converted into a supply-ship manned by a Chinese crew, we reported to
the “skipper” who was responsible for our safe delivery at the
destinations designated in our orders.
The chief engineer, McDonald, a typical Scotch-Highlander, whose
birthplace was in Ayr, Scotland, but who had lived most of his life in
Australia, was glad to have company this New Year’s eve and greeted us
with that fervor so characteristic of his race. We were introduced to
First Mate Meigs and Quartermaster Nolan. Meigs had held a
lieutenant’s commission in the Brazilian navy during the revolution,
while Nolan had served under General Kitchener in the Soudan.
The Chinese crew of the _Zafiro_ were thorough sailors to a man, from
the “chink” who handled the wheel down to the fellows who passed the
coal.
At two bells (9 o’clock) anchors were weighed, and the splash of the
propellers made it evident that we were under way. Chinese could be
seen at their various posts of duty, in that semi-unconscious custom
so perceptible in this class of people, whether steering a craft or
ironing the bosom of a shirt.
As the ship passed through the Mona Chica, the gateway between the
China Sea and Manila Bay, we could see, off to starboard, the lights
on Corregidor Island, which faded from view as our vessel steamed into
the darkness of the China Sea.
As the ship cruised along the coast of Luzon, Chinese off duty could
be seen engaged in playing Fan Tan, some pleating their cues, while
others stored away potions of chop-suey.
In the cabin of McDonald, Vogt picked a banjo, while Bates and myself
sang songs such as, “There’s a red light on the track for boozer
Brown” and “Oh, Mona, you shall be free.” Stories of adventure were
told by Meigs and Nolan, and Chief McDonald recited poem after poem of
the great poet Burns.
On the dawn of the new year 1903, the siren was blown, and the bell
struck 19 and 3, after which the entire contingent surrounded a table
laden with turkey and all the accessories of a new year’s dinner,
including Scotch high-balls and Manila cigars, and a more enjoyable
new year’s dinner or breakfast I never expect to experience. The songs
varied from the “Bonnie, Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond” to “The Wearing
of the Green,” interspersed with stories of love, war, and adventure,
and I doubt if we marines could have been entertained with more
satisfaction in the most exclusive suite of the _Lusitania_ than we
were this night in the cabin of McDonald on the _Zafiro_.
After cruising for two days along the verdant shore of Luzon, we
entered the picturesque harbor of Isabella de Basilan, a Filipino
village situated along the water’s edge surrounded by banana and
cocoanut groves. Quaint-looking fishermen, adepts at throwing the
seine, were scattered over the bay, while a motley crowd of native
women were engaged in pounding calico with smooth stones, their mode
of cleansing.
Barracks on the edge of the town contained a company of marines; among
these I found a number of whom I knew. After unloading provisions and
other stores, and leaving Corporal Bates behind, our ship steamed on
her voyage to Polloc, the name of the village where the garrison was
located. Having a cargo of freight on board for Zamboanga, the capital
of Mindanao, we touched this harbor just long enough to dispose of it,
and continued our cruise, steaming south along a mountainous range
studded with extinct volcanoes, and ere long had moored to the wharf
at Polloc in the bay of Prang Prang. Here we were met by seventy
marines, all anxious to hear the news from the outside world, as mail
was received here but twice a month.
Although isolated, Polloc was an ideal post, a health-giving resort
with excellent water and trees teeming with tropical fruit. Game, such
as wild boar, deer, and wild cattle, roamed at will throughout the
island. The Moros of this island kept “Uncle Sam’s” soldiers guessing
for several years, until finally subdued through the efforts of
General Wood. Unlike the Filipino, the Moro is a brave warrior,
preferring the open to jungle fighting. The Moros handle the spear,
barong, and kreese with great skill, and, when not engaged in a game
of monte, may be seen practising with these weapons of warfare.
The nights in this island of the Celebes Sea commence immediately at
sundown, there being no twilight; a calm serenity pervades the barrios
after the shades of night have fallen, when natives gather under the
drooping palms surrounding the nippa-shacks, around which the graceful
coils of smoke ascend from a smudge kept burning to check the advance
of the ever-annoying mosquito. Here, to the accompaniment of harp and
guitar, the Filipino inhabitants (for there are many of these in
Mindanao) sing quaint songs in the Tagalog or Visayan tongue. Dancing
girls, bearing such names as Oleano, Agripina, Donaziti, and Juana,
perform the “Fandango” with bewitching contortions, gracefully tapping
a tambourine and snapping the castanets to the music of the “La
Paloma.” The village is dimly lighted by cocoanut oil, kerosene being
a rarity in this section of the world. At such places we marines off
duty gathered nightly, where, over a bottle of dulce tinto and box of
alhambras, we spun yarns of our adventures, occasionally joining the
señoritas in their late carousals, to the delight of the friendly
Moros who inhabited the village.
The Moros had become quite hostile in the Lake region, and a battle
had been fought near what is now Camp Vicars on Lake Lanao, with dire
results to the enemy; this had exercised every native warrior on the
island to such an extent that it became necessary for the marines to
re-establish an outpost overlooking the bay and the Amadao Valley.
Having volunteered for this particular duty, we were ordered (one
sergeant, two corporals, and ten privates) to pack everything of
necessity pertaining to field-service on ponies and proceed to our
destination.
With a string of pack ponies, two Colt automatic and one machine gun,
we set out for the site of the outpost amid deafening cheers from the
garrison. We reached the knoll of a hill, a splendid point of vantage,
seven miles distant from the town, from which we could view the entire
surrounding country; here stood an old Spanish blockhouse, from which
we flew “Old Glory,” and, after policing the ground, pitched tents,
mounted the guns, posted a sentry, and were ready for action. The
following day we were connected by telephone with the garrison and had
cut the underbrush away from the knoll of the hill on which we were
stationed.
The only break in the monotony of several months of this life would
occur when a detail, sent into the garrison for rations, would return,
bringing us mail from the outside world and news from the company in
quarters.
Game abounded plentifully in this section of the island, and at night
the weird grunt of a wild boar and the bark of a deer could be heard
in the near-by jungle. Large vampires, darting overhead like phantom
aeroplanes, were numerous here as in other islands of the Philippines.
Moros approaching the outpost were compelled to leave their side-arms
in the jungle. Quite a number desired to be friendly with the
Americans; these were traders. They would bring in chickens, eggs,
fruit, wild-fowl, venison, fish, roasted grasshoppers, and tuber. Eggs
containing chickens, as in other parts of Mindanao and northern Luzon,
were more valuable than fresh eggs. Tuber is a native beverage taken
from the cocoanut tree, and has all the exhilarating effects of “Dry
Monopole.”
Thousands of monkeys infested the jungle surrounding the camp. On one
occasion while returning from a boar hunt, something happened which
nearly converted me to the Darwinian theory. Near the edge of a coffee
plantation I spied a number of monkeys in a mango tree; raising my
rifle I fired, dropping a monkey. The animal, merely wounded, came
running toward me, bleeding from the chest and uttering a pitiful cry,
then, leaning against a tree, placed its hands over the wound and,
with a most pitiful and appealing expression, gazed up at me in
tearful agony, as much as to say, “What the devil did I do to you?” I
ended its suffering, and resolved never to shoot another monkey.
While hunting wild-boar in company with Weismantle, a member of the
detachment, we had come across a “wallow” in a ravine near the Rio
Grande River. Weismantle, being an experienced huntsman, could tell
that the “wallow” had recently been frequented by hogs; he said, “You
take a position about forty feet on one side of the ravine, and I’ll
be on the opposite side; sit perfectly quiet, don’t even smoke, as the
boar is sure to return.” Following his directions to the letter, I
sought the shade of a large grape-fruit tree, where, seated on a log
with a bramble-bush blind, I awaited the arrival of the game.
In deep meditation I had sat with my rifle cocked for perhaps forty
minutes, eagerly awaiting the shadow of a pig, and was beginning to
get restless, when hark! a dull thud on the ground attracted my
attention to a guava tree near by, where I saw, hanging from and
partly wrapped around a low limb, an immense boa constrictor. For a
moment I was hypnotized; the snake’s head was hidden by the
underbrush, and in fact it was impossible to see either end of the
monster; I could merely see the coils wrapped around the limb and
hanging from the tree. To say that the sight of a boa constrictor
excited horror in my mind is putting it mildly, for, being unable to
see its head, it would have been folly to shoot with a rifle;
furthermore, I imagined I was in a den of these powerful
life-crushers; every moment I expected to feel myself enwrapped in the
monster’s coils, and for this emergency I had drawn my knife. Another
twist of this snake, and I was hitting the high places only; I leaped
through the tall grass like an Igorrote head-hunter, and now, to add
to my mental discomfiture, I ran on to a wild-boar, which gave a most
unearthly squeal; this, followed by the report of Weismantle’s rifle,
made it seem as though all the demons of hell had been turned loose.
After regaining my composure, I tracked the boar by drops of blood for
several hundred yards, where we found it in time to bleed it properly.
When I told the marine the experience I had had, he wanted to return,
but I refused to point in the direction, so the trip was postponed.
After tying the feet of our game together, we cut a long bamboo pole,
on which we packed it into the outpost, where it was roasted on a
spit.
Chess, pinocle, whist, and poker were popular games in the camp, as
they are in all quarters of the army and navy, and in this way many
pleasant hours were spent when off duty.
The migration of locusts on the Island of Mindanao is a novel sight;
approaching in the distance, they appear like a large black cloud, the
forerunner of a tornado; millions upon millions of these jumping
insects, totally eclipsing the sun, continue on their flight for
hours, leaving leafless trees and devastated fields in the train of
their route.
A great character at the outpost was Corporal Jim Iddles, a Scotchman,
and a great friend of mine. Jim had a keen appetite for tuber, and,
growing weary of the simple life, approached me one morning with the
suggestion that we take a hike to a near-by “barrio” in quest of some
native sangaree. The nearest barrio was Mongahon, seven miles distant,
so, slipping on our belts, with six-shooters and rifles, we hit the
trail over the mountains, informing Sergeant McKenzie, who was in
charge of the outpost, that we were going a short distance in the
jungle to shoot a deer.
On our arrival at Mongahon, we found the village deserted, with no
natives to climb the cocoanut trees, and, as tuber is tapped at the
top of the tree, we were out of luck, as an American cannot climb
these trees owing to the millions of red ants that infest them. The
nearest village from this point was Amadao, in the Amadao Valley, on
the Rio Grande River eight miles distant. At this juncture it was
decided to toss a coin, head for Amadao, tail for the outpost. As the
coin was tossed on the “heads I win, tails you lose” system, it was
not long before we were beating the trail, with the valley of the Rio
Grande for our destination. The tribes in this section of the island
had been very hostile, and a battle had been waged near Amadao some
months previous; but, as we had been dealing with traders from this
valley, we decided to keep on the alert until we found these, whom we
knew would represent us as being amigo Americanos.
As we drew near the “barrio,” we noticed Moros here and there
withdrawing from the fields toward their casas or shacks, evidently
apprehensive of impending danger, as a Moro, on seeing two or three
soldiers within their territory, infers at once that they are an
advance guard of a larger body. Many Moros, in addition to their own
lingo, speak a mixture of Spanish and Visayan, so that with this help
we were able to trace our traders. Resting at a shack in a large
cocoanut grove while an apparently friendly native went in search for
a trader, we were soon greeted by old “Montone,” a native warrior, but
friendly to the Americans. Montone had a complexion as black as the
ace of spades, and was reputed to have been a formidable pirate in his
palmy days, operating along the coast of the Celebes Sea. He bore
evidence of this reputation by the valuable ornaments he possessed; on
his wrist he wore a jade bracelet, above each elbow a bracelet of
solid gold, while two massive rings hung from his ears; his kreese was
priceless, containing pearls and other precious gems, the blade being
inlaid with gold, while surmounting the hilt was a solid gold helmet.
Besides, he was tattooed from his shoulders to his wrists; truly he
was “the king of the cocoanut grove,” and, while not a “Datto,” had
all the authority and appearance of one.
Montone at once sent a native for a stick of tuber (a bamboo cylinder
holding three quarts). Tuber is a cool tropical beverage, the sap of
the cocoanut tree, which can only be drawn by tapping the top of the
tree. It has a sharp sweet taste and, like champagne, its effects are
lasting. After finishing the first order we sent for more. I believe
we were on the fourth order when the Scotchman endeavored to entertain
an imaginary audience, and the last I remember of him before a
profound slumber claimed me, he was standing on a stone pile singing,
“Green grow the rushes O, Green grow the rushes O,” et cetera, to an
imaginary audience of about twenty thousand, it seemed to me.
Dawn was breaking when I awoke, I knew not where; my first thought was
of my six-shooter; it was gone; my rifle, belt, and ammunition were
gone, and several moments were spent in conjecture as to the reality
of my personal existence. I tried to think, but all seemed blank; I
had reached the abysm of oblivion, when I recalled that last song of
my partner Jim, the tuber, and alas! the sequence mysteriously puzzled
my brain. Had I been sleeping like Rip Van Winkle in the Catskills? or
was it the hallucination of a dream, that would vanish with the
awakening? I was soaking wet. Quietly crawling to an aperture through
which the rays of a moon-beam shone, I discovered that I was in a
nippa-shack on the brink of a ravine. Suddenly I heard deep breathing.
Quietly tiptoeing in the direction of the sound, I saw in another
compartment several natives scattered about in peaceful slumber.
Satisfying myself that they were Filipinos and not Moros, I awakened
one of the men, who arose, exclaiming, “Ah! amigo Americano, mucho
bueno grande hombre.” Fortunately, this Filipino was a friendly native
who had formerly been employed by the provost in the town of Polloc.
He informed me that he was _en route_ from Cota Bato (a small shipping
port), where he had taken a shipment of hemp, and, passing through the
village of Amadao, had seen me in the company of hostile Moros, and
had invited me to ride on the back of his caribou to his casa. In
fording the Rio Grande River, the animal had stumbled, throwing us
into the stream, and this accounted for the wet condition I was in.
On making inquiries about my rifle, the native went to the adjoining
room, returning with my six-shooter, rifle, and belt. Both weapons I
had made useless by taking the drum and pin from the revolver and the
bolt from the rifle, a custom a soldier is taught early in his
military career, for cases of emergency.
When I inquired about my partner Jim, the Filipino said that I was the
only white man he had seen in the valley, but that, at about midnight,
he had heard rifle volleys in various directions. Here I concluded
that the garrison had been turned out in quest of the two missing
marines, and the shots had been fired with the hope of getting an
answer.
By this time the other members of the household had awakened, and,
after being served with hot black coffee, I was directed to follow the
trail along the Rio Grande River, which led through tall grass and
bramble.
As I hiked along the lonely trail, my thoughts were centred on my
friend Jim Iddles. I could imagine his lifeless form lying cold in
abhorrent demise, and conjectured how if alive we were to escape the
punishment of a general court-martial. After many miles of tiresome
travel, I was hailed from a branch trail by a friendly Moro, a dwarf
of the mountains, whose abode was in the village of Panay and who
frequently visited the outpost, selling produce and game. This
diminutive spirit of the forest, who reminded me of the elves in
Irving’s Rip Van Winkle, aimed straight for me, cutting his way
through the jungle with his kreese. He greeted me with the customary
“Amigo Americano,” and informed me that he had been sent out in search
of me by the commanding officer of marines at Polloc. Leading the way,
I followed him in single file along the trail through banana groves
and jungle where parrots and monkeys were numerous. After a weary
hike, I spied “Old Glory” waving in the breeze from the old Spanish
blockhouse at the outpost; as we drew near, I could see the soldiers
gazing intently in my direction; the sentry had spied us and aroused
the camp. After a cheer and a hearty handshake from the boys, my
mental agitation was relieved when informed that Iddles had been found
in Amadao about midnight, by a detachment that had been sent out from
the garrison.
Iddles was found asleep in a Moro shack, in front of which patrolled a
Moro sentry carrying Jim’s rifle, belt, and six-shooter.
After relating part of my adventure to the boys, the garrison was
informed of my safety, and in a few hours the commandant and captain
of marines were on the scene to ascertain the facts connected with our
absence. Meanwhile both Jim and myself, looking the worse for wear,
policed ourselves to a high degree of soldierly immaculateness, and
after a confab it was decided that I should act as spokesman on the
arrival of the officers.
The story we framed was this: that, having followed the bark of a deer
for a considerable distance in the jungle, we lost our bearings (“lost
our bearings” was good!), and, differing in opinion as to the
direction of the camp, we were each directed by the influence of our
respective opinions, resulting in both getting lost. The circumstances
in connection with the finding of James had been withheld from the
officers; while my experience had been only partly related to the men,
they having heard that I departed from the valley mounted on a caribou
driven by a Filipino.
When confronted by the officers, I told the tale of our adventure: of
our having followed the bark of a deer leading us into a labyrinth of
perplexity (as dears sometimes do!), of our difference in opinion, the
friendly attitude of the Moros, and the kindness of a Filipino in
conducting me to his casa, where I was provided with quarters for the
night. Iddles corroborated my story as far as it related to himself,
and dwelt particularly on the friendliness of the Moros of the Amadao
Valley. After asking various questions in cross examination, the
captain said, “Well, men, I am glad to see you alive; your adventure
has been of some profit.” Then, turning to Sergeant McKenzie, he said,
“If two of our men can go into the jungle as these men did, mingling
in friendship with the natives without being molested, I can see no
necessity of continuing the outpost; stand relieved, break camp, and
return to the garrison.”
There was no court-martial, scarcely a reprimand, and the soldiers of
the outpost tendered Jim and me a vote of thanks for the hand we
played in getting them back to the comforts of the barracks.
It is a singular fact that a few months later, on the renewal of
hostilities in the Lake region, a band of Moros of the Amadao Valley,
under the leadership of a noted “Datto,” offered their services to the
commanding officer at Polloc. Like the American Indians, the Moros are
divided into tribes, among whom for ages past there has been strife or
contention for superiority.
Our two years having expired in foreign service, the detachment was
ordered to Olongapo to join the homeward-bound battalion. Shortly
after this we bade adieu to Moroland and swung out of the bay of Prang
Prang _en route_ to the Island of Luzon.
X.
A Midnight Phantasy in California
The Vision――The Capture――“Frisco” and Its Favorite Haunts.
Having had considerable experience with copper thieves in the navy
yards of Washington, D. C., New York, and Cavite, Philippine Islands,
I was not overly surprised when, about midnight late in the autumn of
1903, while serving in the capacity of patrol at the Mare Island Navy
Yard, California, as I chanced along the waterfront, to see the shadow
of an apparent river pirate, presumably collecting copper bars from a
large pile of this valuable metal. The man evidently, it appeared to
me, had a boat in which he was storing the bars to be rowed across the
channel to Valejo, the old Spanish gambling town and gold-miners’
retreat of the old days.
Without the least exaggeration, I must acknowledge to having been
during my career in some very uncomfortable predicaments while
grovelling through the vicissitudes of life’s various phases, and a
strong resolution, which I have always held sacred, has been, never to
take a life without giving the person a chance for his own; therefore,
self-defence or being in action with the enemy could be my only
palliation. This night, however, presented cause for exception to this
rule. The corner of a large steam-engineering building hid from view
the man whose shadow played in grotesque evolutions on the pier, and
it was impossible to see him without uncovering myself to his gaze,
but there lurked the shadow of every move cast vividly before my
keen-set eyes.
As I quietly knelt in seclusion surrounded by the densest gloom,
meditating as to how I might take the object alive, positively
realizing that he was well armed, from my previous experience with
river thieves, I saw the shadow portray a man drawing a gun and
examining it closely, the shadow indicating that he was either trying
the trigger or testing the T block of an automatic pistol.
It dawned on me that my duty bade me to halt this man, and, if in any
way he attempted to evade me, to kill him.
I had the narrow neck of the channel covered, and it was my intention,
if he attempted to shove off in a boat with any copper, to halt him,
and, if he ignored my command, to fire. However, not seeing the shadow
disappear for even an instant aroused my suspicion, as to load the
copper in the boat in any shape or manner it would have been necessary
to pass on the opposite side of an old obsolete sentry-box, thereby
obliterating even the semblance of a shadow.
I was cognizant of the fact that had I aroused the guard they would
send out the steam-launch to cover the exit, and, if the man attempted
to escape, fire on him, which I wished to prevent.