Along the Iligan-Marahui Road.
The recent victories achieved by Captain Pershing over the
fanatic More tribes in the vicinity of Lake Lanao, have opened
up for military occupation a new territory equal in fertility and
richness to the famous Cagayan valley of Luzon. The Moros under the
American administration will be recognized as independent tribes,
and be restricted probably to reservations similar to those the
Indians now occupy. This means that a great tract of land will some
day be thrown open for American development. The soil will yield
abundant crops of corn, tobacco, coffee, rice, and other products,
while the forest wealth appeals to the imagination. Rubber, sugar,
hemp, and _copra_ are the natural products of the country near
the coast. The lake itself is situated on a high plateau, with a
prevailing temperate climate. Where the mountains do not intervene,
the land slopes gradually down to the sea.
One of the most important military operations that was ever undertaken
in the Philippines was the construction of the Iligan-Marahui road,
which, having been for some time open to the pack-trains and the heavy
traffic, is at present nearing its completion. Though the work was
planned by members of the engineers' corps, all the clearing, grading,
and the filling-in were done by soldiers who had never until then known
what it meant to handle pick and shovel. The younger officers, who,
for the first time in their lives, were superintending a construction
job, went out and bossed the gangs as well as many an experienced
and seasoned foreman could have done. The soldiers, who deserve no
little credit for their work, are members of the Twenty-eighth and
the Tenth infantries.
It was about the last of January that I made a trip to Iligan,
arriving in a Moro sailboat from another port on the north coast
of Mindanao. Two or three army transports, with the quarantine
flag flying (for the cholera was still in evidence), lay quietly
at anchor in the bay. Along the shore a warm breeze ruffled the
green branches of the _copra_ palms. Near the new dock a gang of
Moros were at work, perspiring in the hot rays of the tropic sun. A
tawny group of soldiers, dressed in khaki, rested in the shade of a
construction-house, and listened dreamily to far-off bugle calls.
The Moros were dressed picturesquely in a great variety of costume,
ranging from bright-colored silk to dirty corduroy. Red _buya_-juice,
was leaking from the corners of their mouths. Their turbans, though
disgracefully unclean, were silk. Their coats were fastened by brass
military buttons, and their sashes, green and red, with a long fringe,
were tied around their waists; their trousers, like a pair of riding
breeches, buttoned up the side.
While spending the first evening at the club, I had seen mingling
with the young lieutenants, immaculate in their new olive uniforms,
bronzed, mud-bespattered officers in the blue army shirt and khaki,
with the Colt's six-shooter hanging from an ammunition belt. These
were the strangers from the town of white tents on the border of the
woods. At midnight possibly, or even later, they would mount their
horses and go riding through the night to the encampment on the
hill. The very next day one of the immaculate lieutenants, laying
off the olive uniform, might have to don the old campaign hat and
the flannel shirt, and follow his unshaven comrades up the road.
We stretched our army cots that night in the roulette room (this
is not a country of hotels), and to the rattle of the balls and the
monotonous drone of the croupier, "'teen and the red wins," dropped off
to sleep. On the day following the _Dr. Hans_ dropped in with Generals
Wade and Sumner, and the jingle of the cavalry was heard as they rode
out with mounted escort to inspect the operations of the road. After
a dance and a reception at the residence of the commanding officer in
honor of the visitors, "guard mount," the social feature of the day,
was viewed from the pavilion in the little plaza where the exercise
takes place. Its dignity was sadly marred that evening when a Moro
datto, self-important in an absurd, overwhelming hat, accompanied
by an obedient old wife on a moth-eaten Filipino pony, and a dog,
ignoring everybody, jogged along the street and through the lines.
I walked out to the camp next morning with Lieutenant Harris. Even for
this short stretch the road was not considered altogether safe. We
forded the small river just beyond the cavalry corral, where an old
Spanish blockhouse stands, and where a few old-fashioned Spanish
cannon still lie rusting in the grass. A Moro fishing village--now a
few deserted shacks around the more pretentious dwelling of the former
datto--may be met near where the roadway joins the beach. Pack-trains
of army mules, with their armed escorts, passed us; then an ambulance,
an escort wagon, and a mounted officer.
Two companies of the Tenth infantry were camped in a small
clearing near the sea. Leaving the camp, we went along the almost
indistinguishable Moro trail to where the mighty Agus River plunges in
a greenish torrent over an abrupt wall into the deep, misty cavern far
below. The rushing of the waters guided us in places where we found
the trail inadequate. Arriving at the falls, we scrambled down by
means of vines until we reached a narrow shelf near where the cataract
began its plunge. Upon the opposite side an unyielding precipice was
covered with a damp green coat of moss and fern. It took five seconds
for a falling stone to reach the seething cloud of mist below.
The trail back to the camp was very wild. It led through jungles
of dense underbrush, where monkeys scolded at us, and where wild
pigs, with startled grunts, bolted precipitously for the thicket. A
deep ravine would be bridged by a fallen tree. The Iligan-Marahui
road now penetrates the wildest country in the world, and the most
wonderful. Turning abruptly from the coast about five miles from
Iligan, it winds among the rocky hills through forests of mahogany and
ebony, through jungles of rattan and young bamboo, and spanning the
swift Agus River with a modern steel bridge, finally connects the lake
and sea. It has been built to meet the military road from the south
coast, thus making possible, for the first time, communication _via_
the interior. The new roads practically follow the old Moro trails.
The scene at early morning on the road was one of great activity. Soon
after reveille the men are mustered, armed with picks and shovels in
the place of the more customary "Krag," and long before the tropic
sun has risen over the primeval woods, the chatter of monkeys and the
crow of jungle-cock is mingled with the crash of trees, the click
of shovels and the rumble of the dump-cart. The continued blasting
on the upper road, near the "Point of Rocks," disturbs the colonies
of squawking birds that dart into the forest depths like flashes of
bright color. As the land is cleared for fifty yards on either side in
order to admit the sunlight and to keep the Moras at a proper range,
the great macao-trees, with their snaky, parasitic vines, on crashing
to the ground, dislodge the pallid fungi and extraordinary orchids from
their heavy foliage. Deep cuts into the clayey soil sometimes bisect
whole galleries of wonderful white ants, causing untold consternation
to the occupants.
Each squad of soldiers was protected by a guard besides the officer,
who, armed with a revolver, acted as the overseer. The work was very
telling on the men, and often out of a whole company not more than
twenty-eight reported. Some grew as strong as oxen under this unusual
routine; others had to take advantage of the sick report. The soldiers
were required to work five hours a day, and double time after a day
of rain. Considerable Moro labor was employed on the last sections
of the road.
A unique feature of the work was the erection of small bridges made
of solid logs from the material at hand, and bolted down by long steel
bars. The "elbow" bridge which makes a bend along the hillside near the
first camp is a triumph in the engineering line. The camps were moved
on as the work progressed, and the advance guard ran considerable
risk. The Moros had an unexpected way of visiting the scene of
operation, and admiring it from certain hiding-places in the woods. As
they could hike their thirty or forty miles a day along the trails,
they often came much nearer to the troops than was suspected. Sentry
duty was especially a risky one, as frequently at night the Moros used
to fire into the camp. Only about one hundred yards along the trail
a soldier, who had gone into the woods for a "short cut," received
one from a Moro who was waiting for him in the shadow of a tree.
The camp at night, illuminated by the blue light of the stars, the
forest casting inky shadows on the ground, seemed like some strange,
mysterious domain. The officers around the tent of the commanding
officer were singing songs, accompanied by the guitar and mandolin. The
soldiers also from a distant tent--it was their own song, and the tune
"The Girl I Left Behind Me"--practicing close harmony, began:
"O, we're camped in the sand in a foreign land
Near the mighty Agus River,
With the brush at our toes, the skeeters at our nose,
The jimjams and the fever.
We're going up to Lake Lanao,
To the town they call Marahui;
When the road is built and the Moros killed,
We'll none of us be sorry.
We're blasting stumps and grading bumps;
Our arms and backs are sore, O!
We work all day just a dreamin' of our pay,
And d----n the husky Moro!
When taps sounded, we turned in beneath two blankets in a wall-tent
lighted by a feeble lantern. All night long the restless jungle sounds,
the whispering of the mysterious forest, and the distant booming
of the sea, together with the measured tread of the night sentry,
made a lullaby which ought to have worked wonders with the "jim-jam"
and the fever patients of the Twenty-eighth.