every minute. Here millionaires nudged elbows with paupers;
celebrities of distinguished vocations with the butcher, the baker,
and the candlestick-maker. The various nations of the earth here
commingled in harmony, all possessed with the same feeling of
curiosity and intent on having pleasure.
After doing the Pike, the Tyrolean Alps was a favorite resort for
midnight diners whose mirth and good fellowship were in keeping with
their surroundings. Delicious terrapin, lobster, and rare-bits were
specialties in this extraordinary café. From a pass in the mountain
chain of the Alps came the clear yodel of a quartette of Tyrolean
singers, whose notes reverberated from the cliffs to the scenes below.
Swiss maidens from Geneva presided over stalls of quaint curios from
Switzerland, beer-steins and long tobacco-pipes being the most favored
articles. These Swiss girls were great favorites of the marines; they
were constant visitors at the camp during the entire exposition,
scarcely a tent was lacking in some ornamentation or other from the
booths of this Alpine exhibit, while each girl wore pinned to her
shirt-waist an ornament emblematic of the marines, consisting of the
semisphere, the eagle, and the anchor.
Though not on the grounds, one of the most interesting places of
amusement, and one which without seeing the visitor’s trip to the
“Fair” was incomplete, was “Cheyenne Joe’s Rocky Mountain Inn.” This
famous or infamous resort, as you will have it, had a seating capacity
of more than one thousand people. Tables arranged in squares over a
saw-dust floor were attended by waiters in cowboy costume; in the
centre of this large pavilion a vaudeville performance entertained its
racy patronage; music was continuous, two bands being used for this
purpose; as one ceased playing, the other commenced without interval.
A trained donkey bedecked with ribbons ran from table to table nodding
to the guests. About every twenty minutes, Cheyenne Joe mounted on a
pony would gallop into the scene and cry out, “How much money did we
take in to-day?” In unison the cowboys would yell, “Ten thousand
dollars.” Joe would shout, “Burn half of it up and shoot out the
lights,” whereupon each cowboy drew his gun and banged away, snuffing
out every light in the joint. The lights, of course, were operated
mechanically; darkness ensued for a few moments only, when the light
would be restored. The placards alone were worth a visit to read; but
the mirth and revelry indulged in not only by soldiers, civilians, and
Indians, but hundreds of the fair sex, during the midnight hours in
this Rocky Mountain resort, though lacking in splendor, were akin to
the revels at the feasts of the bacchanalians.
During the wee sma’ hours of the morning the Palm Garden, a rustic
summer dancing pavilion, with its glossy floor and Italian orchestra,
was ablaze with the scintillating flashes of diamonds which glittered
from the smartly clad feminine patrons of the dizzy whirl. Here, to
the music of such selections as, “Any rags, any bones, any bottles
to-day?” a rag two-step is being performed by a marine and a Venus
with a florid style, whose magic spell lends soothing to the blues,
but whose high heels were not made for a minister’s daughter.
Surrounding the Fair-grounds and in close proximity were shows of
every description. Conspicuous among these were Forest Park Highlands,
a veritable Coney Island; Luna Park; Delmar Garden, the scene of the
celebrated extravaganza “Louisiana,” the old mill-wheel and “the girl
in blue,” “the cave of the wind,” and “the Queen of the Gypsy
fortune-tellers,” the Delmar Race-track, where gathered together could
be found the most famous thoroughbred racers of the world, with their
coterie of noted jockeys and attendants.
“Old Heidelberg,” in the German village, was the bohemia of the
outskirts of the big show; here, to the strains of “Die Wacht am
Rhein,” it was strictly proper to eat “hot-dogs” and drink cold steins
of imported “hoff-brau.”
Sundays, when the Fair was closed, the permanent summer resorts of St.
Louis were flooded with people. Montesano, an island in the
Mississippi River connected by a fleet of steamboats, was the most
favored Sunday resort; the trip down the river alone broke the
monotonoy of the quietude of a hot summer day. The island, with its
groves of shady maple trees and inviting dells, extending from the
smooth sandy beach and through the interior, was an ideal spot to
while away the midday hours in lingering lassitude. There were
dancing, boating, fishing, roller-coasting, flirtations, and all that
goes to make up an ideal pleasure resort. Along the beach, children
with diminutive spades dug holes in the sand in search for shells.
Games of all descriptions were conducted quietly, and with far less
compunction than under the restraint and restrictive laws elsewhere
enforced.
Merrimac Highlands and Creve Cœur Lake, reached by scenic railways,
were also popular places of amusement.
The daily average attendance at the exposition was sixty thousand, and
those represented nations of all countries and zones.
It was very amusing to hear some of the nonsensical questions that
were asked by our rural friends from the land of the sage-brush and
cactus. On one occasion I was approached by an elderly lady with the
following query, “Soldier, would you kindly tell me what time they
feed the lagoons?” I was nonplussed at the question, but ventured to
ask, “Is it a bird or an animal?” She wasn’t sure which, she said, but
a friend of hers had told her that it was a mighty interesting sight.
I had heard of raccoons, loons, and baboons with Mr. Hagenbach’s wild
animal show, and, knowing these had to be fed, I directed the
misinformed old lady to this site on the Pike, where I trust her
misconstruction of the word or misinformation was amended.
Having some business in St. Louis in connection with our canteen or
camp exchange which necessitated the carrying of my haversack, I had
left camp for the Olive Street car line, when I noticed a fellow in
hot pursuit who reminded me of a butterfly catcher in a field of
daisies down on the farm. Hailing me, he gasped, “Mail-man, please
stamp these cards and mail them for me;” handing me a half-dollar with
a bunch of post-cards, he continued on his leap-frog gait. “Whoa! come
back here,” I shouted. “Oh, that’s all right; buy yourself some cigars
with the change,” he answered. On mailing them I noticed they were all
addressed to Arkansas; that accounts for it, I said to myself, he must
be one of those Arkansas travellers.
Not far from our camp was a high spiral tower, on the top of which was
the wireless telegraph exhibit connected by a lift or elevator. “Is
this the scenic railway?” a young lady inquired. “Not yet,” I replied;
“that is the elevated railroad.” She smiled and thanked me very much.
Why, they even went to the Kentucky building to invite Daniel Boone
out for dinner!
Every day the marine camp was the scene of a constant stream of
visitors, many of whom were in search of friends and relatives. For
more than a year before my departure from the Philippine Islands I had
studiously contemplated serving at this post of duty, and felt assured
of my success, so in consequence had written a number of friends in
various cities of the United States who I knew were anticipating the
pleasures of the greatest show on earth.
The cool days of early autumn seemed to be the most popular season for
the Eastern and Western visitors; each day groups of friends,
ensconced under the khaki canvas of an A wall tent or seated on
steamer-chairs along the smooth level lawn, joined in social
intercourse with these jolly rovers of land and sea. Tent number 2 was
daily the scene of some festive occasion, the erstwhile pranks of
which were likened unto a scene from the “Rodgers Brothers in Paris.”
On these occasions the author was assisted by his dear friends and
compatriots Boland and Fynmore.
Before going to St. Louis as pay-clerk of the battalion, I had spent
three years afloat and in the tropics, and during that time had met
but one man from my native town, with the exception of my father, who
visited me in Washington, D. C., prior to our departure, and whose
perplexities in the Executive Mansion on meeting President Roosevelt
were brimful of excellent humor even though the seasoning was of the
ludicrous variety.
The circumstances attending the meeting of the other man in question
were exceptionally singular. It was late in the autumn of 1902, and I
was stationed in the old “Quartel de Espanol” at Fort San Philippi,
Cavite, P. I. Every evening about sundown, when not on duty, it was my
custom to stroll with a friend or two to a hacienda in the adjacent
“barrio” of San Ruki, where the soft-toned music from a harp and
guitar was artistically rendered by two charming mestizos. At this
native bungalow, shaded by large palms and drooping banana stalks,
gathered nightly the elite of the village, and occasionally señoritas
from the city of Manila, whose predominant beauty, in fluffy kimonos
woven from the fibre of the pineapple with a texture as fine as silk,
was augmented by that indisputable mark of Spanish aristocracy, the
ever-propitious mantilla. By the dim light of a candelabrum which
fluttered in the evening zephyrs, these social gatherings were
regulated with that Oriental quiescence and technique to the manner
born.
It was while wending my way home in the moonlight from such an
allurement of beauty and music, that I chanced along the Calle Real
and into the Café Del Monte, when I was agreeably surprised to see,
seated at a game of cards, my old shipmate “Jack” Lavery of the
cruiser _New York_. Being clothed in a suit of civic white duck, I was
unrecognized for a moment. “Hello, Jack!” I exclaimed. “Well, Bill!
for God’s sake, where did you come from? I thought you were in China
on board the monitor _Monadnock_?” “No, the application was
disapproved of, so I fired in another for shore duty.” “Well, but you
left us in Shanghai.” “Yes, my application was approved there, I
crossed the sea on the gun-boat _Manila_.” “Well, where are you now?”
“Fort San Philippi.” “Good! Shake hands with some friends of
mine.――Fellows, we’ll have the story about the Moors in Algiers
to-night.――Waiter! take the order; bring in some Egyptians and a new
pinocle deck.” Having been furnished with the order, the cards were
dealt and we made our melds.
The fourth game was in progress, and, as the cards were being dealt, I
remarked to my partner, whose cuffs had been rolled back, “Corporal,
that dragon represents artistic work; where did you have that done?”
“The dragon was tattooed by an expert on the Queen’s Road in Hong
Kong; these storks I had put on in Kobe, Japan; and the spider’s webb
was worked in at Cairo, by a professional who had the honor of
tattooing his excellency the Khedive of Egypt.” “That is pretty work,
and I see it harmonizes with the blue scar on your wrist; where did
you dig coal?” “Oh, years ago, away back in Pennsylvania, all the way
from slate-picking to working a gangway.” “What part of Pennsylvania,
may I ask?” “Hazleton, Luzerne County.” “Hazleton? Are you from
Hazleton?” “Pretty close to it; my home is in Beaver Brook, a little
mining hamlet about three miles south of the city.” “Great heavens!
ten thousand five hundred miles from home, and here is a native of my
own village,” I soliloquized. “Did you ever know a family in Beaver
Brook named A――――?” “Did I?――for the Lord’s sake, is it possible that
you are young B――――y A――――?” “That’s me, old chap.” “Well! Well! put
her there, old boy. Twenty-two years have passed by since I worked for
your father. I am Johnny Coyle; don’t you remember Jack?” “Well, Jack,
my old school-mate, shake again. Truth is stranger than fiction.
School-mates, ship-mates, landsmen, bandsmen, and marines, come on,
let’s celebrate; press the button, sergeant, and we’ll sing, ‘I’ll
meet you at the hedge where the huckle-berries bloom.’”
For several days my home city, Hazleton, Pennsylvania, was well
represented at the “Fair,”――a special containing a large concourse of
Sir Knights of the Masonic Fraternity who, accompanied by their wives
and daughters, were homeward bound from San Francisco, where they had
been attending a Masonic conclave. Having the esteemed acquaintance of
nearly every member of the jolly bunch, I was delighted and felt
highly honored with their visit in our camp. In my four years of
travel around the world, these were the first people from home whom I
had met, with the afore-noted exceptions.
Each day was given to some especial event. Every State in the Union
celebrated on one particular day, the buildings representing the State
being more elaborately decorated for this occasion. This function was
attended by their respective governors and staff, occasionally
accompanied by a troop of horse or infantry. Various branches of
business had their day; there was also theatrical day, automobilist
day, Elk day, and in fact every day during the continuance of the
“Fair” was taken up by some particular branch of business or
profession, the turnstile recording the largest attendance on Chicago
and St. Louis day.
Theatrical day I had the pleasure of escorting a party of the
profession, whose names in glittering light frequently adorned the
theatres along Forty-second Street and the “Great White Way,” through
the marine camp, the Pike, Cheyenne Joe’s, and later joined in the
merriment at a dinner in the Tyrolean Alps. A quartette of Indian
chiefs occupied a table some distance from ours, among whom was the
famous old Apache warrior Geronimo. On learning that one of the chiefs
was Geronimo, a member of our party, a celebrated singer of coon
songs, expressed a desire to meet him, whereupon I invited the Indians
to join the “Merry Wanderers of the Night.” After the introduction the
old chief made a speech in the Apache tongue; they sang, danced,
chanted, and became quite hilarious; this was not due, however, to the
stimulants of the Tyrolean Alps, for, although the Indians would have
relished a mint julep, they were obliged to indulge in milder
potations. Each chief, before departing, had ardently proposed to the
actress of his choice, who accepted him in the language and manner of
the stage. The wee hours of the morning were gliding by as this jovial
party of merrymakers boarded their “special” of palace sleepers, and
thus ended a round of joy, keen wit, and humor.
Strong resentment against the conduct of Filipino scouts had been
expressed in different quarters of the “Fair,” and trouble between
these and the white soldiers had been narrowly averted a number of
times. The flirtations between white women of apparent respectability
and the islanders had created adverse criticism. The marines, goaded
by these flirtations and seeing fashionably gowned women on the arms
of Filipinos promenading the Pike, felt that it was more than they
could stand. In consequence a plan of campaign was outlined. One of
the officers said, “I foresaw this situation and gave warning that it
would come about. It is amazing the way white women shower attentions
on the scouts, parading them to their homes and all that sort of
thing.”
On several occasions marines had interfered when white girls were seen
with the scouts; this usually precipitated a fight, causing bitter
feelings in both camps. The resentment against the brown men, which
continued growing stronger daily, took form when, at about ten o’clock
at night, sixty soldiers of the scout battalion surrounded and
assaulted ten marines, who, after a pitched battle, compelled their
assailants to retreat. The marines returned to camp, and, expecting
trouble, were awaiting reinforcements, when a marine rushed in,
spreading the alarm, that the Filipinos had sought succor at their
camp and that about three hundred were coming down the Pike armed.
Always reckless and ripe for excitement, a marine shouted, “Come on,
boys! let’s clean the Gu Gus off the earth.” This exclamation was
hailed with cheers, and in a few moments more than one hundred marines
were in pursuit of the enemy. Before reaching the Irish village, the
detachment split into two sections, one section covering the north end
of the Pike while the other hurried on to intercept the chocolate
soldiers near Bohemia. On seeing the marines entering the Pike, on the
double, the scouts fled, retreating presumably for a darker section of
the grounds where they could adopt their accustomed mode of fighting.
It was too late, however, for, alas! they were hemmed in, and to the
victor belonged the spoils. The marines charged, a pitched battle
ensued, in which the Filipinos, being in the majority, held their
ground for a short space of time, but soon wilted under the terrific
onslaught of the Americans.
This scene was laughable in the extreme, and reminded me of a chapter
from “Gulliver’s Travels”; those who had escaped a knockout were glad
to end the struggle. Having retreated toward their camp, they had
arrived in the vicinity of the Agricultural Building, when some of
them drew arms and commenced firing. This enraged the marines to such
an extent that they decided to charge their camp, which precipitated a
clash with the Jeffersonian Guards in which two of the guards were
seriously injured. At this juncture an alarm brought the mounted
police galloping to the scene, who finally restored order, both sides
withdrawing to the peaceful habitations of their camp.
Washington was apprised of the affair, and the troops were severely
reprimanded; but the lesson taught the scouts had great bearing on
their future attitude toward the Americans. The St. Louis newspapers
depicted the scenes of this riot, and devoted several columns in which
they eulogized the marines for the stand they had taken.
No military organization could have been treated with more courtesy
than the marine battalion at the St. Louis Exposition, and, when the
day arrived for its departure, it was with reluctance rather than
pleasure that the comfortable tents, the scenes of so much merriment,
had to be vacated for the less desirable quarters in barracks.
After breaking camp and securing our equipment, we bade the big show a
fond farewell. A long line of street cars conveyed the battalion to
the Union Station, where Pullman sleepers of the “Big Four” draped
with streamers awaited it. The Sixth Infantry band discoursed music as
the soldiers of the sea bade their friends good-by, and, as they
boarded the two sections of the train, the reverberating strains of
“Maryland, my Maryland” were received with vociferous applause by the
multitude that crowded the station platform. As the hand rendered the
old war-songs “Yankee Doodle” and “Dixie,” so sacred to the North and
the South, the train rolled off for the quaint little city of
Annapolis, the capital of Maryland.
The marine barrack at Annapolis is the finest military post in the
United States. On our arrival in the city, the battalion was met by
the marine band, and escorted to the quarters, where an especially
arranged dinner lay in waiting.
The following day, orders were received for the battalion to proceed
to Washington, D. C., to participate in the unveiling of a monument to
“Frederick the Great,” presented to the United States by Germany. This
was the last procession in which the St. Louis battalion was seen
intact.
Shortly after our return to Annapolis, an order was received from
marine headquarters, detailing all men having two years or more to
serve, on the Panama expedition. Having less than one year to serve to
complete my enlistment, I was ordered to duty at the United States
Naval Academy, until the expiration of my enlistment.
XII.
Topographical Survey in Northern Luzon
The Friars’ Monastery――Headquarters of the Insurgent Aguinaldo――In
Charge of the Cargadores――Meeting with Albinos――Among the Igorrote
Head-hunters――Enamored with a Beautiful Señorita――Planting Rice to
Music――A Midnight Ride Through the Jungle――A Moonlight
Fiesta――Quartered in a Cholera Infected Hacienda――The Jungle――The
Rainy Season――Return to Civilization.
In the summer of 1908 while stationed at Ft. William McKinley, a
military post in the Philippines, I was detailed from brigade
headquarters for topographical survey on the Island of Luzon. This
assignment was more than welcomed as a departure from the monotonous
routine of guard duty, wearisome marches, and military manœuvres. I
was instructed to report to First Lieutenant Kenyon A. Joyce of the
Thirteenth Cavalry, whose headquarters were in an old Spanish
monastery in the small nippa-shack village of Lolomboy, near the
“barrio” of Bocaue, situated along the Manila and Dagupán Railroad
between Manila and Baguio, the famous Philippines health resort.
Hastily gathering together my necessary field equipment with
transportation and orders, I departed for my destination with a
feeling akin to that of the small boy on his first excursion from
home. Alighting from the street car on the escolta near the old bridge
of Spain, I purchased some periodicals and a large sombrero, then,
engaging a caramato, was driven to the Tondo station, where I boarded
a first-class coach for Bocaue.
After a wearisome ride through stifling humidity, over rice-dikes and
through jungle, I arrived at my post of duty and immediately reported
to the commanding officer of the detachment, after which I divested
myself of my accoutrements and met the members of the survey party,
consisting of about twenty-four soldiers, representing every branch of
the United States army.
This aged edifice, with its mysterious subterranean vaults, its
columns of Tuscan and Doric origin, and surrounded by balconies
encompassed with ornamental balustrades, was occupied by the soldiers
and used as headquarters by the topographical ensemble.
Prior to the Spanish-American war, this building had been a sanctuary
of worship, the abode of mendicant friars. At the time of the
insurrection, the old monastery was occupied as headquarters by
General Aguinaldo, until compelled to relinquish his stronghold by the
American troops.
Expert Filipino draughtsmen were employed in the plottings of the
survey, their work in delineating offsets being admirably executed.
The circuitous route our journey necessitated through mountains,
jungle, and across innumerable streams and ravines made it impossible
to use ponies or caribou in the conveyance of our provisions, so that
a contingent of native cargadores were employed in drawing a native
cartello, which carried not only the provisions, but also the camp
equipage, including our cooking utensils.
The entire party was divided into three sections, each section
comprising one commissioned officer, eight enlisted men, and four
brawny cargadores who handled the native cart or cartello. Each
section had a separate circuit on which to work, these circuits
penetrating jungle and mountainous country hitherto unexplored by the
military. Provisions for two weeks were usually carried, the length of
time it required in covering our territory.
My first duty in connection with this survey was recording the
readings of the transit, operated by the officer in charge. Our route
led through the “barrios” of Marilao, Santa Maria, Tomano, Buena
Vista, San Jose, Bagbaguen, Prensa, and Santa Cruz, in the province of
Bulacan. The heat endured on these expeditions was intense, especially
along the rice-dikes, which were barren of foliage. Occasionally, when
in the vicinity of a barrio where we had but one night to remain,
instead of spreading canvas we bivouacked under the roof of some
convenient casa. On one occasion, having worked until sundown, our
cartello was drawn alongside of an old native house of worship, in the
barrio of Buena Vista, where a “fiesta” had been in progress for
several days. Here, under the eaves of this sacred shrine, this
soldier outfit dined “A la cartello.”