TAMPAKAN AND THE HOME STRETCH
Our last day in Bongao the Governor secured a little pearling launch,
the _Hilda_, and took several of the _Burnside_ people on a jaunt
to the island of Siminor, as it is written on the map, or Siminol,
as it is called by the natives. Siminol is about ten miles south of
Bongao, and our destination was the town of Tampakan. It was a misty,
moisty afternoon, with a sharp salt smell to the air, and through the
haze distant mountains loomed spectre-like, or else melted into blue
clouds on the horizon.
After a two hours' run, during which the _Hilda_ wheezed and puffed
like a fat old woman in a tight frock, we reached Tampakan, and
anchored as near the shore as was practicable, blowing our whistle
to attract the attention of the villagers. In a few moments several
_praus_ and _bancas_ were poled out to the ship by a motley array of
half-clad Moros, big, brown, lithe fellows, each with a turban or
fez topping off his black hair, and all armed with a goodly array
of sharp knives. Over the side of the launch they swarmed, talking
excitedly with our interpreter, the chief _vigilante_ of Bongao, and
reminding one strongly of their piratical forebears. Many of these
very men had been pirates in Spanish days, and not one of them but
was a descendant of some marauder of the high seas.
The three hundred yards that we had to be poled to shore from the
_Hilda_ was through water not more than three feet deep, and over a
bed of pink and white coral, which could be plainly seen through the
crystal clearness. At low tide one can walk out over this submarine
beach, but the Moros say that the rocks, seaweed, and coral lose much
of their beauty when not seen through a lens of water. At the time
of our visit it was such high tide that even with the native _praus_
and the little rowboat from the launch, we were unable to make a good
landing, so the men jumped ashore in imminent danger of a wetting,
while we women were carried, one by one, through the surf.
A villainous looking gentleman, whose costume consisted of skin-tight
Moro trousers and an American bath towel, was introduced by our
host as the head man of the town, and he shook hands all around,
quite solemnly and conscientiously, as if it had been a religious
rite imported to Tawi Tawi by these strange white people.
Meanwhile the entire male population of the place gathered about us,
and we found them in very truth a murderous looking lot, armed to
the teeth with _barongs_ and _krises_ and _campilans_, while none
of us had any visible means of self-protection. There were a few
pocket revolvers, however, hidden under the officers' blouses, and
well hidden, the Governor having warned us to take no arms of any
description to Tampakan, for while money would have been no temptation
to these people, they would not have hesitated long to kill one for
a Krag rifle or a Colt revolver.
After the head man had religiously shaken every newcomer's hand,
our officers began bargaining with him and with his people for their
knives, and the crowd of men around us grew every moment greater,
with not a woman in sight. There were men in complete Moro costume,
handsome and picturesque; others ruining their appearance by the
addition of a hideous balbriggan undershirt, sandwiched between tight
trousers with innumerable buttons and a brilliantly coloured turban;
while still others, in little else than a fez and breech-clout,
seemed not a whit abashed. The children were either quite naked, or
wrapped in _sarongs_, faded by the sun and weather to a dull harmony
of their once too brilliant reds and greens.
Finally on the outskirts of the crowd I caught a glimpse of three
Moro women, and forced my way to them, shaking hands and smiling as
affably as possible. They shook hands in return, rather awkwardly,
but answered smile with smile, talking excitedly in their native
tongue, and seeming surprised that I could speak only a word or two
of Malay, without doubt a more agreeable language than that harsh
and unintelligible one in which the white officers were bargaining
for _barongs_ and _krises_.
Over the stone fortification a short distance away I had a glimpse of
tree tops and the steep, slanting roofs of nipa houses, while at the
gate stood still another group of women, most of them dressed from
the waist to the knees only. Motioning my three friends to follow,
I approached these women, whereupon they took fright and hid behind
the nearest house. That is, all but one old crone, too feeble to run,
who tremblingly awaited her fate until, reassured by the manner of
those I had talked to outside the wall, she lifted up her voice in
voluble Malay, evidently telling the others that the strange creature
neither bit nor scratched, whereat they all came back, first slowly
by ones and twos, and then more rapidly, until they stood around me
in a ring at least twenty deep.
As women have a language of their own the world over, we understood
each other quickly; and how friendly they were, and how delighted
with my clothes and all the little accessories, the hat, the veil,
the belt, the collar. Next they were amazed at my teeth, and pointed
to their own blackened ones, and then to mine, pushing forward little
girls under ten to show that only children should have white teeth,
while I, despite my extreme age, still sported such evidences of
youth. Was it possible I considered myself a child? Or was I younger
than I looked? Next my skin was marvelled at, and they took my hands
in theirs and shouted with good-natured laughter at the difference
in colour between us, for despite two and a half years of tropic tan,
my skin, compared with theirs, was very light.
Before I realized what they were doing, they had unbuttoned the cuff
of my shirt-waist and pushed the sleeve a little way up my arm,
evidently anxious to see if I were white all over, while at the
same moment a small girl of twelve, married or of marriageable age,
as one could tell from her stained teeth, knelt down on the ground
at my feet and was apparently examining my shoes.
Suddenly she gave a startled cry, and before I could prevent her,
lifted my skirt and petticoat to the ankle, revealing a small expanse
of black lisle thread stocking. For a moment there was an intense
silence, followed by a low murmur of astonishment, which soon grew
into a veritable roar of displeasure, and the women no longer beamed
approvingly, but gathered together on one side, regarding me with
great disfavour.
I was dumfounded at this sudden change of manner, and could not
account for it in any way, until I saw some of the blackest among them
pointing to their own bare legs with apparent pride, and then turning
scornfully and motioning in my direction. Did they object to my wearing
stockings? Or was it possible they had mistaken the stockings for skin?
Acting on this very improbable suggestion, I demonstrated that the
black outside covering could easily be peeled off, whereupon there was
great amazement, and once again the women crowded around in deifying
adulation. They had thought their American idol had worse than clay
feet, that the feet were black, blacker even than their own dusky
skins, and their relief was obvious at finding the dark flesh but a
close fitting covering.
So it was I was again restored to favour, and the women with swift,
shy gestures fingered my dress and hat, my army belt, and the red silk
handkerchief at the throat of my sailor collar, saying, "Mariloa,
mariloa" over and over, which in their tongue means "pretty" or
"good," depending on how it is used.
They laughed at my shoes, spreading out their flexible toes that
I might see how much more comfortable feet were unshod, and then
pointed to their hands, indicating that it were quite as sensible
to wear shoes there as on the feet, which made me sorry some of us
had not worn gloves. Also I was much amused to notice that after
biting even so lightly of the fruit of knowledge, most of the women
about me had drawn up the folds of the _sarongs_, tied so artlessly
around their waists, and fastened them securely under the armpits,
so that they were clothed quite decorously from shoulder to knee.
There was one beautiful little girl among the many plain ones in
Tampakan. She could not have been over ten years old, and her heavy
eyebrows were shaved into a narrow black line above magnificent
eyes, shaded by phenomenally long lashes. Her features were regular
and finely cut, her mouth being particularly pretty, and when she
smiled, which was seldom, her red lips disclosed even little teeth,
glistening and white. Her very hair, fringed heavily above her brow,
was soft and fine and hung almost to her knees in a dusky, rippling
cloud, while both tiny ears were pierced, the left one boasting an
ivory stick about the size and shape of a cigarette, and the other
a roll of red rags, which barbaric custom served only to enhance her
wildwood tropic beauty.
The child's _ena_, or mother, was evidently very proud of her daughter,
and through the interpreter, told me that within a year the little
maid was to marry a datto in a neighbouring town. A very great honour,
to be sure, and then her pretty, gleaming teeth will be blackened
and filed into an arch, her eyebrows shaved off completely, and at
twenty-five the little beauty will doubtless have been transformed
into a wrinkled, loathsome old hag, and perhaps a grandmother to boot!
At the windows of a house under which we stood, women, who for some
reason did not mingle with the others of the village, peered down at us
curiously, some holding up their _sarongs_ to cover all but the eyes,
and some frankly interested, with uncovered faces; while still other
creatures, of nightmare ugliness, their skins plastered with a white
flour paste, their eyebrows shaved, and their teeth newly blackened
and filed into shape, incurred the displeasure of their respective
lords and masters by appearing at the window even for a few moments
at a time, it not being Moro etiquette that these recent brides of
the neighbourhood should be seen until a later period.
About this time Half-a-Woman and her mother appeared on the scene, the
American child, with her golden hair and white skin, enthusing the Moro
women to the utmost, while the tall slenderness of the mother excited
their voluble admiration. But neither mother nor daughter appreciated
natives, except as accessories to the landscape, so they delayed not
on the order of their going, and audibly marvelled that I could be
interested in such filthy wretches, insinuating that a carbolic bath
would be necessary on our return to the ship. But the Moro women,
unconscious of any criticism as to their personal neatness, smiled
at the _Americanas_ delightedly, telling me through the interpreter
that it would take two or three Moro women to make one as tall as the
quartermaster's wife, who looked very young indeed to have attained
so great a height!
When the officers had completed their purchases, they started through
the village on a tour of inspection, and at their approach my women
friends beat a hasty retreat, scattering in every direction like so
many quail; but as we proceeded along the one street of the town,
accompanied by a veritable army of native boys and men, I saw at
the windows of different houses many familiar faces, all grinning
cheerfully in response to my nods of recognition.
The houses of Tampakan are built on one side of this broad street,
and are small nipa shacks on stilts, with steps of bamboo logs,
and steep thatched roofs, while back of this first row of houses
stands another row, and back of that still another. At the far end
of the street two or three houses are built at right angles to the
rest, and it was here that beautifully woven _petates_, or sleeping
mats, were offered for sale, some of them white with appliques of
red and blue cloth in curious designs, and others of split bamboo,
the patterns being woven in with different colours.
These mats were most reasonable in price, none of them costing over
a dollar and a half, and some very pretty ones were valued at only
fifty cents apiece, but for sanitary reasons we were obliged to
forswear them, unique as they were, for they had all been in use,
and we had seen more than one leper among the villagers, and numerous
evidences in scars and sores of loathsome skin diseases.
Embroidered turbans, _jabuls_, and _sarongs_ were also offered for
sale, as were chow-covers and tall pointed hats, while one man with
great pride produced for our inspection a pressed glass sugar bowl,
that variety which one does not have to examine or tap with the
finger to prove counterfeit. It was pressed glass with no intention to
deceive, the kind one runs across in the dining-room of country hotels,
or at cheap department stores. That it was appraised highly in Siminol,
however, was beyond question, and on every side swarthy faces watched
eagerly to see what impression it would make upon us, though the owner
himself assumed a nonchalant air, as became the possessor of so rare
an article of virtu. It had evidently been in Siminol a long time, and
was possibly stolen from a trading-post on some piratical expedition,
or looted from a Spanish planter's home during a raid on a coast
town, or more prosaically acquired in exchange for curios. However
that may be, it was considered a rare bit of bric-a-brac in Siminol,
and the possessor was counted a most fortunate man among his fellows.
There were many beautiful _barongs_ bought that day, the natives
willingly exchanging them for money, which the Governor of Bongao
declared was a unique way to disarm an enemy. American gold was
especially appreciated, and the natives passed a piece around from
hand to hand with an absolutely childish delight in its yellow beauty.
One of my purchases I paid for with a new five dollar gold piece,
and before turning the money over to the Moro, held it for a moment
pendent from my ear to suggest an earring, pointing at the same
time to one of his wives, who was standing in the doorway of their
house. The man was delighted with the suggestion, as were numerous
other Moros who had seen the pantomime, and the woman in question
clapped her hands and laughed aloud. I have often wondered whether
or not she received that earring, and if it became a universal custom
in Tampakan to wear money thus.
One of the officers, while drawing out some change from his
pocket to pay for a very handsome and expensive _barong_, came
across a gold-plated spread eagle, such as officers wear on their
shoulder-straps. It was worth perhaps twenty-five or fifty cents, but
it glittered alluringly in the sunlight, and one of the Moros, with
whom he had been bargaining, made a dive for the bit of metal, calling
on his companions to look at it. After a swift examination the owner of
the _barong_, to the officer's intense surprise, offered him the knife
in exchange for the worthless bauble. Noting the American's hesitation,
and misinterpreting it, the Moro added an embroidered turban to the
knife, and waited in breathless expectation for his answer.
The officer still hesitated what to do, and then, through the
interpreter, explained that the eagle was of no monetary value, and
that he could not accept so expensive a knife or such a handsome turban
in exchange for it. The Moro seemed astonished, but appreciated the
reason, and had his first lesson in the apothegmatic saying that all
is not gold which glitters. Later the eagle was given to the Bongao
_vigilante_, who pinned it to the front of his fez, for was he not
a protector of the peace under the great American government?
To one side of Tampakan stood a plot of ground used as a cemetery. This
we saw from a distance only, the newly made graves presenting quite
a gala appearance, decorated as they always are with bright coloured
umbrellas, these being usually of yellow. When a Moro is buried
his grave is protected from the sun and rain, and must be watched
continually night and day for a period of three months, doubtless to
keep the corpse from being defiled by man or beast.
At about six o'clock we left Tampakan, being followed to the boats by
the entire male population of the town, even to toddling, naked boy
babies, while the women hung out of their windows in imminent danger of
a fall and shouted strange things at us in their own tongue, which the
Bongao _vigilante_ interpreted as "Good-bye, nice people, come again."
It was almost dark when we reached the _Hilda_, and she immediately
put off for the ship, though seeming literally to creep along, her
engine wheezing even more painfully than earlier in the afternoon. At
that rate we should certainly be late for dinner, and all were hungry
from the trip across.
But a more serious contingency awaited us, for within a half-hour after
starting, the native fireman came up on deck, his face blanched with
fear, to say the boiler would not work, and that unless we could anchor
at once we should be swept out to sea on the strong current. Soundings
were immediately taken, and the water found very deep, so, dragging
our anchor, and with our last remaining bit of steam, we reached a
place shallow enough for anchorage. It was literally the last gasp
of the engine that put us in safety, for a moment more and we should
have been adrift on the trackless sea.
Of course the next thing to be done was to send up distress rockets,
with which we had fortunately provided ourselves, that the _Burnside_,
whose lights we could faintly see far, far over on the horizon, might
know of our predicament; but as it was not yet dark enough for her
to distinguish our signal against the sunset sky, we decided to save
our ammunition until there was no danger of its not being seen from
the ship, there being but three rockets aboard the _Hilda_.
Those few minutes of waiting seemed preternaturally long, and
when the first rocket was finally sent up, everyone watched, with
almost feverish impatience, for the _Burnside's_ return signal. One
minute passed in breathless silence; another minute, during which
we shivered slightly with cold and excitement; ten seconds more,
and a sudden flash in the direction of the ship, which we took to be
a search-light answer to our rocket of distress, was greeted with a
simultaneous yell of delight. But our joy was dampened suddenly by
some one suggesting that the search-light might have been merely a
coincidence as to time, and that the ship was in reality using it, as
often happened, for other purposes. Then, too, as this same Jeremiah
pointed out, a distress rocket would always be answered by a rocket,
or at least by a Coston signal.
There was a general lowering of personal temperature at this, and a
few moments later, with even less confidence than we had sent up the
first rocket, a second one was launched. But this proved a failure,
and went down instead of up, covering the water with a shower of
golden sparks, which hissed and sputtered angrily on the green waves
that were rocking the little _Hilda_ back and forth as if she had
been a cockle-shell. Of course there was no answer to this signal,
for the ship could not have seen it at her great distance.
In the meantime the tide was going out so rapidly that we soon found
ourselves in only two fathoms of water, the _Hilda_ drawing one
and a half fathoms, while every few minutes the bottom of the launch
ground ominously on the rocks below. The pilot of the little craft was
stretched out on the covered hatchway, frightfully seasick from the
churning motion of the boat, when the native engineer, ghastly with
terror, reported to the Governor what we had for some time suspected,
namely, that we were anchored on a coral reef. To stay there much
longer was out of the question, but as the boiler would not work,
the only other alternative was to let the boat drift out to sea on
the tide.
While we were all ostentatiously cool, I think there was not one
among us but mentally computed just how long it would take for
a hole to be knocked in the bottom of the boat, leaving us at the
mercy of those cruel, green waves that licked at the _Hilda's_ sides
with foaming tongues, eager for their prey. Our Jeremiah added to
the general cheerfulness by advancing an enlivening theory to the
effect that the Siminol Moros would undoubtedly surround us ere long,
attracted by our futile signals to the ship, and brought up pleasant
visions of swarthy pirates, under the leadership of our interpreter,
making us walk the plank, or fighting against us to the death on a
deck slippery with our own blood.
Only one more rocket left! How carefully it was hoisted to the top
of the awning, and how circumspect was the man who applied a lighted
cigarette to the fuse, while the rest of us breathlessly awaited the
result. What if it, too, should prove a failure? The very thought
was terrifying. But there went the rocket--up, up, up,--a steadily
mounting streak of red, which seemed to touch the dark dome of the
heavens before breaking into a shower of golden sparks. Eagerly we
watched the ship for some answering sign. The seconds seemed like
hours, the minutes like days. But at last, way over in the distance,
a rocket from the _Burnside_ split the darkness, and we looked at one
another silently, too deeply moved for cheers, knowing it was only
a question then of a race between our ship's launch and the hungry,
hurrying tide.
After a bit we laughed and joked a great deal to make the moments
pass more quickly, while our host told good yarns and recited some
of Eugene Field's inimitable verse in an inimitable way, to a running
accompaniment of the waves dashing against the side of the launch and
her occasional bumping on the rocks below. So long as most of us live
I fancy that "Casey's Table d'Hôte" will be associated in our minds
with that night on the coral reef.
At last in the distance we saw the red, white, and blue Coston signal
of the _Burnside's_ launch, its skipper doubtless asking us for a
guiding light, our lantern on the masthead not being visible over
a mile. For a moment we were at a loss what to do, our last rocket
having been used to signal to the ship, but some one took a newspaper
which had been wrapped around a package, divided it in two, soaking
one half of it in machinery oil from the engine-room. This greasy
paper was then put on the end of a fishing-spear, and, when lighted,
it made a glorious blaze, which was immediately answered by a second
signal from the ship's launch, which changed its course, making for us
more directly. A little later, in answer to another signal, we lighted
the paper remaining, and in reply to still another, some waste soaked
in oil did duty as a light. By this time the launch was near enough
for us to distinguish its whistle, to which of course we could not
reply, having no steam. Meanwhile the tide was very low. "Nine feet,"
announced some one, sounding, and the coral grated harshly under our
keel. A moment more and the launch might be too late.
But just then came another flash out of the gloom, so near that we were
startled, a shrill whistle, and the rescuing party was at hand. Very
hurriedly the passengers were transferred to the _Burnside, Jr._,
and the _Hilda_ was towed to a safe anchorage, where she was left
for the night.
The ride back to the ship was a long one, and we struck a tide-rip
half-way there, which drenched us all to the skin and tossed the
staunch little craft back and forth, as if she had been a chip on
the water. But at eleven o'clock we climbed aboard the _Burnside_,
after having given the Powers-that-Be and our many friends a fright
which made them threaten us with the brig if it ever happened again.
Fortunately for us, our first rocket had been seen from the ship,
else the launch might have been too late to rescue us, and what we had
taken for a gleam from the search-light was in fact a Coston signal,
our distance from the _Burnside_ not enabling us to distinguish its
red and blue lights, the white alone carrying that far.
A good dinner, finished long after midnight, so rested us that, being
young and foolish, we went ashore with our host of the afternoon,
merely for a farewell glimpse of Bongao, retiring at ever so little
o'clock in the morning, and not very long before the engines began
to puff and pant, preparatory to our trip northward.
Then followed a month of cable repairing, which took us again to
Zamboanga, Iligan, and Cagayan. A little stretch was also laid
connecting Oslob, Cebu, with the Dumaguete land line, and later a
cable laid nearly two years before on the southeast coast of Luzon
was thoroughly overhauled and put into shape. This cable connected
Pasacao and Guinayangan, or Pass-a-cow and Grin-again-then, as we
always dubbed the towns.
It was on our way to Pasacao from Iligan that we had our last glimpse
of old Mount Malindang, or, as the sailors called it, Mount Never
Pass, because it was so seldom off our horizon. All day the sea had
been oily smooth, and fish jumped out of the water continually, the
sea-gulls swooping down upon them and carrying them off in their
talons. The sailors had been holy-stoning the decks and painting
every bit of available woodwork white, preparatory to our entrance
into Manila Bay, and the cable machinery for the nonce was still,
the native employees lounging about the lower decks, playing monte
or strumming their guitars in idle joy.
At sunset we all went aft to see Malindang for the last time. To
the southeast it stood stolidly against the flushed sky, a white
cloud about it, reminding one of some old Indian chief wrapped in
his blanket, passively watching the departure of the pale-faces who
had invaded his mighty solitude. To the north were Negros, Cebu, and
Siquijor; to the south Mindanao; and even far-distant Camaguin to the
east, with a faint wisp of smoke from its volcano. Then night came
upon us suddenly and blotted out Mount Never Pass--perhaps forever.
After our experiences in the far south, we found Oslob, Pasacao, and
Guinayangan strangely uninteresting, although at the beginning of our
cable trip I have no doubt we should have enjoyed them hugely. There
were the same curious natives who dogged our every footstep; the
same nipa shacks surrounded by palms and bamboos in the same dazzling
sunshine, of which no words or symbols or formulas could give one an
idea. There were the inevitable churches with decorations of faded
artificial flowers and much tarnished tinsel, the same wooden images
with large eyes and simpering little mouths, the same glaring chromos
of the Virgin and her angels.
In Oslob the church was further decorated by brown velvet portières
being painted at each side of the long windows, an obvious advantage
in the event of house-cleaning, while the wooden pillars were also
stained to resemble marble. At the time of our visit women knelt on
the bare floor at their prayers, all wearing stiffly starched white
linen veils, which did not entirely conceal their fleshly interest
in ourselves, the while they told their rosaries with busy fingers.
Guinayangan had a wooden belfry to one side of its church, the bells
therein being made of metal arms captured from the Moros many years
before. We also noticed, on entering the church, a palanquin shaped
affair at one side of the door. This, we were told, was used by
the priest in processions, when altar boys dressed in scarlet and
white robes carry him thus enthroned, two other boys walking ahead
of the procession and two behind, all bearing candles in candelabra
taller than themselves, and all dressed in scarlet and white like
the bearers of the palanquin. It was used as well for a confessional,
and to carry the priest to and from visits of extreme unction.
Guinayangan also boasts a shipyard, which is nothing more than a rough
shed, the implements being most primitive in construction. Without
even ways, not to mention the absence of means, it is said that large
sailing ships are made there, two of them being in the harbour at
the time of our visit.
For several days we hovered in the vicinity of Guinayangan and Pasacao,
cutting and splicing, splicing and cutting, while we idle ones of
the quarter-deck unanimously decided that this lower corner of Luzon
Island comprised the prettiest landscapes we had seen on the trip,
consisting for the main part of wonderful mountains covered with a
luxurious tropical growth of trees and shrubbery, these perpendicular
forests springing out of the water with scarcely any intervention of
beach between their green sides and the sparkling sea beneath them.
In places the mountains were bare of trees, suggesting forest fires
in the past, but in the distant past, as the patches of ground were
covered with grass, the exact tender shade in which the young Spring
clothes herself at home. In many of these rifts between the trees
nipa houses were tucked away, adding to the charm of the landscape,
and the multifarious shades of green to be found on these hillsides
were further diversified by shrub-like trees with a faint red tinge
like furze, and by still others with a silvery sheen to their leaves.
It was while paying this long-laid line into the tanks, when
looking for faults, that wonderful sea growths were brought up on
the cable, especially in comparatively shallow water, revealing
varieties of submarine life undreamed of in our philosophy. There
was white coral, and coral in shades of pink, and red, and violet;
there were sea-cucumbers and jellyfish; shrimp of tiny proportions
and scarlet in colouring; barnacles of every description; curious
shells of fairy-like proportions; seaweeds and grasses and moss of
exquisite delicacy, making the cable look in places as if it were a
rope of tiny many coloured blossoms. The small girl of the _Burnside_
was enchanted with the pretty playthings sent her by the mermaids,
and gathered the gaily tinted wonders into a box for safe-keeping,
but before the passing of another day they had lost their beauty, and,
moreover, smelled up to very heaven, and had to be thrown overboard.
But at last the Signal Corps completed its work on the
Pasacao-Guinayangan cable, the final splice was made, and the bight
dropped overboard, whereupon we were off for Manila, stopping _en
route_ at Pasacao to ascertain if all were well with the line. This was
on Good Friday, and the officers who went ashore said that natives,
dressed to represent the Twelve Apostles, roamed the streets and at
given intervals flagellated one poor chap who had been elected to
represent Judas for the time being. The native padre assisted in the
semi-religious function, and all seemed more interested in it as a
diversion than impressed by its devotional significance.
The rest of the day we sailed over absolutely peaceful water, with
scarcely a ripple on its crystal surface, swinging in and out of the
myriad wooded islands, peninsulas, and capes that make the southern
part of Luzon so ragged and uneven on the map, and thence into the
China Sea, where we floated, sky above and sky below, for hours,
anchoring off Manila on the following forenoon, just in time to spend
Easter Sunday, April 7th, at the capital.
And so ended our cable trip and those pleasant days in the far South
Seas. The huge tanks on the forward deck of the _Burnside_ yawned
hungrily for the five hundred knots of cable now lying in those
distant waters, linking together the strange lands we had seen _en
route_, and as we stood for the last time looking down into those
empty tanks, tar-stained and reeking with moisture, I was strongly
reminded of Mr. Kipling's "Song of the Cable:"
"The wrecks dissolve above us; their dust drops down from
afar-- Down to the dark, to the utter dark, where blind
white sea-snakes are. There is no sound, no echo of sound,
in the deserts of the deep, On the great, gray, level plains
of ooze, where the shell-burred cables creep. Here in the
womb of the world--here on the tie-ribs of earth-- Words,
and the words of men, flicker and flutter and beat."
THE END.