candelabrum, at the base of the crucifix, shone dimly through the
gloom. With a feeling of absolute safety, the soldiers spread their
ponchos over the bamboo matting and, wrapped in blankets, reposed in
peaceful slumber. There was nothing to disturb the tranquillity of
this night until, shortly before the break of dawn, we were aroused by
the tolling of the bells, and the chanting of the Ave Maria, uttered
in solemn devotion by a long procession of natives garbed in
ceremonious black, preceded by a señorita bearing a cross, flanked on
either side by torch-bearers. As the procession moved slowly down the
aisle, the soldiers arose from their unusual berth and, occupying
seats, observed the ceremonies with respectful silence. These natives
were the thoroughbred Tagalogs, the aborigines of the Philippines, the
greater number of them being converts to Roman Catholicism, the
balance adhering to the doctrines of the Reformation, or the
Protestant religion.
Leaving Buena Vista, our route led through the beautiful Marquina
Valley, with its immense forests of bamboo, ebony, sapan-wood, and
gum-trees entwined by the bush-rope of palasan, trees teeming with the
luscious mango and guava, bordering on plantations and groves of the
vegetable kingdom, including the banana, plantain, sugarcane,
pineapple, coffee, cinnamon, and tobacco.
From Marquina our course led into the dense forest of the San Madre
Mountains. Before leaving the valley, I was detailed to handle the
cargadores. This party in itself was a comedy; the only things they
thought seriously of were cigarettes, salmon, and rice. I gave each of
them a sobriquet,――namely, “Blinky,” Pedro, Carlo, and Pablo de
Gusman. Blinky, a one-eyed dusky savage, was the hero of the drama;
when he wanted anything, he would pat me on the arm and exclaim, “El
capitan, mucho bueno,” and in the same breath, “Dalle mi cigarillo.”
He would then wink at the others. Blinky was familiar with the lay of
the land, and was a valuable assistant when it came to questions of
emergency, such as getting the cartello across a stream or a deep
ravine. It was sometimes necessary in crossing a river, to unload our
cargo and ship it across in a binto, a boat similar to a canoe, then
float the vehicle across the best way we could.
Having been detained rather late one evening in a barrio where I had
been exchanging rice, bacon, and salmon, for chickens, eggs, and
vegetables, I could have made my objective point before sundown had
not something unforeseen occurred; we had reached an unexpected ravine
or gorge through which a torrent of water gushed; here we found it
necessary to cut two bamboo trees on which to slide the cartello
across on its hubs. We were having excellent success when the hubs
slipped off, dumping our cargo into the stream and Pablo de Gusman
with it. Luckily the native grabbed the wheel of the cart and was
saved. A rope attached to the front of the cartello was the means of
our saving the greater part of the rations; but we were in a sorrowful
plight, it being impossible to drag such a load up the precipitous
slopes. We found it necessary to pack the cargo up piece by piece. The
scene was laughable in the extreme: Blinky looked as though he had
been sentenced to be shot, while the singsong chorus of native lingo,
like the buzzing rabble of Italian emigrants, combined with reaching
the site of our camp in the darkness, completed my baleful imbroglio.
Let it suffice to say: an impatient mapping detail awaited our
arrival.
The country through which we passed was one of tropical grandeur;
monkeys, wild-boar, and parrots were frequently seen along the
mountain ranges. At night it was interesting to watch the vampires
darting hither and thither over mango-trees, nipping the delicious
mangos, sometimes carrying them to their roosts for their young. These
vampires resemble a bat, though much larger; the body is about the
size of a kitten, the wings measuring when fully developed six feet
from tip to tip.
Albinos are frequently met with in northern Luzon; on one occasion,
strange to relate, we came in contact with a small colony of this type
of people, unrelated, however, as the albino is a freak of nature
possessing no inherency. They were reluctant to converse, contenting
themselves with looking on, as they shielded their pink eyes from the
rays of the sun with a fan of the palm-leaf. The interest we Americans
manifested in these people seemed greatly to amuse the Filipinos.
The Igorrote head-hunters are a wild tribe inhabiting the northern
provinces. Their features are large, with kinky hair, large teeth, and
black complexions. They are far below the other tribes in intellect
and intelligence. The appellation “head-hunter” has its significance
in the fact that the head of the enemy is taken as a relic, similar to
the custom of the American Indian in scalping his victim. We watched
these barbarians killing dogs for market, saw them making grasshopper
pies, and, to our disgust, they ate eggs with chickens in them. Eggs
containing chickens were worth double the price of fresh eggs.
It was a great pleasure to return to our headquarters in the old
monastery, where wholesome food and cool shower-baths could be had.
The evenings at this domicile were always enjoyably spent, either at
cards, reading, or music. Occasionally, Sebastian Gomez, an old
Filipino, would bring his two granddaughters to the quarters; these
were fairly good-looking señoritas and excellent musicians, the one
playing the harp while the other played the accordion, accompanied by
the old man with a guitar. Very often a deputy revenue collector, who
spent considerable time with us, would join this trio with a violin,
and these instruments combined rendered excellent music.
Occasionally my work consisted in planting signal-flags on points of
vantage, where they could be seen through the telescope of a transit.
It was incidental to one of these trips that Kane, of the Engineer
Corps, and myself, while driving through a remote barrio, came in
contact with the beautiful Señorita Carmen Lemaire. In my travels I
had encountered many odd freaks of nature, leaving me not overly
susceptible to surprise; on this occasion, however, the unique
circumstance attending the incident created little less than
astonishment. The fact that to hear the Anglo-American tongue spoken
by natives even in Manila was a rarity seldom enjoyed, made this event
the more surprising.
We had left headquarters at Lolomboy in the early morning, with a pony
hitched to a cartello containing the signal-flags, tent equipage, and
rations for three days. Crossing the ferry at Bocaue, we struck a
northerly route running west of Malolos, the old Filipino capital. We
had covered a number of miles over a dusty road and through sweltering
heat, when a quaint little barrio shaded by cocoa and palm trees on
the banks of the Cianti River was reached. As the pony jogged along
through the heart of the village, turning out occasionally for the
little pickaninnies who played in the street, my eyes fell on
something unusual for this section of the world,――an exceptionally
beautiful señorita, apparently a mestizo of European extraction,
presiding over a fruit-stand in front of a large hacienda, from which
exhaled the sweet odor of grated-cocoanut boiling in the syrup of the
sugarcane.
“Kane, did you see that?” I asked. “Yes, some class; I wonder where
that complexion came from,” he replied. “Let’s try and find out,” I
said.
It was about the hour for the Filipino siesta and time for “tiffin”;
so, drawing under the shade of a large mango tree, we tied and fed the
pony, and I informed the engineer that I was going to buy some eggs.
“Let me buy them,” said Kane, smilingly.
Approaching the hacienda, I saw standing under the eaves, with the
grace of a Wanamaker cloak-model and the beauty of the allegorical
Psyche, a Filipino señorita still in her ’teens, whose raven tresses
would have been the envy of the “Sutherland sisters.” “Buenos dios,
señorita,” I ventured. “Buenos dios,” she replied. “Tiene weibus?”
(Tagalog for “Have you eggs?”). “Si, señor,” she replied. Kane, whose
knowledge of the dialects was limited, appearing on the scene, said,
“How do you do?” “Quite well, thank you; how are you?” she said.
“Better,” said Kane, smiling in expressive surprise. At first I
thought it an apparition with a voice; to hear good old United States
spoken in a feminine voice, after being inflicted for months with the
pigeon English of Chinese and the smattering cackle of the natives was
almost too good to be true.
“Are you soldiers the advance-guard of a regiment, or merely out for a
joy ride?” she inquired, showing two rows of pearly teeth through an
inquisitive smile. “Joy ride is right, with room for six,” replied
Kane. Here my curiosity led me to inquire as to how this illustrious
personage had acquired such fluency in the English language. Whereupon
she informed me that she had been educated at the University of Manila
and was a school-teacher home on vacation.
Having purchased some eggs, she further attracted our attention by
volunteering to fry them, and asking if we desired the albumen
scrambled with the yolk. Her complexion was a study, for, although her
hair and eyes were of raven black, her color was fair, with features
resembling the Louisiana Creole. She set a very dainty repast,
consisting of rice, fish, eggs, and fried plantains, and, suffice to
say, we three――Kane, the pony, and myself――were exceedingly happy; the
pony because he had reached the end of his journey, for there were no
flags put up that day.
Before our departure we exchanged addresses; I found her name to be
Carmen Lemaire, which further increased my curiosity. Having asked
permission to pay her a visit some evening in the future she informed
me that it would afford her much pleasure to have me call, but that
several natives were very jealous of her, including a cousin whose
ire, if aroused by my calling after sundown, might jeopardize my life;
therefore any other than an impromptu daylight visit would be
imprudent for her to approve. Assuring the señorita a little
boastfully of my utter disregard for the marksmanship of her suitors,
of my utmost confidence in fate, and my inability to call during the
day she set an evening in the following week for me to see her.
Bidding adieu, we left this hacienda with its fair inhabitant, and
journeyed on our route. The following day the pony had to go some to
make up for lost time, and it required the best part of three days to
complete the work. Our return trip was the longest way round, but not
the sweetest way home.
On our return to Lolomboy we told the story of having met the
beautiful señorita. The old Filipino Sebastian knew of her, and told
us she had been selected to act as queen of the “Grande Fiesta” at the
Manila Carnival.
The following Thursday evening before sundown, “knighthood was in
flower.” Having selected and placed some choice literature in my
saddle-bags, I mounted a pony and galloped off for the scene of my
triumph with the visage of the charming Carmen before me.
The iridescent hues of the vanishing sun tinted the western horizon,
as I reined my pony into a verdant trail, winding with the course of
the river, almost hidden from view by the high grass that lined the
trail on either side. The moon at its full shone through the cocoanuts
hanging in clusters from the tall trees, as I dismounted at the
Lemaire hacienda in the barrio of Montao. A Filipino patrol passing by
took charge of the pony, thereby relieving my mind of the fear of its
being stolen by ladrones, who lurk in the mountain districts of Luzon.
On entering the large bamboo casa, with its nippa eaves extending
beyond the walls, I was met by the affable Carmen, and conducted to a
cosey retreat, in the manner and customs of the Philippines, After
meeting her mother, a very retiring Filipino lady. I presented the
señorita with the periodicals, which included the San Francisco Sunset
Magazine, containing my picture taken at Salt Lake City when a soldier
in a machine-gun battery. Her beauty on this occasion was augmented by
a pretty silken kimono and straw sandals, characteristically simple.
In her hair she wore a pink carnation, which vied in beautiful
contrast with her complexion. A gold necklace with pendant attached
and a finger-ring of turquoise and diamonds completed her attire.
Side by side on the wall hung two large pictures,――one the martyred
patriot Jose Rizal, the other the ex-Governor-General of the
Philippines, now our President, William H. Taft. On the opposite wall
hung the señorita’s much-cherished diploma from the University of
Manila and a certificate of belles-lettres. Books were shelved in
galore. An East Indian matting covered the bamboo floors, while the
sleeping compartments were hidden from view by large portières.
Various articles of interest were shown to me, including photographs,
a prayer-book printed in Spain in the sixteenth century, and the
bridal-veil worn by her mother on her wedding morn.
During the evening the son of the presidente of the village,
accompanied by his sweetheart, a pleasing young couple, called at the
hacienda. Being unable to hold an intelligent conversation with these
guests, our conversazione was one of ignorance crasse. The elder
Señora Lemaire,
[Illustration:
CHIEF ADAMS GUN MULE DEWEY AID COLEMAN]
Carmen’s mother, served the guests with limeade and charlotte-russe,
which were delectable and refreshing.
After the couple had departed, I related several stories of the United
States to this amiable señorita. I told of my home away off in
Pennsylvania, my school days, friends, escapades, the war, my travels,
and incidentally mentioned the resemblance she bore the Creoles of New
Orleans, among whom I had spent a winter; being careful to impress on
her mind, that the Creole is of Spanish and French descent, not negro,
as some educated people suppose. She listened very attentively to my
stories, occasionally asking questions, particularly regarding the
Creoles.
The anecdotes of her college days were more than interesting, as were
the stories she told about the insurrection. She was very familiar
with the history of the war, from the blowing up of the _Maine_ to the
battle of the “crater” in the Sulu.
“Lemaire is a very uncommon name in the Philippines, is it not?” I
remarked. “Yes,” she sighed, “very uncommon.” Realizing the interest I
took in her, and the eagerness I possessed to hear some of her life’s
history she continued:
“About twenty years ago a party of European surveyors employed by the
Manila and Dagupán Railroad, in surveying this section of my country,
were stationed at Malolos, my former home. In the course of human
events, one of the party――namely, Armand Lemaire――became enamoured
with and courted my mother, with whom he was eventually joined in holy
wedlock. Of this union I am the fruition. At the expiration of my
father’s duties in the Philippines, he was ordered to India, where,
falling a victim, he succumbed to the plague.” Reaching into the
drawer of an escritoire, she drew forth the picture of a man, whose
intelligent features clearly indicated the ancestry of this charming
young woman.
Continuing, she said: “My mother, on receiving notice of my father’s
death, took up her residence on this plantation, provided before his
departure for India, and here she has lived ever since in pensive
quietude, never fully recovering from the effects of her dire
misfortune.”
[Illustration: MACHINE GUN PLATOON OF THE 29TH INFANTRY IN THE SNOW
CAPPED WASATCH RANGE, UTAH.]
There was something unusually pathetic in this sincere girl’s story,
and my conjecture, as I gazed on her mother’s bridal-veil, had found a
sequel. With the assurance of my utmost sympathy, the conversation
switched on to other topics. Glancing at my watch the hands indicated
midnight, and I had told the patrol to be on hand with my pony at
eleven o’clock.
Glancing over the balustrade, Carmen inquired, “Donde cabalyo?” The
patrol had arrived with the pony as if by magic.
As I bade Carmen Lemaire a fond adieu, she again admonished me as to
the possible violence of her jealous suitors. “Keep on the alert and
take no chances,” she said.
After tipping the patrol a two-peso note, I mounted my pony, and
wafting a “buenos-notches” galloped off in the pale moonlight,
sincerely wishing some dusky rival would take a shot at me, that I
might demonstrate “the survival of the fittest.”
My ride through the jungle in lonely contemplation was uneventful
until the barrio of Bocaue was reached. Here I found a barrier in the
shape of a river. I had failed to take into consideration that the
ferry ceased running at midnight. The ferry, a flat-bottomed scow
capable of carrying about fifty people, was moored on the opposite
side of the river and no one there to man it. I had my choice of two
things,――namely, swim the current or wait until dawn. Having placed a
photograph along with some other valuables in the band of my sombrero,
I reined my pony to the brink, and was about to plunge when I saw
looming on the opposite shore the figure of a police patrol.
In imitation of the semaphore system, I wig-wagged the Filipino, and
with a hoarse voice in bad Spanish impressed on his mind the necessity
of my getting across. Having a passing acquaintance with the municipal
officer, he recognized me, and propelled the boat across himself by
means of a cable, the river being about one hundred yards wide at this
point. On reaching the other side, the patrol was as much pleased in
making a little side money as I was delighted in getting across. It
was not long before I had stabled my pony and sought peaceful repose
in my Helen Gould cot in the old monastery.
A few days later I set out with the cargadores on a new circuit. A
very odd scene we encountered on this trip in the province of
Pangasinán was a skirmish line of Filipinos transplanting rice to
music. The rice paddies, or dikes, resembled level meadow-land and
stretched out as far as the eye could discern in every direction.
About one thousand Filipinos, men and women dressed in loud colors,
were engaged in this work. Their formation was in the shape of a
skirmish line, with a deploy of about two feet; each planter was
covered in rear by another who passed the rice plants as the supply
became exhausted; a short distance in rear of all were bands of music
with intervals of one hundred yards. Large sun-shades, with long spike
handles stuck in the soil, afforded considerable shade for the
musicians. As the music from these bamboo instruments resounded o’er
the meadows, each planter moved forward one step, at the same time
placing a rice shoot in the soil, with the utmost uniformity and in
absolute harmony with the band.
This was one of the most interesting sights I have ever seen; the
progress these natives made was wonderful; besides, each seemed to be
getting a great deal of enjoyment out of life. It reminded me of
calisthenics in the navy, where they execute the movements of their
exercise to the strains of a familiar march.
It was nearly time for the rainy season, and we were making our last
circuit. Cholera was prevalent throughout the Island of Luzon, and in
many instances smallpox had been reported. A “Division” order made it
a court-martial offence for any soldier in the jungle to drink water
that had not been boiled. This order, however, was not very
stringently adhered to. Reports of deaths from cholera were received
daily, in many instances soldiers being the victims. Whenever we found
it convenient to boil water we did, but never went thirsty waiting for
boiled water.
About three o’clock one scorching afternoon we struck a trail in a
remote section of the San Madre Mountains which indicated that
cartellos drawn by caribous made daily trips over this road. While
resting at this point, the day suddenly grew dark and it became
perceptible to us all that a typhoon was approaching. The lieutenant
in command of the party, being a recent graduate of West Point and
having had little experience in the field, was slow to comprehend what
might be the consequence if a raging typhoon was to encompass this
party in the jungle.
I suggested to him that we select a place at once and spread canvas.
To this he acquiesced, and ordered me to take a Filipino and follow
the trail until I reached a place of shelter suitable for the pitching
of a camp. With one of my cargadores, “Blinky” (with whom I had just
had a scrap for paring potatoes with a bolo), I hit the trail, and had
covered about one mile when my eyes fell on a bamboo shack which
appeared to be unoccupied. On investigation I found it to be an
unusually fine casa for this mountain district. I found earthenware
olios filled with water, dry wood, and a stone grate, but no sign of
any occupants. Tearing a leaf from my note-book, I informed the
lieutenant of our good fortune in having shelter from the typhoon
without the necessity of pitching tents, dispatched “Blinky” with the
message, and ere long the cartello and party had arrived.
A fire having been made, the coffee was put on to boil, the natives
pared the potatoes, while I sliced the bacon and opened several cans
of corn and salmon. The salmon was served to the Filipinos with rice.
After a hearty supper by candle-light, cigarettes were smoked,
blankets spread on the bamboo floor, and we all stretched out for a
good night’s sleep.
The advance guard of the typhoon had arrived; a terrific wind, which
whistled through the palms and nippa-roof, threatened at times to
carry our shack away. Deep peals of thunder reverberated from the
aerial regions, while dangerous flashes of blazoned lightning tore
through the celestial firmament. “A nice night for a murder,” remarked
Corporal “Free,” of the Sixth Cavalry. There was little sleep that
night, which was evidenced in the morning by the numerous sacks of
“Bull Durham” that lay scattered on the floor.
The storm continued throughout the following day, abating on toward
midnight. The following morning deep gullies were worn in the soil,
streams were flooded, while the drooping palms presented a scene of
picturesque desolation. Overhead the fleecy clouds hovered round the
blazing sun which cast its rays through the spice-laden atmosphere.
Having walked some distance from the hacienda, I heard off in the
mountains that familiar guttural accent of a cochero driving a
caribou; I listened, and he gradually grew closer. On his arrival I
found him to be a Filipino with a load of sugarcane and bananas, _en
route_ to Malolos. Being curious to know why this substantial home was
unoccupied, I inquired in Spanish from this man, who informed me, with
great stress, that no natives could be induced to live here, as the
entire family, the occupants, had fallen victims to the dreaded
cholera. Well, right here I felt as though I was on my journey across
the river Styx. Shortly after, on meeting the lieutenant, I said to
him, “Lieutenant, has it not aroused your curiosity as to why this
house is unoccupied?” “Why, yes, it seems strange,” he replied. “Well,
I will enlighten you a bit,” said I. Then I told him the story the
cochero had told me. I once saw a man sentenced to be shot, and, if
looks count, his feelings and those of the officer were identical. He
thought it wise to move in the direction of the monastery; but I
informed him that there was no need to worry; that, if we had suffered
contamination, it would have been all over long before this, as there
is no delay in the operation of an Asiatic-cholera germ. On learning
this he was greatly relieved; so we shoved off and completed our
circuit. However, some of the party were pretty uneasy; they had drunk
unboiled water from the olios. “Furthermore deponent saith not.”