Here we spent weeks in idleness, playing cards, reading, and
occasionally I would run up to Malolos by rail, then engage a caromato
to convey me to Montao to see Carmen Lemaire. Sometimes the river was
so swollen by the torrents of rain that it was impossible to get
across. Naturally, life became rather monotonous, and upon request I
was relieved and returned to duty with my regiment, back to
civilization and the lights and music of the Luneta. This engaging
mestizo señorita visited Manila a number of times before my departure
for the States, and, although the honor of “queen of the carnival”
fell to the lot of an older mestizo, the charming presence of Carmen
Lemaire on this occasion brooked no competition, for beauty, grace, or
intelligence.
Rudyard Kipling, whose “Barrack-ballads” are favorites in the army and
navy, describes in mililoquent tones incidents appertaining to the
“Far East,” in “On the Road to Mandalay,” from which I quote:
When the mist was on the rice-fields, and the sun was droopin’ low,
She’d get her little banjo and she’d sing the coola la lo.
With her arm upon my shoulder, and her cheek against my cheek
We used to watch the hathis, and the elephants pilen teak;
Elephants a pilen teak in the smudgy sludgy creek,
Where the silence hung so heavy, you was half afraid to speak.
On the road to Mandalay, where the flyin’ fishes play,
And the dawn comes up like thunder out a China ’cross the bay.
The last occasion on which I saw her was on the eve of my departure
for the United States. In a “victoria” accompanied by two University
classmates, she called at my quarters in Ft. William McKinley, where I
joined them for a ride to the haunts of my old marine days, in the
village of San Ruki, near Cavite. Among old friends and the
ever-predominant harp and guitar, I enjoyed the fascinations of their
quaint moonlight “fiesta.”
The drive homeward to Manila under the shades of night, through the
“barrios” of Bacoor, Paranacque, and Pasay, with the wavelets of the
sombre bay breaking on the sandy beach, was one of imposing grandeur
that will ever remain vivid when my mind reverts to tropical
sublimity.
At a dinner party on the roof-garden of the Hotel “Oriente” this
night, I bade Señorita Lemaire farewell.
XIII.
Cock-Fighting, the National Sport of the Philippines
Training of the Birds――Mains by Electric Light――Aristocracy Patrons
of the Arena――Chinese “Book-makers”――Filipino Touts――Flower
Girls――The “Pit”――The Strike of the Game Birds――The Crucial
Moment――Game to the Last――Honest Sport.
The national sport of the natives of the Philippine Islands is
cock-fighting. From infancy the Filipino takes to this line of sport,
as a duck takes to water, and he early acquires the art of heeling and
training the bird which is sooner or later to increase his wealth or
perhaps send him back to the drudgery of the rice-fields, where he
must eke out an existence and little by little accumulate sufficient
to back another favorite chanticleer in his efforts to recover from
his sorrowful state of depression, as a Filipino will bet all on his
favorite game-bird.
The enthusiasm these people manifest around the pit during a main is
akin to that of the Spaniards and Mexicans during a bull-fight. For
weeks before a battle the bird is dieted, his claws and beak are
manicured, feathers cropped, and plume trimmed. Its weight requires
either increasing or diminishing, as the case may be, and it is
handled with the care of the tots in a baby incubator.
Every village or barrio in the Philippines has its cockpit, the most
pretentious of these being found in the villages of Caloocán and San
Pedro Macati, surrounding the city of Manila. Here, in a large
well-ventilated arena, can be found gathered together night after
night, not only a motley crowd of peasants from the rice-fields of the
interior, but the up-to-date business people of the “Escolta” and the
aristocracy of the old walled city, whose gorgeous victorias before
sundown roll gracefully along the Luneta, to the music of the
Constabulary Band. These mains are conducted under the glare of
electricity with the same success as by the light of day. Chinese, who
are born gamblers, occupy a large percentage of the space given for
seating capacity; these people very methodically run a book in which
odds are given on certain birds before they appear to the public gaze.
They are quartered together and gamble only among themselves. There is
also the house “book-maker,” who takes all bets but places no odds.
The small fry, or the Filipinos whose pesos and pesetas are limited,
bet among themselves, either man holding the stakes.
The pests of the American race-track known as touts and rail-birds are
also in evidence here. One of these will approach you asking which is
your favorite bird, invariably telling you he has a sure thing and
that to bet any other way would be “mucho malo.” You bet on his
advice, and he leaves you, meets another easy mark, and tells him to
bet just the opposite to the way he advised you. This fellow is a sure
winner, as one of the birds must win and his nightly rake-off is a
stout roll.
The price of admission is una peseta, or ten cents (gold). Near the
entrance to the “pit” is a bamboo stand where cigars, cigarettes, and
ice-cold bottles of San Miguel’s salvaeso are sold. Flower-girls are
everywhere in evidence, with their trays of palm-leaf fans, wreaths,
and fragrant nosegays. An old Filipino woman chewing betel-nut and
smoking a black cigar struts around selling cocoanut candy, the very
appearance of which is enough to spread the cholera.
As the time approaches for the main, an old bald-headed veteran of the
cocking main enters the screened pit, which is about the size of a
“Marquis of Queensberry” prize-ring, and announces the beginning of
the evening’s performance; he is loudly cheered by the gamesters of
the arena. This is followed by the entrance of the owners with their
birds.
The noise, which up to this time has been violent, here breaks into a
paroxysm of tumultuous disorder. Each spectator is yelling for his
favorite bird, which he designates by its color; this singsong
chatter, being a jumble of the Spanish, Tagalog, and Chinese tongues,
runs like this: Color row, color row, blanco, Ki tim chung a wong,
blanco, blanco, Ki tim chung a wong, negro, negro, negro, focho, color
row, blanco, Ki tim chung a wong. This is grand music for mutes and
boiler-makers! The spurs, unlike the sharp-pointed gaff’s used on
American game-cocks, are small steel blades shaped like a razor and
honed to an extreme degree of keenness. After the spurs are fastened
on and each Filipino is satisfied with the ire of his bird, they are
pitted, the owners leave the pit, and the battle is waged; not in
accordance with Dr. Clark’s rules of the United States, however, as
cock-fighting was in vogue in the Philippines for ages before the
discovery of America.
As the battle is waged, each bird seems conscious of the dire effects
of the fatal blade of its adversary; they strut, crouch, and spar,
each with eyes intent on the slightest move of the other. “Mucho bueno
combati este negro,” shouts the Filipino as the red fowl narrowly
escapes a lunge from the spur of the black. “Negro, negro, buena negro
minok,” shout the backers of the black fowl, which, unlike in the case
of the opponents in a prize-fight, the applause tends to intimidate,
rather than inspire courage in the feathery tribe. “Spearo poco
tiempo,” exclaims the red fowl’s admirer. “Caramba spearo,” cries the
follower of the black with vehemence; “poco tiempo, este negro, murto
este outro minok, tiene mucho jinero fora compra chow fora pickinniny,
no mas traubaho.” This mixture of Igorrote and Tagalog translated
means, “There will be a hot time in one nippa shack if the black bird
wins.”
“Aha!” is uttered in crescendo. They have struck; feathers fly over
the pit, and blood flows from the red fowl; they strike again, the red
bird limps, and is seen to run, followed by the black, which is
bleeding profusely from a gash hidden by its feathers; this brings
forth tremendous cheers, which, however, die down as the crucial
moment is observed. “Can it come back?” Both are weakening; the red
game turns, with that blind spontaneity and instinct animated by fear;
they crouch and strike together; a spur has reached the vital spot;
the black swoons, its vital functions have ceased, and the battle is
at an end. As the red fowl is proclaimed the winner, it is seen to
sink, game to the last second; with its life it has paid the price of
the victory.
“They are dead game chickens,” remarks a soldier as they are carried
from the pit. Bets are now paid off, and the pit is sprinkled with
fresh sand, new wagers are laid, and the main continues.
Cock-fighting in the Philippines is honest sport; there is no such
thing as throwing the game as in a prize-fight, or pulling a horse as
in racing. The fowls are usually so evenly matched that there is
little of advantage in either one, from which to choose a preference,
the book-makers in almost every case relying on their good fortune.
These mains are the most popular sport in the islands, and, in
consequence of the honest methods of the promoters in conducting them,
have been carried on for ages without cessation or municipal
interference, such as is sometimes waged against bull-fighting,
horse-racing, and prize-fighting in other countries.
The very atmosphere of the Philippines attracts you to these large
nippa and bamboo arenas, and it seems you involuntarily follow the
procession here as you would the race-track following in New Orleans
or the daily crowd that gather to witness “Cuban pelota” in Havana. It
is the antique axiom exemplified: “When in Rome do as the Romans do.”
XIV.
Departure of the 29th Infantry from the Philippines
Brigade Headquarters, Ft. Wm. McKinley――Afloat on the Pásig
River――Quarantine at Mariveles――Liberty in Japan――Across the
Pacific――Reception in Honolulu――Greetings in “Frisco”――Via Santa
Fé to Governor’s Island.
It was midday in August, 1909, when the long chain of cascoes and
steam-launches loaded with the three battalions and band of the
Twenty-ninth Infantry swung into the rapids of the Pásig River to the
strains of that dear old Southern melody, “My Old Kentucky Home,”
leaving, as we floated with the current, many a heart-broken “mestizo”
with her bandanna soaked in tears, wafting adieu to her “Americano
soldado,” with whom she had had her last glide in the dance-halls of
Guadeloupe. After a campaign of two years in a brigade post under the
burning sun of the tropics, the course of our homeward-bound journey
had begun on the historical old Pásig River, which, could it voice its
history, might tell many a weird tale of adventure and bloody
struggle.
The military rendezvous and scene of our departure was Fort William
McKinley, situated on a plateau near the Pásig and Tagigue Rivers,
overlooking the broad bay and city of Manila on the west, and the
beautiful lake in the district of Laguna de Bay on the east. In close
proximity was a branch line of the Manila and Dagupán Railroad,
connecting the provincial territory between Manila and the village of
Antipolo. In addition to the steam-train, a trolley system covered the
government reservation, terminating in the barrio of Pásig.
At this post, brigade headquarters, the troops were housed in bungalow
barracks, consisting of the Tenth United States Cavalry (colored),
whose gallantry in Cuba in 1898 forever perpetuated the name of this
courageous regiment of horse; the Twenty-ninth and Thirtieth regiments
of infantry, the last additions to the infantry branch of the line; a
battalion of engineers; numerous batteries of held artillery; and a
large detachment of the hospital corps completed the strength of the
brigade, which was under the command of Brigadier-General Pershing.
The Twenty-ninth Infantry, in command of Colonel H. K. Bailey,
occupied the quarters in the southeast section of the post and nearest
to the rifle-range. Each company was quartered separately, in barracks
identical with those of the British army in India. These quarters were
spacious two-story buildings with large apertures through which the
cool currents of air from the China Sea fanned in gentle breeze.
Excellent shower-baths and a laundry, presided over by two Chinese,
were valuable adjuncts that contributed to the accommodations of the
men. Each morning on awakening, the soldier found, arranged in
uniformity under his cot, his several pairs of garrison russet,
gymnasium, light marching order, and civilian shoes, polished to a
high degree of excellency; placed there by the “Oriental knights of
the zapatos,” two native boot-blacks, employed by the company, and
whose duty it was to have every shoe polished before reveille and the
sound of the morning gun.
The amusement-hall contained a well-stocked library of the most
popular editions, a billiard-table, and a phonograph, so that the
rainy season was seldom unwelcomed by the soldier.
Large verandas shaded by clinging vines surrounded these bungalows,
and in the evening, when not perambulating with the procession through
the health-giving ozone of the Luneta or cajoling the birds at a
favorite cockpit, it was a pleasure to lounge in a sedan chair with a
mild Manila perfecto, and listen to the entrancing excerpts from some
favorite opera, as beautifully rendered by the Twenty-ninth Infantry
band.
Fort McKinley is separated from Manila along the riverside “speedway”
by seven miles of macadamized road, over which during the dry season
vehicles of all descriptions roll, from the two-wheeled caromato to
the high-power limousine. This famous driveway is the “Ormond Beach”
of the “Far East,” rivalling in climate and surpassing in beauty the
celebrated winter resort of southern Florida. A moonlight ride along
this magnificent boulevard is a scene never to be forgotten. On
leaving the nippa-roofed bamboo shacks in the barrio of Guadeloupe,
you light a cigarette and recline in luxurious ease on the cushions of
your rubber-tired “victoria,” drawn by a pair of sleek Australian
ponies, their languid movement being in keeping with the wishes of the
“cochero,” who regulates his fee by the time consumed in conveyance.
The witchery or charm of your entire surroundings is preternatural.
The phosphorous ripples of the swift-flowing Pásig on one side seem to
emulate the scintillation of the star-bespangled firmament, while, in
rivalling contrast on the other, the glow-worm and fire-fly in
sheltering palms and over dewy landscape, like the ignis fatuus, seem
to mock the luminous glow of the moon.
As the old Santa Anna Cathedral, with its vine-clad balustrades
falling to decay, appears in the scene, looming in magnetic amplitude
over the verdant foliage of tropical grandeur, it is with a feeling of
supplication, induced by the magical influence of the night, that you
involuntarily alight from the “victoria” and enter the sacred portals
of this time-consecrated sanctuary, most holy and inviolable site,
where for ages past the “padre” sang mass to the souls of the donors,
the parishioners, who, kneeling in humble supplication, have chanted,
in eloquent voice, the Ave Maria and Gloria Patria from the prayers in
the three chaplets of their worshipful Rosary. As you linger in silent
meditation along the galleries of this sanctified edifice, as if in
quest of the “Holy Grail,” it is with a feeling of penitence for an
inherent apostasy which seems to overwhelm you. The glittering
satellites in the heavens cast their rays through the apertures of the
quaint old campanile, in whose lofty dome, the home of fluttering bats
and a staid old owl, tinkling bells for generations rang out at sunset
and early dawn, as the people sang their vespers and chanted the Ave
Maria.
Inflamed with sudden passion you stand transfixed along the balustrade
with a mixed feeling of sublimity and dread, as if anticipating a
great pleasure fraught with dire results, when――hark! the faint though
ever-beautiful tones of the “Te Deum laudamus” vibrate softly on the
ear. Your peaceful tranquillity has been pleasantly disturbed, and you
gaze in ecstatic amazement toward the vestry as a graceful spectre
glides gently by. It is the “Choir Invisible.” You feel the fanning
zephyrs blowing, you are thrilled with emotion and delight, and, as
you depart from this phantasmagoria, you soliloquizingly ask, “Is
there any inviolable covenant this scene should strengthen?” _Varium
et mutabile semper femina._ “What’s the use?” you murmur, as you
spring into the vehicle and order the cochero to hurry the ponies. In
twenty minutes’ time you alight under the canopy of the entrance to
the Hotel “Oriente” in Manila, step on the “lift,” and soon find you
are amid the soothing strains of an orchestra and the sheltering palms
of the roof-garden, _tête à tête_ with your cheerful friends of the
tropics.
* * * * *
Though many thousand miles from home, the prospects of soon
fraternizing with friends in the United States brought cheer to the
soldiers. Disembarking from the cascoes at the Quartermaster-wharf in
Manila, the regiment marched along the beautiful Bayumbayan drive near
the old walled city, to the government pier, the point of embarkation.
As we bade Manila and its mystical orientalism a parting farewell, our
sea-going tugs ploughed the waters of Manila Bay, and ere long the
regiment had landed at the quarantine station Mariveles.
If there is a more isolated spot on the top of God’s green earth than
this resort is, my conception of hell is very vague. At one time the
rendezvous of Chinese pirates, Mariveles later became a Chinese
stockade. The Spaniards used it as an outpost. Here at night the
soldiers were cooped up like cattle, always welcoming the dawn, when
they could at least roam and breathe fresh air. Some distance in the
mountains, in the crater of an extinct volcano, a hot mineral spring
with an elegant outlet afforded splendid opportunities for bathing.
Swimming in the bay was also great pastime, and under the tutorage of
Captain Wells, who inaugurated a system of swimming drill, we found
considerable pleasure. His system was to execute, while swimming, the
same tactics as we did on foot; this was very funny and enjoyable
sport.
After spending two weeks insulated from civilization, during which
time we had undergone a process of fumigation, our transport, the
_Thomas_, hove in sight, and was soon moored to the wharf. Little time
was spent in storing our accoutrements of war on board. After each
company had been assigned to its quarters, the signal to cast loose
was given; we had at last commenced our homeward-bound voyage in
earnest.
With the homeward-bound pennant flying in the breeze, the transport
steamed through the “Mona-Chica” into the China Sea headed for Japan.
The shrill click, click, of the wireless telegraph, receiving and
transmitting messages, continued throughout the voyage. Occasionally
excitement was caused by the sight of a whale; “There she blows!” and
you see off the port-side a monstrous species of the mammal genus
cruising and spouting like a Holland submarine. Schools of porpoises
are a daily sight on either side, while millions of flying-fish skirt
the billows off every quarter.
On the spar-deck of the transport could be heard: “Come on, fellows,
give us a bet; loosen up and take a chance; Steve Brodie did; when
this war is over we’ll start another; come, soldiers, get on the
field; double up; you’re sure to win some time.” About this time a
soldier, who has put some “dealer” to the bad, grabs the dice and
yells: “How much money have you got? I’ll tap your pile. Ninety
dollars! Throw the bones.” As this gamester skilfully manipulates the
dice which he rattles in his hand, and blows on for good luck, he
affectionately remarks, “Bones! don’t refuse me this time; you’ve been
good to me, old pals.” He rolls the dice and throws a ten. “Two to one
he don’t ten; I’ve got you covered,” is heard on the side lines;
another throw is made, a four this time, and bets are made on the
side, that he comes. In the parlance of the soldier, the “bones” are
talking friendly; as the dice roll over the green cloth for the third
time, a six and four turns up; “Ten she is!” he shouts, as lie tucks
away one hundred and eighty simoleons (a soldier’s word for money) and
exclaims, “Good old bones.”
“Two bits he comes”; this is the tantalizing epithet directed at a
fellow whose death-like form hangs over the taffrail a victim of
sea-sickness.
Games are numerous on an army transport, everything from “keno” to
“faro,” and this greatly breaks the monotony of the voyage. Every
evening the regimental band discourses music, and dancing is indulged
in. There are always plenty of girls who accompany the officers’
families as domestics (all colors, of course); these afford partners
for the soldiers, and maybe there isn’t some class to the “rag”;
everything goes, from the “barn-dance” to the “Frisco dip.”
A prize-fight is advertised between a “chocolate soldier” and a
“pale-face.” Every man in uniform buys a ticket, the returns from
which go to make up a purse for the winner. There are no Turkish baths
taken to reduce weight, no skipping the rope or punching the bag to
improve the respiratory organs; this was completed before leaving the
Philippines, by way of mountain “hikes” in heavy marching order, from
early morn till dewy eve, subsisting on an emergency ration, on which
you are guaranteed to exist for at least a while. Each soldier is so
confident in his prowess, that training is out of the question; each
imagines he will land a hook that will send his opponent to the arms
of Morpheus for the customary count. Steps are removed and a hatch is
battened and roped; as the time arrives for the combat, soldiers crowd
around the arena, hang from spars and davits, all eager to see the
“black” and “white” contest for superiority. The contestants arrive
with their seconds as the band strikes up a warm selection, the gloves
are slipped on, and the men take their corners. The referee is a man
who holds little value on life and must be able to fight himself. Time
is called. The men shake hands, then spar awhile for an opening. A
soldier cries, “Fake! why don’t they fight?” They now slam each other
to body and head; both are bleeding when the gong sounds. Round second
opens wild; they swing, hook, and duck, hammering away with one arm
free in the clinch; each man dances as he awaits a lead from his
opponent; both take their corners pretty much exhausted as the gong
sounds. The third round begins viciously, though each man cautiously
parries off the blows; both are fighting in good old military style,
when they clinch; in the break-away they mix things, and the pale
soldier drops to the mat as the crowd yell, “Foul! foul!” and he is
counted out. A little ammonia revives him, and he is awarded the
decision on a foul, though badly whipped by his dark opponent. “Can he
come back?” No one cares. The referee is the hope of the white race!
As the transport approaches the Island of Hondo, soldiers are seen
polishing their ornaments and buttons, pressing their uniforms, and
making general preparations for a visit in Nagasaki. The conversation
drifts to the way they are to spend their shore leave. “The first
thing I do is to visit the bazaar,” remarks a soldier; “I want to buy
a satsuma dinner set for my sister Peggy and a silk kimono for my
sweetheart, some lacquer ornaments inlaid with mother-of-pearl,
bronzes, and some silk.” “Well,” remarks another, “I am going to pick
out the prettiest silk sunshade in Nagasaki, some cashmere shawls, and
I guess a lace mantilla will suit Juana, my Creole friend in New
Orleans.” “What’s the matter with having a nice colored ‘dragon’ and a
‘Tycoon in a jinrickshaw’ tattooed on your arms? and don’t forget to
buy some amber cigar-smokers; there are beauties in Japan and very
cheap,” speaks a soldier who has been there. “The first thing I am
going to do,” another ejaculates, “is to hie me to a restaurant for a
good square dinner; a Japanese duck with all the trimmings will do,
with a bottle of ‘Rising Sun saki’ on the side.”