in the language of the turf calls off the results. Here one may
play the races of any “meet” in the United States, lacking only in the
excitement of seeing the horses dashing for the winning wire.
In the old “French quarter” a few blocks from Royal Street, along
whose time-worn thoroughfare the past generations of “Nawrleans’” most
exclusive Creole society basked in the sunshine of their graceful
gentility, we saw some quaint sights amidst the chattering jargon of
its people, principally among these being a quadroon ball, at which
Creoles predominated, though almost indistinguishable from their
quadroon sisters, whose beauty is their stock in trade, and whose
mellow-toned voices drop the “r” in that quaint characteristic style
of the Southern people. The luxuriousness of their costumes, pomp of
procession, harmony of music, and grace of attitudes, all united in
furnishing a scene of festive splendor.
In close proximity to Jackson Square, near the haunts of the
“Vendetta” beautifully illustrated in the play of “Romeo and Juliet,”
we visited a Creole resort, the interior of which resembled somewhat
the subterrane of “Little Hungary,” the famous Bohemian hostelry of
Houston Street, on New York’s east side. Here, seated on a wine-cask,
a fiddler bowed a “viola,” as the Creoles, in their primitive
originality, and with all the inimitable grace of Loie Fuller in the
“fire-dance,” performed the “Farandole” and the “La Bourree,” their
beautiful bare arms in ornamental bracelets, shading the contortions
of their movements, rising and falling in gesticulating harmony to the
rhythm of the music, as the nymphs of an unexplored grotto. Nearby we
were shown the old slave-market and block from which the auctioneer
bartered his human wares to the highest bidder, their lives invariably
to eventuate in the drudgery of the cotton fields.
Voudooism, which included all the intricacies of the black-art in
prognosticating future events, flourished uninterrupted for years in
New Orleans, until finally eradicated by the hands of authority. This
superstitious form of worship was practised principally by the
negroes, who carried its inheritance with the first trading vessel
from the shores of Africa to the United States. We were told that the
negroes would indulge in the voudoo dances in uncontrollable frenzy,
until, overcome from exhaustion, they would sink to the ground.
Stories are told of the handsome fortune-telling quadroon Madame La
Bouchere, who held her court near the Bayou Saint John, and in whose
sumptuous boudoir the patrons of her art, consisting not only of the
bourgeoisie, but the Creole aristocracy, paid visits incognito to
suffer the enchantments of the “goddess” of this shrine of sorcery. A
landau driven to the door of this cypress-sheltered dwelling, there
hastily alighted therefrom a veiled lady, who, carelessly brushing by
the magnolias, vanished from view. In this green-curtained domicile
the intrigues of forbidden love, deceptions, betrayals, and future
certainties, would all be revealed to the satisfaction of the votary
of this dark-eyed enchantress, without the evil eyes of the
gossip-mongers to feast upon and scatter broadcast. Madame La
Bouchere’s soft voice and alluring smiles have vanished with the
strokes of time; in the slumberous shade of the willow she rests in a
tomb of the old Metaire cemetery, her soul having passed to the realm
beyond this life.
The cemeteries of New Orleans have a particular charm, the bodies
being buried above-ground. In handsome memorial to the Confederate
soldiers, there have been erected gigantic mausoleums, shafts, and
columns, monumentally inscribed to the memory of Louisiana’s departed
heroes.
Mardi Gras week was ideal in every respect, all the personages of the
characters of comedy blended in their primitive originality;
“Columbine” flirted with “Harlequin,” while “Ajax” defied the
lightning; “Vulcan” shaped harpoons for “Neptune,” and “Falstaff”
drank to the health of “Bacchus.” Mountebanks, clowns, and buffoons
all joined in the revelry of mirth. The street pageant was a
magnificent spectacle; floats garlanded with flowers representing
every State in the Union, trades and professions, were led by Rex, the
king of the carnival, surmounting the “globe,” and the Queen, the most
beautiful Creole lady in New Orleans, riding in a chariot drawn by
sixteen cream-colored horses. The array of the Crescent City Jockey
Club evoked tremendous applause, all the famous jockeys of the track
on favorite mounts participating; “Louisiana Tigers,” and the “Texas
Rangers,” sailors from the United States cruiser _New Orleans_, and
bands of music from all over the State, joined in completing this
gigantic saturnalia, which had, for its gorgeous setting, the Creole
“bal-masque,” where New Orleans’ most exclusive society, costumed in
Parisian elegance, was seen at its best.
The entire week was one round of jollification, at the close of which
my friends Gautrell and Clark left for their homes in Georgia. I
remained in New Orleans for four months, when, cases of “yellow-fever”
having been reported, I concluded to seek a more congenial clime.
Boarding the _Knickerbocker_, of the Cromwell Line, I made a most
delightful cruise through the gulf and along the coast to the city of
New York.
* * * * *
Three years having elapsed since my departure from the little railway
station in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Pennsylvania, for New Orleans,
the vicissitudes of destiny found me enjoying the balmy zephyrs and
moonlight evenings of the tropics. My career in the navy had taken me
into every port of importance on the Asiatic station, and my ship, the
_New York_, had recently slipped into the harbor of Manila, and lay
anchored off the break-water. Having gone ashore this particular
afternoon for the purpose of attending the races at Pasay, I had
engaged a “victoria” and with some friends attended the scenes at the
track, called at the “Hefting House” overlooking Manila Bay, had dined
in the old walled city, and driven to the “Lopez” road-house at
Caloocan. The sun had set back of the hills of Olongapo, ere I
discharged the cochero on the Plaza de Goiti and entered the Hotel
Metropole. “Hello, boys,” said old Maulini, the proprietor; “I am glad
to see you, you’re just in time to sample some fresh ice-cold
hoff-brau; it just arrived to-day on the _Kronprince_ from Germany.”
Drawing the rustic hardwood chairs around the square tables, we sat in
the delightful breeze of the electric fans as large fantastic steins
of cool hoff-brau were served.
Through the short swinging screen doors of the café could be seen the
cosmopolitan procession wending its way on business and pleasure; army
and naval officers in “victorias,” Red-Cross nurses natilly attired in
pure white lawn, friars in black habit and broad-brimmed hats,
mestizos of Chinese, Spanish, and French extraction, East Indian,
Malay, and Japanese merchants, and American soldiers, all stalking
along the plaza.
“Tell us a good Dutch story, Maulini,” asked one of the boys, as
another put in, “Ah, Maulini ain’t Dutch; he’s a French
carpet-bagger.” As Maulini was about to take up cudgels in his own
defence, there entered the café a bunch of cavalrymen, among whom I
instantly recognized my old friend Loomis the cowboy. “Great heavens!”
I said, “is this Loomis?” “Well, for the love of the powers that be,
Adams, is it possible this is you?” “Yep,” I replied, “this is the
fellow you taught how to throw a lariat.” “Where have you been the
last three years?” he asked; “the last I heard of you was through
Clark and Gautrell; they called to see me at Fort McPherson, and said
they had left you in good company in New Orleans; never hearing from
you, I had concluded you had cashed in. Come on, fellows, I want you
to meet a friend.” Drawing their chairs around our table, it was an
“O-be-joyful” gathering that swapped stories as the steins of
hoff-brau were replenished. Loomis told the story of our meeting in
Washington and the subsequent journey to Atlanta; of how the Third
Cavalry had been ordered to the front in the Boxer campaign, where
they had seen hard service, at the close of which they were ordered to
the province of Ilocas Norte, in northern Luzon, where the duty was
also very strenuous. Handing me his discharge, I read:
“ARMY OF THE UNITED STATES.
“_To All Whom It May Concern_:
“Know ye that Harry K. Loomis, First Sergeant of Troop ‘M,’
Third United States Cavalry, who was enlisted at
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, on the 1st day of February,
1899, to serve three years, is hereby honorably discharged
from the Army of the United States by reason of expiration
of enlistment. Said Harry K. Loomis was born in the city of
St. Louis, Mo., and when enlisted was 22¾ years of age, by
occupation a cowboy, had blue eyes, dark brown hair, ruddy
complexion, 5 feet 11 inches in height.
“Given under my hand at Division Headquarters, Army of the
Philippines, Manila, P. I., this 31st day of January, 1902.
“Colonel DODD,
“Commanding Third Cavalry.
“Character EXCELLENT.
“No objection to his re-enlistment known to exist.”
On the back of this discharge, in red ink, several lines told of the
meritorious conduct of this soldier, his unflinching bravery in the
face of the enemy in action, his promotion for bravery during the
Chinese campaign, and a recommendation for a “certificate of merit.”
Some time was spent in the exchange of experiences, and it goes
without saying that this event was appropriately celebrated, ending a
very unique coincidence.
Loomis, on the arrival of his transport, returned to the United
States, and at present, besides being a successful ranchman in
Oklahoma, is an intrepid and fearless deputy United States marshal.
IX.
Life Among Hostile Moros in the Jungle of Mindanao
A Trip to the Sulu Archipelago――New Year’s Eve on Board the
_Zafiro_――A Royal Bit of a Time in the Cabin of McDonald――Blowing
the Siren――New Year’s Dinner at 1.00 A.M.――Isabella de
Basilan――Prang Prang――Dancing Girls of the Nippa Villages――Roasted
Grasshoppers――Outpost Duty――Nearly Converted to the Darwinian
Theory――Experience with a Boa Constrictor while Hunting
Wild-Boar――Rescued from Hostile Moros――Relief of the Outpost.
Two men were caught in a Moro trap, and the Datto’s guns sang near,
And one wore an officer’s shoulder-strap, the other a private’s gear;
One was a black of the Twenty-fourth, and one was a Southern man,
And both were caught in a dark defile by the line of the Moro clan.
Oh, wonder it is, and pity it is, that they send the scouts alone
To die in the silent jungle paths with never a word or groan;
Wonder it is, and pity it is, but the two stood back to back,
And never a word between them passed as they waited the first attack.
What prayers they said they said them low, and to their beating hearts
That thumped so loud and out of tune; and now the battle starts.
A ring of flame about them ran; a tongue of fire shot through;
Then as machines their muscles moved and aimed their rifles true.
The bullets whined, the wounded shrieked, the rifle bores grew hot;
But still the two stood back to back, and answered shot for shot.
And now the Moro fire dies down, and now there comes a hush;
And white and black, with bayonets fixed, await the bolo rush.
They heard the Moro chief call out, “Oh, black man, hark to me!
You give to us the Christian dog and you shall go out free.
Heed you the call of color and blood――what need we longer fight?
In color and blood you’re brother to me. Oh, black man, give the
white.”
Now, one was a white of the Southern breed, and cheap he held the
black,
And little he’d thought, as the two had fought, of the man behind
his back;
He loved to live as the white man lives, but the Datto’s words rang
true;
And he had no doubt, as the chief called out, what the black behind
would do.
Two men they stood them back to back, and never a word they said;
But, face to face with an easy death, what thoughts were in each
head!
“You go,” the white man spoke at last; “for you owe naught to me;
You go; for I can die alone, that you may go out free;
“You go; it seems your time has come to draw the color line;
You and your breed owe naught to me, nor certainly to mine.
I’ll go to death as my fathers went”――between his cold set lips――
“My fathers who used to use your kind for trade――and poker-chips.”
One was a black of the Twenty-fourth, and his face was washed with
fear,
And his breath came quick, and his bowels were sick, as he thought
of the knife-blades near.
Then steady his hand swung to his belt, and back to the bolt again,
And he loaded and fired, as a well-drilled man, and counted his dead
to ten.
And, “Man,” he said, “in ole Kaintuck a mammy she prays foh me;
An’ Ah laks to lib lak yo’ laks to lib, but ouah end it am plain to
see.
Ouah colah an’ blood it ain’t de same, but we sets to de same old
boahd,
An’ if we diffah in skin an’ blood, w’y, we pass dat up to de Lawd.
“Ouah colah an’ blood it ain’t de same, but de flag dat covahs us bofe――
It nevah has changed on de colah line, an’ dey didn’t colah ouah oafe;
Yo’ go yo’ route to de gates o’ Gawd an’ I shell trabel mine――
An’ we shell see, when we reach His knee, how He’s drawin’ de colah
line.
“Doan’ fink Ah’m fightin’ foh de lub o’ yo’ or de breed that yo’ laks
to brag――
Ah’m fightin’ foh mammy in ole Kaintuck, an’ lub o’ mah kentry’s
flag;
Yo’ watch dem niggahs along yo’ front, an’ Ah’ll attend to mine,
An’ we’ll go up to de Gates o’ Gawd to settle de colah line.”
Two men they stood them back to back, and the white man called to
the chief:
“He’s answered the call of the color line, and his answer will bring
you grief.
We don’t declare as brothers-in-blood, or the burden of friendship
drag,
But we do unite on a color line, and our color’s our country’s flag.”
Two men lay dead in the jungle path, and their faces stared at the
sky;
And out in the bush on each man’s front the Moros were piled waist
high.
And when the warriors they went in to mutilate the dead.
They found them lying back to back, but white and black were red!
“How strange it is,” the chief he cried, “these men should together
go;
They did not love each other’s kind――in blood they differed so.
For one was black and one was white, and yet they chose to die
Because they served a single flag; in honor they shall lie.
“What gods they worshipped I know not――what gods I do not care――
They fought me well, and for their flag, and they shall have a
prayer.
For be he white, or be he black, his flag be what it may――
All honor to him who dies for that――my men, kneel down and pray.”
Two mounds they stand in a jungle path; they buried them back to
back;
And the wondering Moros tell the tale of the white man and the
black.
Oh, the warlike Moros pass that way to kneel in silent prayer,
And ask their gods for the spirit of the men they buried there!
The Island of Mindanao, which lies about six hundred miles south of
Manila, bordering on the Sulu Archipelago, was highly esteemed by
marines in 1903 as an ideal place to soldier, notwithstanding the fact
that the natives were extremely hostile, and it was of common
occurrence to hear of a sentry being treacherously boloed or speared
while walking his post in the jungle.
Having yearned for active service for several weeks while stationed at
Fort San Philippi, Cavite, the spell of anxiety was broken one day
when orders were received detailing three marines to proceed by the
first available transportation to Prang Prang, Mindanao, to replace
those who had suffered the fate of many other soldiers and marines at
the hands of the barbarous natives. Having made application for this
post in Mindanao, I received orders to report on board the _Zafiro_,
one of Admiral Dewey’s old colliers at the battle of Manila Bay.
On reporting to the executive officer of the vessel, I was assigned to
quarters, and, after unbuckling my accoutrements and placing them
safely away, I met Corporal Bates and Drummer Vogt, from another
company, who were also detailed on a southern trip,――Bates to Isabella
de Basilan, a post on the Island of Basilan, and Vogt to the post
where I was bound for.
It was New Year’s eve, December 31, 1902, and, as the ship was under
orders to sail at 9 P.M., we decided to hurry ashore, purchase a
basket of edibles, drinkables, cigars, and playing cards, that we
might see the old year out and the new year in, in true military
fashion. Jumping into a launch we were taken ashore, and, after laying
in a supply, hastened back to the ship.