CEBU
Early the next morning we sailed into Cebu harbour, and found it
alive with ships of all sorts and conditions. From the sea there is
nothing picturesque about the town. It is a grimy, dirty place that
might be located anywhere in the world, with huge warehouses and
rows of squat, ugly buildings near the shore, and in the distance,
over the gray walls of the inevitable fort, church spires and green
tree tops intermingle under a burning sky.
Before we were really at anchor small boats filled with boys and girls
clustered around our ship, the children yelling in English--English,
mark you!--for coins to be thrown overboard that they might plunge
into the swift current after them. There was a veritable pandemonium
of noise, for while some of the occupants of the _bancas_ dove for
the pennies, amid wild shrieks of laughter, others, most of them
quite young boys, went through the manual of arms very acceptably,
with little sticks in lieu of rifles; still others danced and acted
a Spanish fandango; while the more mature among our entertainers
sang a song so swinging in measure that it appealed to me instantly
as one that would be immensely taking were it sung in an American
music-hall. It had an indescribable roof garden cadence, and I found
myself humming it delightedly. At the end of the second verse I was
so carried away by its possibilities that, turning to a group of
people talking near the rail, I remarked that with rag-time words,
it would be vastly popular in American vaudeville. At which everyone
stared incredulously for a moment, until one of the number, realizing
the situation, managed to explain, between gasps of laughter, that
"Hello, my Baby, Hello, my Honey" was in its dotage in the United
States. Then the laughter became general, for all were more recent
arrivals from America than I, and it was hard for them to understand
how so elderly and decrepit a ditty could be unfamiliar to any one.
When the classic words of "Hello, my Baby, Hello, my Honey," were
repeated for my benefit, and I realized that not only had these Cebu
natives picked up the air of the song, but the component parts of
its speech as well, my disgust was complete, for it showed that Cebu,
dirty and disagreeable as it was, also lacked local colour, liberal
applications of which we had found so necessary in the Philippines.
Despite our several visits to Cebu, few of us found cause to change
our first opinion as to its unpleasantness. Indeed, it would be hard
to imagine a more uninteresting, bedraggled, down-at-the-heel place
than this. Aside from the old churches and _conventos_, a few pretty
drives, and a wonderful view from the top of the fort, we found nothing
to like about it, for the natives were sullen and unfriendly, while
the town itself was not wild or barbaric enough to be interesting,
nor yet civilized enough for comfort.
Of course the officers stationed in Cebu, and their respective
families, were delightful people, who varied the monotony of their
existence with tennis, drives, little dinners, and once, I believe,
even a ball was indulged in. There was an excellent club and
reading-room for the men, and every week, on ladies' day, the women
donned their prettiest frocks, and chatted over their teacups on the
club veranda, quite as if they were not hundreds of miles away from
everything that makes life bearable.
Cebu is a town with a past, like the Ibsen woman; it also has a future;
but at present it is in the transmigratory period between the two,
and is in consequence odious. The place is chiefly interesting because
it is the oldest town in the archipelago settled by Europeans, and one
revels in its queer, moss-grown churches and _conventos_, each of them
said to be the most ancient edifice in the Islands. This occasions
much amicable dispute among the different religious orders of Cebu,
and it is really edifying to hear them mildly slander one another,
as they give conclusive evidence why their particular building is far
older than some other for which is claimed that not always enviable
distinction.
Not far from the shore stands an octagonal chapel or oratory, said to
be built on the very spot where the first mass was celebrated after
the landing of Magellan. Even the old stone fort is claimed by some
earnest prevaricators as a relic of those early Spanish days, but as
the architecture is clearly that of the eighteenth century we took
the liberty of doubting the veracity of these statements.
As to Cebu's future, it is assured, for the harbour is excellent,
and, although not large, is well sheltered from both monsoons and
has good anchorage, so the place is growing quite rapidly and
should in time rank next in importance to Manila. A number of
"godowns," as large warehouses are called in the Philippines,
were in the process of construction at the time of our visit,
and so many industrial and commercial improvements were being
inaugurated that my little note-book reads like a leaf from a
geography--"manufactures--imports--exports--chief industries," and
the like. As for climate, it was hot, is hot, and will be hot on
into infinity.
Had it not been for the Santo Niño, I fear our memories of the
place would have been purely statistical, a perfect orgy of useful
information. But the Santo Niño saved the day, though it was not
until our last visit to Cebu that most of us saw this image so famous
among the island group. Calling upon the Philippine fathers in charge
of the Santo Niño convent, and stating our interest in the Santo
Niño itself, we were received with the utmost cordiality. Were we
Catholics? No? Ah, that was too bad. But, yes, of course we could
see the Santo Niño. People often came all the way from Manila just
for that. And then we were taken into the clean, barely furnished
drawing-room of the _convento_, where an anticipatory refreshment
was served, the while we were regaled with a history of Cebu's
famous image. This refection consisted of a wee glass of delicious
Muscatelle apiece and some crisp, very rich cakes made by the sisters
of a neighbouring convent, and as we ate and drank, a fat, jolly old
padre, who thought he could speak English, tried to tell us about the
Santo Niño in that language. As his enthusiasm and interest increased,
he often forgot to use his newly acquired tongue and lapsed into
Spanish, which was far more comprehensible to us than was his sublime
disregard of syntax when attempting Anglo-Saxon, notwithstanding the
fact that he tried to better his linguistic efforts by shouting out
each English sentence like a phonograph gone mad. It was from him we
first heard the legend of the Santo Niño--how it was an idol in the
old days, worshipped by savage Visayans, and how, after the advent
of the Spaniards with Magellan, there was a great fire in the town,
everything in one populous section being burned, save a little nipa
shack in which stood the wooden idol. On every side buildings crashed
down, sending showers of sparks over the inflammable thatched roof
of the nipa house. A monsoon was blowing at the time, which fanned
the flames into so fierce a blaze that finally all attempts were
abandoned to save property in that section of the town, and people
fled to the woods with the few belongings they could gather together,
there to watch the cruel flames spreading in every direction.
It is probable that Cebu would have gone up in smoke had it not been
that the monsoon brought on its wings a fierce tropical rain that beat
down upon the burning city and quenched the fire. But in that section
where it had raged hottest, nothing was left standing save the little
nipa shack already mentioned. Around it were the ruins of pretentious
Spanish houses, across its threshold lay a smouldering, blackened piece
of wood, which alone should have converted it into cinders. But there
it stood unharmed, not even scorched by the fierce heat to which it
had been subjected, and within its walls the Visayan idol smiled down
on the curious crowd, with a superhuman intelligence. Recognizing
at once its miraculous powers, the Spanish priests obtained it from
the savages for a mere bagatelle, and enshrined it in their Catholic
chapel as the Santo Niño of Cebu. Blessed by the presence of so holy
a thing, the little chapel grew and prospered until a handsome stone
church and _convento_ were built, the church being the very one where
the image now stands.
Other stories have it that some time during the sixteenth century,
a Spanish sailor found the Santo Niño cast up on the eastern coast
of Cebu after a terrific storm. On picking it up, he was rejoiced
to find that the use of his left arm, long withered by palsy, was
miraculously restored, whereupon he carried the image into Cebu with
him. There numberless wonderful things were accomplished by the Santo
Niño, till at last the sailor, half frightened at possessing so sacred
an object, turned it over to the priests, who promptly enshrined it
in the one Catholic church of the place. Some fifty or sixty years
later, the church was burned to the ground--for both stones agree as
to a destructive fire--and all was lost save the Santo Niño itself,
which escaped by a miracle only.
Whatever may have been its origin, many wonderful things are attributed
to the Santo Niño of Cebu. It is to him that childless women pray
for offspring; to him that mothers bring their little ones, and beg
a thousand blessings upon them; from him that distracted parents
beseech renewed health and strength for their children, ill unto
death with diseases that baffle the doctors, for the Santo Niño,
being but a child himself, is especially tender toward the little ones.
It is said that once an attempt was made to send the Santo Niño to
Rome, as the Pope had expressed a wish to see the much talked of
Philippine image. Very tenderly was it packed away in soft wrappings,
after which it was placed in a wooden box, fitted with an intricate
lock, the key of which was carried by the old bishop who was to
accompany the Santo Niño on its travels. To ensure the safety of
so valuable a thing, the wooden box was put into a metal casket,
which in turn was fastened securely. Then the ship sailed for Italy,
and the little niche in the wall of the cathedral which had been
the Santo Niño's shrine was boarded up, and the natives came to the
church but seldom, so bitter were they that the Holy Child had been
taken from them.
Hard times followed; crops failed; there was an epidemic of sickness;
and Cebu was shrouded in gloom, a gloom which deepened when word came
from Rome that the image was either lost or stolen, for although the
bishop had never let the sacred box out of his sight, yet when he
came to unlock it before a hushed throng at the Vatican, there was
no Santo Niño within. It was thought that in some mysterious way the
bishop had been robbed and that the Holy Child was forever lost. Great
was the grief and terror and excitement in Cebu. Masses were said,
and individual prayers offered up, novenas were held, and vows taken,
all to the effect that the Santo Nino should be restored to the island.
One day, months later, while the church was being repaired, the
partition of wood over the Holy Child's shrine was accidentally
knocked out of place by a workman, and what should he discover
there but the Santo Niño himself, gravely smiling, his little hands
outstretched in benediction. He had not wanted to go abroad, and so
had left the carefully locked boxes and returned to his old home. What
more natural? Of course there was a great _fiesta_, and the miracles
performed in that week of rejoicing will never be forgotten.
But even to this day the Santo Niño gives numerous evidences of
his supernatural power, and any native will tell you how he walks
abroad of a night, and visits the homes where his image is enshrined,
a tremendous undertaking, as hardly a nipa shack on the island but
boasts its picture or statue of Cebu's patron saint. On returning
from these nocturnal tramps, the Holy Child is wont to bring back
with him food and drink for his own consumption, the evidence of
these midnight feasts being found on many a morning in the shape of
crumbs scattered over the altar, a touch of nature which makes him
indeed kin to the natives, who, we were told, invariably save a bit
from their scanty suppers, putting it where the Santo Niño will be
sure to find it does he honour them with a visit.
But at last we were to see the Santo Niño for ourselves, and as we
left the reception-room and passed down a long corridor, hung with
atrocious native paintings of Christian martyrs in every degree
of discomfort and uneasiness, through a wide refectory with three
great dining tables, the top of each being a solid piece of wood,
and finally into the chapel itself, I plead guilty to a distinct
thrill of interest in every Protestant pulse.
The chapel was a large, rather bare room, with an altar to the Virgin
on one side, and directly opposite it a small shrine painted white
and picked out with gold. This shrine was locked, and as one of the
little altar boys unfastened the double doors, we noticed the pictures
on either side. To the left was Saint Joseph with the child Jesus in
his arms; on the right, Mary, sweet and sad-eyed, the premonition of
Gethsemane in her tender smile.
When the white doors had been unlocked and lifted off their hinges,
a door of silver was discovered. On being opened, it revealed an
interior so rich as to surprise a simultaneous exclamation of delight
from us all. Gold and silver predominated in the decorations, and
in the midst of this splendour stood a little figure about twelve or
fourteen inches high, its back turned toward us as it faced the dark
interior of the church so far below. A pale blue curtain was drawn
over the front of the shrine, but we fortunate ones in the little
chapel were looking at the Holy Child more intimately; from the back,
to be sure, but so close that we could have touched him with our hands.
On the day of our visit the little figure was attired in a flowing
coronation robe of crimson velvet, richly encrusted with elaborate
gold embroidery, and while we were admiring this work of art, the
priest slowly and very reverently turned the Holy Child around on
his pedestal until he faced us squarely.
He is not beautiful--the Santo Niño--nor does he even faintly resemble
our conception of the Christ-child. His face is flat and lifeless,
carved very roughly out of some dark wood, which, when contrasted with
his rich vestments and ornamentation, seems strangely incongruous. From
out of this brown face, eyes painted a vivid blue stare straight
into one's own. Around his cheeks fall golden curls. This is not a
figure of speech, but a reality, for the curls are of solid metal,
the locks of hair being pressed into it like the china hair on the
dolls of our childhood.
These golden locks were surmounted by a golden crown. In one wooden
hand he held a golden globe with the cross of Catholicism above it,
and in the other a golden staff, both of his hands being covered by
long golden gauntlets. Right under his feet, which I have no doubt
were booted in that precious metal, although they were hidden by the
coronation robe, was a gold encrusted medallion containing the tiny
bone relics of eight Christian martyrs. Never have I seen anything so
barbarically splendid as that little Santo Niño, with his brown wooden
face and bright blue eyes, for all the shining metal surrounding him
was real, and not a specious tinsel masquerading as something of value.
Legend has it that originally, when the Santo Niño was a Visayan idol,
it, too, was made of gold, and not of wood as it is to-day. It seems
that after its conversion to Catholicism, on Magellan's arrival in
Cebu, it was sent to Spain at the request of that pious king, Charles
the Fifth, where many extraordinary performances were accredited
to it, perhaps the most miraculous and unaccountable thing of all
being that on its return to Cebu, the people found it had changed
itself _en route_ from gold to wood, a reversal of alchemy strangely
defective in wisdom on the part of the Santo Niño. Though, indeed,
the transmutation may have been entirely without his volition,
in which case it is small wonder that the Holy Child objected so
strongly to a subsequent visit on the Continent.
At one side of this very elaborate shrine of gold and silver stood
a small tin box in which one was expected to place his contribution
to the Santo Niño. We paid handsomely for our glimpse of it, saw
the little figure turned slowly around on its pedestal so that it
again faced the church below, saw the silver door locked and the two
white removable outside doors placed in position, and then somewhat
reluctantly left.
Once down the broad stairway of the _convento_, whose massive hand-rail
of carved ebony would make the heart of a collector leap for joy, we
stepped into the church where many natives knelt in prayer, glancing up
reverently now and then at the tiny shrine so far above their heads. In
front of it the blue silk curtains were fast drawn, for except on holy
days, it takes at least a _peso_ to see the Santo Niño face to face.
On the following morning two of the padres from the _convento_
returned our call, and evinced the most satisfying interest in all
that was shown them aboard ship. Everything delighted them, and they
even gathered up the long skirts of their cassocks, and grasped their
birettas firmly in one hand, preparatory to descending into the noisome
cable-tanks, should it be demanded of them. When the ship had been
inspected, we all returned to the quarter-deck, where refreshments were
served, the while we showed our guests some photographs of America.
As Manila had heretofore represented to these native priests the
apotheosis of urban magnitude, it may well be imagined how delighted
they were with their first glimpse of our larger cities. How excitedly
they talked and gesticulated over the elevated railways and cable-cars;
the height of the buildings; the suspension bridges; the magnificent
private residences, which at first it was hard to convince them were
not in reality hotels; the theatres, parks, and churches, though they
shook their heads sadly at so many of Protestant denomination. When,
however, they were told how many Catholic churches were in New York
alone, they regained their lost interest, and grew more enthusiastic
than ever, while the English-speaking padre, in his excitement, fairly
screamed his uncertain vocabulary in our direction, though when he
addressed his confrères in Spanish his voice was of normal register.
A few days later, as an evidence of their enjoyment aboard ship, the
padres sent each of us a silver medal of the Santo Niño and a history
of the image written in Spanish, _con superior permiso_; a lithographic
picture of the Holy Child in its shrine, giving but a faint idea of
its appearance; and a queer stone jar, the shape, if not the size
of those in which the forty thieves were hidden. These jars were
full of those delicious pastry cakes already mentioned, _ojaldres_,
they are called, made by the sisters of the Convento Maria Natividad
de Albero. Rich the cookies were, and crisp, fairly melting on the
tongue, but each one, wrapped in its protecting bit of tissue-paper,
was "a gastronomic delusion and a dyspeptic snare," to be treated as
were the forty thieves themselves by the implacable Ali Baba.
It is not at all impossible that some of our distaste for Cebu arose
from the fact that, on the several occasions of our visits there,
we were coaling, a circumstance which would detract from the Pearly
City itself. No sooner were we at anchor than huge _cascos_ came
alongside and the coaling would begin.
Inky black shapes flitted back and forth through great clouds of dust,
each carrying a basket on its head. Hoarse commands were shouted,
demoniacal voices answered somewhere from the pit, and then would
come a period of comparative quiet, followed by what seemed to be
a burst of frenzied rage from the different lighters, though in
reality I believe the natives were on the best of terms, and were
just inviting each other to dinner. This state of affairs continued
without intermission for eight days on each of our several visits
there. For eight days the soot fell alike on the quarter-deck and the
forecastle. The ship became a black abomination. The very towels in
our staterooms left grimy, unpremeditated streaks on face and hands.
During this period I do protest that we suffered those torments
usually reserved for the unregenerate, and as the furnace over which
the town is built was several degrees hotter each trip than on the
previous visit, we were thus precluded from going ashore to either
of the badly managed hotels for which the place is infamous.
So dangerous was the country around Cebu in those days that one
afternoon on a little drive to an encampment about four miles from the
town, we were escorted there and back by a guard of armed soldiers on
horseback, some of them heading the cavalcade, the others bringing up
the rear. It was a most unusual day for Cebu, as the slightly overcast
sky made the temperature quite endurable. The country passed on our
drive was unusually fine, with its groves of palms and plantains;
its tall cottonwood-trees by the road-side, the ripe pods on the
bare branches bursting and showing the soft, white fluff within;
its giant mango-trees with bonfires built beneath them, as a quick
method of ripening the fruit for market. Then there were acres of
corn and fields of rice ready for harvesting, proving conclusively,
as some one suggested, that the natives of Cebu could raise something
besides h---, though he had never believed it before.
At our destination we were cordially welcomed by the officers of
the infantry company stationed there, a native band shrilled its
salute, and the big American soldiers stopped their preparations
for an approaching march against the enemy to stare at us long and
undisguisedly. There were several women among us, a rare departure
in those days, one of them being the wife of the young captain who
was to command the detachment going into the field that night. She
had arrived from America but a few days before, bringing with her a
splendid boy nearly three years old, whom up to that time the young
father had never seen. Even after so long a separation the husband
and wife were together but seldom, as she was obliged to live in town
because of insurrectionary troubles, nor did she ever know from day to
day what the next tidings might be from the little camp of San Nicolas.
Before our return to Cebu the officers took us to see the
fortifications made by the Spaniards after Admiral Dewey's victory
in Manila Bay, fortifications they expected to use as a last defence
against invading Americans. Not far from these earthworks was an
old nipa church, most picturesque in its decay. It was nipa within
as well as without, the floor and ceiling being of braided bamboo
and the walls of the nipa-palm. Its high altar was innocent of any
attempt at decoration save for some faded paper flowers stuck into
empty beer bottles, while the niche above was unfilled by patron
saint of any description. At the very door grazed a lean carabao,
completing a picture of the desolation and ruin in the wake of an army.
And now as to cable work, for even here, where we had expected
only to coal, the Signal Corps was kept busy, as it was found on
investigation that an old cable landing two miles up the beach at
Mabola was in such bad condition and the line so insecure that the
cable must be put directly into the Cebu office, thus avoiding the
defect of a shaky land terminal. So prisoners were engaged to dig
a trench from the office to the beach, where the cable was landed,
after which it was placed in the trench and so laid up to the very
door of the telegraph station, the lead covered wire being inserted
there into an iron tube lashed to an upright pole, and thence into
the window where the operator had his desk. Surely a novel way to lay
a shore end! It reminded one of that nice old lady's suggestion to
the London _Times_ in 1858, just after the Atlantic cable failure,
that in future it should be laid above the ocean instead of in
it, mentioning that in her opinion the rock of Gibraltar, peak of
Teneriffe, and the Andes should be used as points of suspension.
This work, coupled with the entire refitting of the office, took
several days, and meanwhile on board ship the cable was being turned
over from one tank to the other in search of faults, and numerous
experiments were made in splicing, so that much learned conversation
might be heard anent the necessity of homogeneity in core joints and
the like.
On February 3d we left Cebu for Liloan, island of Cebu, where a cable
put in eleven months before needed repairing. After a two hours' run
we anchored off our destination, which proved to be a most deserted
little hole, rich in vegetation only. There were but a few men,
commanded by a non-commissioned officer at Liloan, and as our stay
there was to be very brief, only the Signal Corps detachment went
ashore. By one o'clock the defective splice in the trench had been
cut out, a new one made, and the office overhauled, after which,
as the tests showed the cable working satisfactorily at its Cebu
end, but unsatisfactorily at the other, we sailed for Ormoc, Leyte,
arriving there about seven o'clock that evening.
On the following morning the Signal Corps men went ashore in a small
boat, and while some of the party rehabilitated the office, others
underran the cable, cut in near the shore end, and after finding
communication satisfactory with Cebu and Liloan, located the fault,
the ship's volt-meter indicating when the small boat underrunning the
cable came to the break. It proved to be a defective factory joint,
which was cut out and repaired, so that by three o'clock communication
was established between Cebu and Liloan.
Ormoc did not prove interesting enough for a trip ashore in the
hot sun, so my only recollection of the place is a white _tribunal_
and a great preponderance of green foliage, toned down by the dull
gray-brown of nipa buildings and the dull gray-blue of sky and sea.
Then, too, it will always bring to mind the sad experience of a very
delightful officer we met there. At the time of our visit he was
_en route_ to Northern Leyte, a hostile part of the island where
several hundred insurgents were strongly entrenched. With him were
fifty soldiers, all of them eager for a scrap, while the young fellow
himself was "insatiable of glory." We were everyone of us enthused by
his prospects, the officers perhaps a bit envious of the stirring times
ahead for him, the women fearful of the outcome with such tremendous
odds in favour of the well entrenched Filipinos.
On a subsequent visit to Cebu we heard the last deplorable chapter
of his little story, the beginning of which had so interested us,
for while there had been no loss of life in his command, the whole
expedition had been a complete failure. It seems he was vanquished,
disarmed, and routed by the enemy at every turn, notwithstanding the
fact that he had studied strategy so that his plans of employing and
combining his resources would have filled any general officer with
admiration. Nor did his overthrow have the merit of dignity. It
was irresistibly droll, and no one laughed more heartily at the
preposterous ending of the expedition than did the victim himself.
For according to his own story at every town and village in the enemy's
country, he and his brave followers, all of them thirsting for gore,
were met by a brass band, and, accompanied by the leading citizens of
the place, were marched down the principal street with great pomp and
ceremony to where a _fiesta_ in honour of the great American captain
was in progress. There the people, in gala-attire, clapped their hands
and called "_Viva, viva_," at their discomfited enemy, and later in
the day a great banquet would be given, at which the leading citizens
threw oral bouquets at their disgusted prisoner, while the soldiers
walked disconsolately around the little village they had expected
to conquer. Had fate not willed it otherwise the captain might have
rendered such distinguished service as would have merited at least
recognition from Congress, perhaps a medal of honour, or even the star
of a brigadier; while now all he can expect from a grateful country
is some slight acknowledgment of his undoubted heroism in partaking
of the food at the natives banquets, surely an intrepid performance!
After an eight hours' run from Ormoc we reached Cebu, remaining there
just long enough to put ashore some iron poles for the construction
of a cross-country line to Oslob, Cebu, where it was intended to land
the cable from Dumaguete; then sailed for Misamis, where we completed
the ill-fated Lintogup line, finding that the break in the cable was
caused by the _Disgrace's_ propeller on that memorable trip in January.
The day was wet, and raw, and gray, and we could see the beach strewn
with trees and timber, the thatched roof of a bamboo house, and all
the aftermath of a terrible storm that had swept over the islands five
days before, and of which we, in the safe shelter of Cebu's harbour,
were ignorant. It was here we were told by cable that the line from
Iligan to Cagayan had not been working since the storm had torn up
the wharf and beach at the former place a week before, so the next
morning we sailed for Iligan again, feeling as blue as the day itself.
Arriving off our destination some three hours later, a party, shivering
in the misty rain, was sent ashore to ascertain the trouble. After
careful tests it was found to have been caused by a submarine landslide
which had crushed a part of the cable, laid by necessity on a steep
hill under water.
So for a whole day we grappled there near Iligan, "fishing for
bights," as the punster on board called it, and surely even Izaak
Walton's piscatorial patience would have been tried on this fishing
trip. Once after having successfully hooked the cable, it broke as we
were drawing it in, and only one end came on board. It was the shore
end, and through it we spoke Iligan, finding the cable satisfactory in
that direction. So we buoyed the shore end and continued our fishing
with the heavy tackle. For hours we unsuccessfully lowered the massive
grapnel iron, where our charts indicated the cable should be, but
without success until late in the afternoon, when the strain on the
dynamometer indicated another "bight."
Then it was pulled up very slowly, for we could not afford to have
it break a second time, when suddenly it slipped the grapnel and was
again lost at the sea-bottom. As it was getting dark we put lights
on our two buoys, one placed where the cable had slipped the grapnel,
the other, as I said before, attached to the captured end. Now it is
by no means easy to jump from a small boat to a buoy in such rough
water as that in Iligan harbour, and we watchers on the ship felt some
little uneasiness until the lights from both buoys proclaimed that
it had been accomplished by the young native who always did that work.
In the morning our scientific fishermen were rewarded for their
patience. They had a bite, and everyone on board watched with interest
the heavy machinery as it slowly and steadily pulled the sea end
of the cable out of the water. It was hooked at half after eight,
and not until an hour later was it landed, the dynamometer showing
a strain at times of from one to two tons.
Immediately after getting the cable on board, Cagayan was called over
and over again without response, which would have indicated that the
trouble was farther out at sea, had not tests shown the resistances
were what they should have been, from which it was easily inferred that
the operator at Cagayan was not attending strictly to business. "Gone
to Sunday school, probably!" ironically observed the Powers-that-Be,
chewing the end of an unlighted cigar, as he always did when worried,
and, Sunday though it was, we felt the sarcasm to be a just one,
Sunday schools not being a chief industry of Cagayan.
Reasoning on the premise that all was right at that end of the line,
the splice was made, and we paid out the cable until reaching the
buoyed shore end, which in turn was spliced to the deep-sea cable,
and the bight dropped overboard. Then a Signal Corps man returning
from shore reported all communicating lines in good order, at which
there was great rejoicing on board the _Burnside_, and, our Cagayan
friend having condescended meanwhile to communicate with us, we were
soon under way for Zamboanga, Mindanao.
The next day was a perfect one for sailing, and eventful, in that
while turning over cable the long objurgated fault in the tanks came
to light, proving to be the result of carelessness on the part of the
manufacturer, a carelessness which had caused much agony of mind to the
Signal Corps, and many groans and imprecations from all concerned. But
at last the fault was cut out, and a nice healthy splice substituted
by the reparative surgery which has been so often mentioned.
It seemed such a small thing, the fault, only a little break in the
armour wire, and yet it had induced the most severe nerve paralysis in
that sentient thread of copper in the cable's centre. "Words and words
of men" could not "flicker and flutter and beat" until the wound had
been healed, which was promptly done, accompanied by vigorous language
concerning the aforesaid careless manufacturer.