Chapter X: A Midnight Phantasy in California 197 (3)

Arriving in Manila Bay the ship cast anchor off Cavite, innumerable sacks of mail were soon brought aboard, and as the master-at-arms yelled out, “Mail O, mail O, on the starboard side of the gun-deck!” a scrimmage ensued, such as would make the army and navy foot-ball contest look like a game of quoits at a country fair. This day it required two assistants to the master-at-arms in handling the bulk of letters, papers, and periodicals that had accumulated during our absence from civilization, the distribution of which reminded me of the post-office scene from an old sketch at Carncross and Dixey’s Philadelphia “play-house.”

Such queries as the following could be heard on the deck: “How many letters did you get, Jack?” “Oh, I haven’t counted them, but here’s a good one: ‘Dear Jack, how is it you never speak of your roommate? Is he tall or short? Where does he come from and what is his name?’ Now, wouldn’t that shatter your shingles?” “Say, fellows, did you hear what ‘Jack o’ the Dust’s’ sweetheart wrote? She wants to know if the Philippines are anywhere near Germany. He is going to write and tell her they are a little south of Germany and China.” “Hello, ‘Sinbad,’ I don’t see you reading any mail,” is jokingly aimed at a husky “tar,” whose derisive reply is, “No, nor you don’t see me answering advertisements either.” For genuine humor, the arrival of mail aboard a “man-of-war” in a foreign port is one droll dramatic comedy.

Three weeks later found the flag-ship gracing the bay of Nagasaki, where Baron Kaneko and party of envoys boarded the cruiser, as guests of Admiral Rodgers, for a trip through the Inland Sea.

The first port the vessel steamed for was Mitsugahamo, whose land-locked harbor was entered toward evening, the blazing sheen of the setting sun tingeing a deep sapphirine sky, reflecting from the mirror-like bay to the craggy cliffs whose contour shone in amethystine beauty. As the sun sank behind the cliffs, the iron clang of clattering chains was heard lowering the anchors. This American ship had been the first foreign vessel to enter the channel of this sacred port of the pristine Shoguns.

The people of this island, in their more than semi-nudeness, courtesied to the ground on meeting the Americans, offering their broad sun-shades during the day, and providing sandals for the visitor who on entering their pretty bamboo homes is required to remove his shoes.

Morality in Japan has been decried as being lax; the assertion in my estimation is a libel, when attended with more weight than should be given other countries. From my personal observation of countries, the customs and manners of their people, the records of divorce courts, mutual separations, desertions, and the “red-light” signals to the underworld of the large cities, I would place the Japanese fourth, and in so doing begin the line of comparison within the confines of the Atlantic and Pacific coasts.

In the villages of Mitsugahamo cleanliness was the dominating virtue; carefully swept streets were offset by bamboo fences enclosing productive gardens and rockeries with plants of flaunting blossoms. Hardwood carving and lacquer work employed a large number of the men, while the women, with their little tycoons strapped like a papoose, were engaged in weaving silk on a loom or in fancy painting and embroidering.

The people of this island seemed to be the typical Japanese aborigines, there being no indication of a mixture of blood, such as is seen in such seaport cities as Nagasaki and Yokohama.

Our next visit of importance was to the sacred island of Miyajima, where legend tells us a sacred fire has been burning for three thousand years. For ages past there has been neither a birth nor a death chronicled on this strange island of the “Rising Sun.” Indisposition of health is immediately attended by deportation, while the quarantine officials cautiously examine every subject for any disorder that might tend to suddenly snuff out the light of existence, and, like the parable of the ten virgins, those whose lights are dimly burning cannot enter in. (See 25th chapter of Matthew, records of orthodoxy.) After visiting various other ports of unpronounceable names, our ship steamed to the city of Kobe, described in a previous narrative. Lying in the harbor were the British battleship _Endymion_, two Italian cruisers, a German battleship, two Russian monitors, and the Japanese battleship _Hatsuse_. The following day the baseball team of the cruiser _New York_, having accepted a challenge, went ashore to cross bats with the “Kobe Country Club,” the members of which were more than eager to blot out the stigma of their previous defeat. The day was an ideal baseball day in every respect; a cool breeze blew through the park in the west end of the city, while thick gray clouds shut off the burning rays of the sun.

On reaching the “diamond,” the American contingent, consisting of the baseball team chaperoned by Chaplain Chidwick, the band, and every available man whose duties did not prevent him from getting ashore, were given an ovation by a mixture of Japanese, Russian, Italian, and English voices resembling somewhat the noise in “Cheyenne Joe’s” Rocky Mountain Inn during the “Louisiana Purchase Exposition.” The grandstand was thronged with officers and wives, representing the Japanese army and the vessels of various nations, numerous tourists, and butterfly geishas attired in pretty silk kimonos; it was also noticeable that the American party was augmented by Captain and Mrs. Putnam Bradley Strong, widely known in both hemispheres.

With the rendition of popular selections by the band, the game opened with clever playing on both sides, the _New York’s_ battery and in-field having a shade the better of the game, though the out-field of the “Country Club” did excellent service in stopping the sphere, which was pounded hard by the Americans. The game was very pretty in all its details, resulting in a victory for the “blue jackets”; score, 5 to 3.

After the game had closed, it was amusing to hear the admirers of our opponents expressing their opinions as to what might have been the result if the short-stop had only swung to “first” instead of “home,” how a double play could have been made, putting the side out and preventing a score, et cetera.

In the evening, with some friends whom I had met on a previous visit, I journeyed to the “club,” where the conversation was all baseball; after the fine points of the game had been discussed, it was unanimously decided that, it being too late to perform a diagnosis, an autopsy should be held, somebody even suggested an inquest; however, let it suffice, that the obsequies terminated ceremoniously, with the pathetic recital of “Casey at the bat” by W. P. Bradley, an American. In the British army during its hard-fighting days, when the loss of so many soldiers had a depressing effect on those who attended their departed heroes to the grave, it was deemed expedient to have the band play inspiring airs, immediately following the last notes of “taps,” which invariably had a cheering effect on the soldiers; this was accompanied by a social gathering at the “canteen,” where deep draughts, in communion and good fellowship, were quaffed from the “flowing bowl.”

The sad loss the “Kobe Country Club” had suffered on the “diamond” this day had enjoined the members to seek recourse to the above custom, and verily I disclose unto those in attendance that night in Japan, if, with the awakening of the dawn, your feverish brows throbbed for cracked ice as mine did, my sympathy for you is unbounded.

During the celebration this night at the club, each guest performed some little sketch of his own; an officer of the British battleship _Endymion_, being pressed “real hard” for a song, was finally prevailed upon for a selection. Taking a position at the piano, he skilfully ran over the keys, then, turning, addressed the club as follows: “Gentlemen, am noute at ’ome in the voucal loine, but, if you must ’ave a song, a’l endeavor to sing a selection sent to me by an aeold friend in the United States, entitled, ‘I’d leave my ’appy ’ome for you, double o, double o.’” We Americans who had heard the song in the “States” knew the title to be, “I’d leave my happy home for you, oo, oo.” Turning to the piano, our friend commenced:

“I’d leave my ’appy ’ome for you, double o, double o;
For you’re the sweetest girl I ever knew, double o, double o,”

et cetera. Well, the chuckling expressions of mirth that this ridiculous song brought forth created a laughable scene. Once begun, the fellow was unwilling to stop; he evidently had hysteria, and thought the laughing applause, for he pounded away on the keys, and rang in double o, whether it fitted or not, until, finally, a brother officer went to him and whispered something in his ear, whereupon he ceased, and joined in the laugh with all the attributes of a good sport.

Many of the crew had planned a visit to the quaint inland city Osaka; but the destiny of the soldier and sailor is one of absolute uncertainty. This time the unexpected appeared in the shape of an order, directing that the cruiser proceed at once under forced draft to Manila, a distance of 1400 miles. All kinds of rumors ran afloat, the one predominating being that a German ship caught smuggling arms to the insurgents had been fired on by the gun-boat _Nashville_; this, however, seemed absurd, though not improbable. It was evident, at any rate, that something of a serious nature needed repairing, as consultations in the admiral’s cabin by the flag-officers and captain were at fever heat. The following day at dawn, coaling ship was commenced by a motley throng of natives, who kept a continuous stream of coal pouring into the bunkers, which by night-fall contained two hundred and fifty tons. At two bells (9 o’clock) the ship had been thoroughly cleansed, and at four bells (10 o’clock) anchors were weighed, and the “bull-dog of war” ploughed madly through the waters of the phosphorous deep. Fair weather prevailed throughout the voyage, alleviating to some extent the labor of the coal-passers below, who by their strenuous efforts kept the cruiser under forced draft, driving her through the “briny” swells and into Manila Bay in less than four days. Casting anchor in the harbor of Cavite, booms were spread, launches lowered, and we immediately learned of our mission, of the terrible massacre of Company “G” of the Ninth Infantry, General Chaffee’s old command, at the hands of the barbarous bolo-men of Samar, the company having been taken by surprise while at breakfast.

Most every person is familiar with the horror of this massacre on the Island of Samar in October, 1901; of how the savages stealthily crept upon the sentries, dispatching them with a thrust of the bolo, as one might blow out a flame, so adroit and silent was the operation; how, at a signal given, one detachment secured the arms in the barracks, as another made the fatal charge at the mess-hall, where one of the bloodiest struggles ensued that has been recorded since the battle of the “Alamo,” one or two soldiers of a whole company miraculously escaping to tell the tale.

Great activity was at once begun on board the vessel, when it was learned that the army and navy were to co-operate in suppressing hostilities among the ferocious tribes of this jungle island, whose leader, the squinty-almond-eyed insurgent General Lukban, had defiantly sneered at foreign authority. Provisions and ammunition were stored in the hold, numerous three-inch rifles, Colt automatics, and one-pounders secured on deck, while four Kentucky mules to be used in dragging the guns occupied stalls amidships. After the munitions of war had been carefully stored and the minor details of the expedition completed, Major (now Colonel) L. W. T. Waller, with his battalion of three hundred marines, boarded the cruiser. This gallant battalion had recently returned from China, where their valiant bravery before the gates of Pekin had been attested by the troops of all nations.

What a scene this was on board a man-of-war!――seven hundred sailors in the fashion of the sea, and three hundred marines in the garb of the field, all ready, as mad Anthony Wayne said, to storm hell if necessary.

One of the most magnificent military scenes and inspired feeling I have ever experienced was on that balmy October morning in the year 1901, as I reported to Admiral Rodgers, six bells and underway. The band had struck up, “Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching,” as the entire sortie joined in the singing:

“Damn, damn, damn the Filipinos,
Pock-marked, almond-eyed ladrones,
And beneath the starry flag
We’ll civilize them with the ‘Krag,’
Then we’ll journey to our old beloved homes.”

This was a gala day for all on board; burnished bayonets glittered in the noonday’s sun, while the khaki uniforms of the soldiers of the sea contrasted with the immaculate white of the sailors.

The officers of the battalion to a man were soldiers, like those of the St. Louis battalion, thorough in the art of war; men who had proved themselves in active service; unlike a few under whom I served, who broke into the army in ’98 and earlier, whose non-commissioned officers were required to draw their topographical outlines, and who, were it necessary to depend on their merits in civil life, would suffer incompetency in a country grocery.

The voyage down the coast was one grand round of pleasure; apparently it was “an excursion” for the men who had fought their way through Tien Tsin on to Pekin, and with Riley’s battery, the Ninth and the Fourteenth Infantry, had battered, rammed, fired, and scaled the walls of the Forbidden City. On the gun-deck of the man-of-war talented musicians of the battalion kept an incessant flow of music in action, a piano accompanying the popular songs of the sea and field, as rendered in their true originality by some whose bones were doomed to bleach on the gruesome battle-fields of Samar.

Lieutenant “Jack” Gridley, ever popular with the officers and men, in whose company the writer had served, cheerfully announced the proceedings of the programme. It was far from our thoughts that night that this brave son of the captain of the historic _Olympia_, after braving the dangers of war, must suffer the wiles of the grim reaper in peace, in the terrible explosion aboard the battleship _Missouri_.

About midnight of the second day, while cruising along the coast of Samar, under the cover of darkness, signal-lights could be seen dimly burning at points of vantage. With the aid of night binoculars a camp of insurgents was discovered bivouacked along the side of the mountains, several miles up the coast from Catabalogan. A powerful search-light thrown on this scene made the enemy clearly visible, and great activity could be seen among the insurgents, as if startled by impending danger. With great accuracy of aim an eight-inch shell was dropped in the camp; this was followed by a bombardment of the coast, in which the broadside batteries flashed their deadly munitions of war, creating terrible havoc and demoralizing the enemy. Dropping anchor in the harbor of Catabalogan, the cruiser was met by the _Zafiro_, which conveyed the battalion to Balangiga, the scene of the slaughter of the Ninth.

The following day the sad news of the death of Midshipman Noya reached the _New York_, being the first naval officer killed in the Samar campaign. Cadet Noya was of the class of 1900, Annapolis Academy; his death was attributed largely to the fact of his having worn a white uniform on shore. At about five o’clock in the evening of October 27, 1901, accompanied by half a dozen sailors, he went ashore at Nippa-Nippa near the bay to look for suspected smugglers. Sending four of the men into the town, he remained on the beach while the two men in the boat retired about two hundred yards from shore. His white uniform evidently attracted attention, and unseen by him a dozen bolo-men crept upon the officer; there was a noiseless rush, he was felled with a bolo wound and his pistol taken, with which they shot him. The men in the boat, hearing his cry, leaped overboard and half waded, half swam to his rescue; they reached him while he was still conscious. “Men, be very careful; they have taken my revolver,” he murmured, and died. The remains were placed in the boat (the others having returned) and taken to Catabalogan. A sailor had wig-wagged across the bay, and as the body arrived at the dock it was met by a cortege consisting of General Smith, Admiral Rodgers, Chaplain Chidwick, and others.

Some time was spent in making primary arrangements for the final resting-place, which consisted, in that hostile country at that time, of turning over the sod and organizing a firing squad. A heavy rain fell as the procession was formed at the dock in the following order: Military band, detachment of soldiers, naval band, detachment of sailors, body, pall-bearers, and mourners, consisting of members of the army and navy. To the slow music of a dirge, the procession moved out of town to the little National cemetery on the hill-side. Here the mourners drew up about the grave while the solemn burial service was read by Chaplain Chidwick, who took this occasion to make a few remarks on the character of the deceased. As the chaplain concluded his remarks, the firing squad of soldiers drew up, and three sharp clear volleys rang out over the open grave, followed by the ever-beautiful sound of “taps,” concluding the service. As the first clods fell in the grave, the military band struck up a lively two-step and led the procession back to town; at the same time the rain ceased, the clouds rolled away, and glorious sunshine covered the land, symbolic of the beauty of life beyond the grave.

Samar is one of the large islands of the Philippines group, lying west of the archipelago between Mindanao and Luzon. Catabalogan, on the western slope, is the chief town and capital. Along the coast there is considerable cultivation, but the balance of the island is mountainous, rugged, and sharp, with high precipitous declivities, rocky defiles, and deep gullies, surrounding and entangling which are dense jungles almost impenetrable; such were the haunts of the savage bolo-men, who, like the “Fuzzy Wuzzy” of Kipling, were sociable but full of fight.

An order issued by General Smith read as follows: “All soldiers on the islands of Samar and Leyte must be armed at all times, arise an hour before daybreak and stand under arms till breakfast; any officer whose men shall be surprised through disobedience of these orders will be punished as a court-martial may direct. Scouting parties must be kept up incessantly, crops destroyed, villages burned, and smugglers killed; the enemy must be made to feel, as General Sherman said, that ‘War is hell.’”

A paragraph from the general’s congratulations on the success of the expedition read: “Success by barefooted Americans began at Valley Forge, and I am proud to know that the same indomitable spirit which won in spite of obstacles, over one hundred years ago, has shown itself in Samar.”

A fleet of small gun-boats captured from the Spanish had been doing yeoman service around Samar, in cutting off supplies to Lukban’s forces from the other islands. They had destroyed hundreds of barotes and burned numerous villages. In fact the Island of Samar was completely blockaded, with the exception of the narrow strip of the Gandarra Straits separating the island from Leyte. A spy in the habit of a friar arrived on the vessel in the darkness of the night, with the information that banco after banco loaded with rice was being smuggled across the straits. Volunteers were called for, to ascend this small channel in a steam-launch. Having volunteered for this special duty, we set to work at once, our complement consisting of four midshipmen, four marines, and four sailors. Stripping the canopy off the steam-launch, two one-pounders were mounted fore and aft, while a Colt automatic resting on a tripod occupied the centre of the boat. Each man carried, besides his rifle and revolver, a belt containing three hundred rounds of ammunition and an extra bandoleer.

About midnight, with fires secured, we shoved off under cover of darkness for the entrance to the channel. On reaching it we could see, in the distance along its shores, a fire dimly burning; steaming quietly through the stream, closely hugging the shore, about two miles had been covered from the ship, when a cumbersome object was seen drifting across the straits. “Ah! a banco,” was whispered, as if uttered by the voice of a buccaneer. The midshipman in command immediately trained the forward one-pounder as near the water line of the “smuggler” as could be discerned through the gloom. As the coxswain swung the launch to a port side position in a shallow eddy, the aft one-pounder and Colt automatic were trained for operation.

Each man crouched close to the gunwale as the order to halt was given by the “middy” at the forward gun. This command was replied to by a shot, momentarily followed by a whizzing fusillade of steel-jackets in dangerous proximity, several penetrating the smoke-funnel. As the low bang of the one-pounders rang through the midnight, the sweeping rattle of the Colt automatic played its deadly missiles like rain-drops on a tin roof. Unearthly yells arose from the surface of the straits, as the banco was seen to sink. At this juncture a volley rang out from the opposite shore; turning the Colt in the direction where the flash of the guns could be seen, the beach was swept and jungle riddled, silencing the guns of the enemy. While rescuing a native who in the agony of fear and bewilderment was drowning near the launch, several shots were fired from the jungle on our side of the stream. It being impossible to train the Colt from the position we held, we waded to the beach, where, creeping to an opening in the jungle, we pumped volley after volley with our “Krags” into the surrounding wilderness. As the moon broke through the clouds, the silhouette of a group of natives could be seen prowling on the opposite shore some distance up the straits. Having accomplished our mission, we returned to the ship with a live specimen of the spoils, who for safe keeping was confined to a cell in the “brig.” Next morning the savage was loath to talk until, after a breakfast of cold salmon, he told us that the banco contained eight natives, of whom he was the sole survivor, that their cargo consisted of rice consigned to Lukban’s forces in Samar. A detail escorted the prisoner ashore, where he was turned over to the army. The following day the small gun-boat _Garduqui_, of the “mosquito fleet,” was ordered into the channel, sounding her way clear through the straits. The natives were hemmed in on all sides and reports of smuggling ceased.

Near Balayán, as a member of a landing party that stormed and burned a number of villages, I secured a unique relic, in the shape of a Spanish trumpet that had served some hidalgo in the days of the empire.

Every day brought news to the cruiser of the excellent work of the soldiers and marines. In carrying out the orders of Generals Smith and Hughes, the boys were sweeping everything before them, driving the murderous natives to either death or surrender. Victor, who had led the assault in the slaughter of the Ninth Infantry, had fallen victims to the marines, and the splendid culmination to a successful campaign was the surrender of twelve hundred bolo-men with their various implements of warfare.

After swearing allegiance to the United States, these savage jungle warriors were allowed their freedom.

The island having been pacified, a number of the troops were recalled, though the blockade was continued by the _Vicksburg_, _Nashville_, and the small gun-boats of the mosquito fleet.

The flag-ship _New York_, having completed her mission in the Samar campaign, steamed back to Luzon, where a fortnight was spent in Manila Bay ere she steamed out, under an azure sky, to the shores of fair Japan.

Back to the land of the “Rising Sun”
Where the blood-red poppies grow,
To the minarets of the Inland Sea
And the “geishas” of Tokio.

NOTE.

This being merely a narrative of that part of the Samar
campaign that fell under my personal observation, without
any pretence to an elaboration or an historical account, I
desire to say that it would be doing a great injustice to
the gallant battalion of marines, conveyed by the flag-ship
_New York_ to the scenes of the depredations of the
treacherous natives, were I not to inform the reader that,
in order to portray in detail the hardships endured by the
men of Major Waller’s command, it would be necessary to have
a more comprehensive knowledge of the data, and a very keen
ability, in order to expedite the union of the composite
stages of this diversified expedition: of the harassing and
almost incredible obstacles countered; the personal courage,
determination, and zeal, each step treading its own dangers;
the attack upon the overwhelming force of insurgents in the
cliffs along the Sojoton River, where it was necessary to
elevate the three-inch field-pieces till they were almost
vertical, the cliffs being nearly two hundred feet high, and
well-nigh impregnable; the attempts at scaling these cliffs
by means of bamboo ladders; the various engagements in which
innumerable insurgents and many Americans were killed; the
travel of hundreds of miles through jungle wilderness, by
the half-starved, bare-footed marines; the burning of one
hundred and sixty-five shacks _en route_ to Liruan, where
death lurked in concealed spear-pits; the terrible execution
of the Colt automatics; the revolt of the native help, their
execution, and the sensational court-martial that followed,
attended by the honorable exoneration of the defendants, et
cetera; of the admirable work of the army, and fourth
company of Macabebe scouts, and numerous side-lights on this
novel campaign of warfare, that would tax the fertile brain
of the experienced author in their portrayal.

VIII.

The Cowboy Soldier, a Coincidence

Departure for New Orleans――Arrival at the Capital――The
Soldiers――Peach Tree Street, Atlanta――Christening of the
“Peace-togs”――New Orleans――The Levee――Creoles――The Race-track――A
Quadroon-ball――The Farandole and La Bourree――Madame La Bouchere,
Goddess of Sorcery――The Mardi Gras――The Plaza de Goiti,
Manila――The Coincidence.

One crisp wintry afternoon late in the month of January, 1899, having bade adieu to a party of boon companions at a little railway station in the Blue Ridge mountains of Pennsylvania, I ensconced myself on the cushions of the smoking-compartment of the Black Diamond Express, lit a cigar, and ran through the pages of a popular magazine, possessed with a feeling of satisfaction that my destination, New Orleans, lay under the warmth of Southern skies, free from the bleak winds of the North, and with that suavity manifest in a person whose most arduous responsibilities are those of pleasure seeking and curious notions.

Though having touched both Florida and Texas, I had never been as far south as the crescent city at the mouth of the Mississippi, so that on this trip it was my object to appease an insatiable desire by thoroughly acquainting myself with the natural and historical charms of this quaint old Southern city, and particularly witness the festivities of the Mardi Gras.

In picturing New Orleans in phantasm, I had always had a conception of a beautiful city of Spanish architecture, dotted with churches and cathedrals whose chimes pealed sweetly overhead, and along whose flagstone streets the beautiful Creole belles vied in angelic accord with their more dusky sisters, the quadroons; darkies rolling cotton bales on the levee, their negro melodies interspersed with the deep sonorous steam-boat whistles on the wide-spreading river; haunts of the vendetta and the mafia; southern homes shaded by palmetto, whose confines exhaled in fragrant quintessence the aroma of magnolia; dusky “Dinahs” in red bandannas picking cotton, as the old negroes thrummed the banjoes near the cabin where the pickaninnies played around the door. These were my early impressions of the gulf-cities of “Dixie-land,” and how many are there who have seen the dramatization of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” or read George W. Cable’s stories of the Creoles of Louisiana, who have not pictured just such scenes as these?

On my arrival at Washington, D. C., the sun shone bright in southern warmth, in combative contrast to the bleak sweeping winds of the north, and, having ample time in which to reach New Orleans before the beginning of the Mardi Gras season (St. Valentine’s Day), I decided to see some of the points of interest overlooked on previous visits to the capital. One in particular was the trip to the tomb of General Washington, at Mount Vernon, a short but very beautiful ride by steam-boat on the Potomac River.

During this period two weighty questions were being handled by the silver-tongued orators of the Senate,――namely, the ratification of the peace treaty and the retention of the Philippine Islands. For three days I attended this session of Congress to hear the elucidating arguments on these subjects, as propounded by Senators Foraker, Hoar, Tillman and Vest, who seemed to handle in arbitrary opposition the burden of the questions. These debates were exceedingly interesting, the eloquent orators at times becoming so animated as to cast parliamentary rules asunder, and occasionally requiring the necessity of being rapped to order by the Speaker of the House.

After spending several pleasant days in Washington, I journeyed to the Pennsylvania Railroad station to catch my train on the “Sea-board Air Line” for the city of Atlanta. While having my ticket validated for berth reservation, a very military-looking soldier appeared at the window of the ticket-office and made inquiries regarding a train for Atlanta, Georgia. Having been recently mustered out of the service, I sought to learn the fellow’s regiment; addressing him interrogatively, I was informed that he had enlisted in Philadelphia, and was _en route_ to Fort McPherson, Georgia, to join the Third United States Cavalry. Although the fellow appeared very military, he said this was his first enlistment, but that he had just stepped out of the stirrups of a saddle in the Indian Territory, where his experience as a cowboy he related in a most interesting manner. Boarding the train together, we were ere long engaged in a hand of “seven up,” as the wheels clipped off the miles at the rate of forty-eight per hour.

At Columbia, South Carolina, the train was boarded by a large number of soldiers of the Second Tennessee Volunteer Infantry, who had recently been mustered out with their regiment, and were _en route_ to their respective destinations. Two sergeants――namely, Clark and Gautrell, two very agreeable fellows――joined us in a sociable game of cards. Although they had served in a Tennessee regiment, their homes were in Georgia. The conversation from this point on was all war talk and “broncho-busting.” The cavalryman’s interesting anecdotes of branding and roping cattle, the tedium of the “round-up,” the vigilance necessary in protecting calves from the howling coyote, the breaking of horses, and his simple life as a cow-puncher in Oklahoma and the Indian Territory, were as fascinating as “Pony-tracks” by Frederick Remington. Before reaching Atlanta he gave me his name, Harry K. Loomis, and said he hoped to be assigned to Troop “M” of the Third. I handed him a card with my permanent address, at the same time wishing him a successful career as a soldier, and hoping the fates would ordain the continuation of a friendship that had so suddenly and unexpectedly sprung up between us like a preordained affinity.

Before we had alighted from the train, Gautrell and Clark had decided to see the Mardi Gras at New Orleans, and it pleased me greatly to have the company of two such jolly chaps, whose liberation from the arduous duties of a soldier animated them with a spirit that brooked no restraint.

On our arrival in the city, we journeyed to a hotel, where, after washing the cinders from our eyelashes and submitting to a tonsorial operation, we sat down to a good substantial Southern breakfast. Following this Loomis bade the party good-by and left to catch his car for his post of duty. As he left the grotto-like café of the Poindexter Hotel, Sergeant Gautrell remarked, “There is about as soldierly a fellow as I ever met.” “Yes,” replied Clark, “and only a recruit at that.”

The soldiers had some shopping in the line of purchasing an outfit of “peace-togs,” as the war was over and they desired to get on a footing with the common herd, as they termed the civil throng; so, promising to meet the boys that afternoon, I hopped on a Peach Tree street-car and rode out to the old ground of the “Cotton Exposition,” where I spent a few hours, including my return, which was footed most of the way for the purpose of gazing on those beautiful old Southern homes, with their unfenced lawns extending to the sidewalks, likened unto the suburban route leading to Willow Grove, Philadelphia, though far in advance in nature’s loveliness. Old colonial mansions of stained wood and light-gray stucco――sacred to the tread of the marshals of a lost cause and the chivalrous knights of antebellum days, whose fortunes suffered terrible wreck and ruin as the Yankees went marching through Georgia――dot the large and splendid thoroughfare for miles on either side of the long rows of sombre maples; broad piazzas, once handsome, now grown picturesque, draped by the clinging myrtles and jessamines that shed their bright petals in the sunlight; orange-blossoms in drooping sympathy with the indifferent but ever-beautiful magnolia in brilliant contrast, dispelling all doubt as to the ancestral aristocracy of these manorial mansions.

It is not at all difficult to reconstruct in one’s memory the past joyful scenes of these quaint and lovely homes, under whose eaves avowals bound by the ties of love have been softly whispered; refusals sometimes spoken, fidelity having previously been pledged; where no heed was paid to false news clandestinely carried from schools for scandal; where coquetry was at a minimum; where lies no doubt were sometimes nourished by the organs of deceit, and where passion yielded to the tempter only in platonic affection under the twig of the mistletoe. Such were the chivalrous thoroughbred characteristics of these people to the manner born.

If the reader who has never journeyed along the quaint old Peach Tree street of Atlanta, Georgia, can imaginatively depict the moonlight scene of Julia Marlowe in “Barbara Frietchie,” he will have a monomial fac-simile of these old-time Southern homes.

Returning to the bright stimulating thoroughfare fronting the Poindexter Hotel, I alighted from my car and entered the café, where I learned that the soldiers had not yet returned. After visiting various places of interest, including the Confederate museum, I returned to the hotel and wrote letters until about 4 o’clock, when the boys launched on the scene in brand-new spick and span attire, everything completely modern. They had made inquiries about the train for New Orleans, which was scheduled to leave Atlanta at 12.02 midnight, over the “Sunset” route, giving us ample time to attend the theatre. Clark proposed a christening of the “togs”; this suggestion was emphasized and perfunctorily executed with libations of mint-julep. After making reservations for the “sleepers,” we purchased tickets for the “Primrose and West” minstrels. Gautrell said he felt like a new clock after shedding his “war-clothes,” and proposed an augmentation to the christening; entering a “grill,” the order was soon taken and filled to the connoisseurship of the “Kentucky colonel.”

After a few rounds of this delicious Southern beverage, we repaired to the Poindexter, checked our baggage through to New Orleans, and dined sumptuously on teal and water-cress. As the coffee and cigarettes were being served, a trombone “rag” burst forth from the minstrel band near the entrance to the theatre; as the last notes of this died away, we hastened to the parquet, arriving in time for the grand opening scene. Having enjoyed the show, our grips were collected at the hotel, and a short walk to the station found us in ample time for the train. As the Pullman vestibule sleepers rolled in, we were not long in getting aboard and having the porter arrange the berths for a night of restful sleep.

The trip by rail through the Gulf States was enlivened on either side by scenery of commanding excellence. Cards were played, and the dusky porter was playfully bullied to the delight of the news-butcher who seemed to dote on the porter’s repartee. The most important cities our trip included were Birmingham, Montgomery, and Mobile. After crossing Lake Pontchartrain, I observed, from the dining-car window, the crescent-shaped site of our destination. On the arrival at the station near the levee, my eyes immediately feasted on what had previously been a dream: Negroes humming a medley as they rolled the huge cotton bales along the levee and aboard the Mississippi steam-boats; a happy-go-lucky bunch of darkies whose hard work commands a compensation of two bits per hour. Gautrell and Clark, being from Georgia, smiled at the interest I took in this scene. Strolling along Canal Street, we switched to the left at the Clay monument and entered St. Charles Street, where after a walk of two blocks we entered the magnificent St. Charles Hotel. “Everything taken, gentlemen,” was the clerk’s pert response to our request for accommodations. “The Mardi Gras season,” he said, “in the city of _Nawrleans_ is one lawg week fo’ the hotels, and without makine reservations in advance, the chances fo’ accommodations is a foa cod draw.” He, however, directed us to a splendid place, in fact preferable to the hotel, a small row of flats on Carondelet Street, with modern conveniences and near the heart of the city. Here we engaged rooms, free from the busy whirl and the bang, jam, smash, of the trunk-line populace.

The city was being profusely arrayed in its holiday attire for the famous Creole fiesta, the Mardi Gras, which was but three days off. Large arches were nearing completion, windows were being decorated with the prettiest designs, while every building, from its gable to the wainscoting or foundation, presented a striking spectacle with its flabelliform folds of orange and black drapery.

A splendid trolley system affords an elegant view of the entire city, every car leaves and returns to the Clay monument on Canal Street; from these can be seen the beautiful government buildings, colleges, churches, cathedral, race-course, and the historic city park, on whose sombre site, in the days before the rebellion, the affairs of honor were settled with the keen blade of the rapier or flash of the pistol, the staid old oaks remaining as monuments, but unable to bear testimony to the duels they sheltered in past generations. Lake Pontchartrain, a broad expanse of water connecting with the Gulf of Mexico, is the daily scene in season of fishermen making a haul of the finny denizens of all species.

Riding out Ursuline Avenue you see, flying over the paddock and immense grandstand of the world-renowned race-track, the colors of the Crescent City Jockey Club gently floating in the breeze; the grassy carpet of the inclosure, encircled by the red-shale turf, around which the lithe-limbed thoroughbreds dash for the wire in incommunicable antagony, exerting every fibre as if conscious of the triumph of a victory. Here may be seen during the winter meet the most noted race-horses, trainers, jockeys, judges, bookmakers, plungers, touts, and race-course patronage of the modern turf, some backing the favorites, while others (experienced handicappers) play the long shots. After the races, “Farbachers” café on Royal Street, a famous resort for the turf element, was daily the evening scene of extravagant gayety, particularly by those patrons whose plunging had been favored by fortune.

It had occurred to Gautrell, himself of French extraction, that he had often heard of New Orleans “gumbo” as being a dish _par excellence_; having sauntered into this famous hostelry, “okra gumbo” for three was ordered. Unlike “chilli-concarni,” the staff of life of the Mexicans, “okra gumbo,” though prepared from okra, meats, and vegetables, is devoid of cayenne pepper flavor. Clark, who had evidently never sampled “tobasco sauce,” remarked that catsup came in very small bottles in New Orleans, at the same time drawing the stopper and pouring the fiery liquid over his “gumbo” like so much “Worcestershire.” As the tears filled Clark’s eyes, he said, “Fellows, if this is what you call _par excellence_, go to it, but none of it for mine,” then, with a mouthful of ice, signalled the waiter. “Waiter,” he said, “kindly remove this bonfire and bring me a pineapple-frappée quick.” “Gumbo” was relished by the balance of the party, but Clark could never be induced to give it another trial.

The pool-rooms of the races along Royal Street are attractive halls of amusement; bookmakers screened from the patrons as the clerks of a bank; blackboards, on which appear the names of the horses, jockeys, weight carried, odds, and pedigrees, decorate the walls, everything being conducted with the same business decorum and excitement attending the stock operations of the New York “curb.” The telegraph ticks off the condition of the weather, the arrival of the horses at the post, the start, their position at the quarter, the half, the three-quarters, in the stretch, and under the wire, as a well-trained voice in the language of the turf calls off the results. Here one may play the races of any “meet” in the United States, lacking only in the excitement of seeing the horses dashing for the winning wire.

In the old “French quarter” a few blocks from Royal Street, along whose time-worn thoroughfare the past generations of “Nawrleans’” most exclusive Creole society basked in the sunshine of their graceful gentility, we saw some quaint sights amidst the chattering jargon of its people, principally among these being a quadroon ball, at which Creoles predominated, though almost indistinguishable from their quadroon sisters, whose beauty is their stock in trade, and whose mellow-toned voices drop the “r” in that quaint characteristic style of the Southern people. The luxuriousness of their costumes, pomp of procession, harmony of music, and grace of attitudes, all united in furnishing a scene of festive splendor.

In close proximity to Jackson Square, near the haunts of the “Vendetta” beautifully illustrated in the play of “Romeo and Juliet,” we visited a Creole resort, the interior of which resembled somewhat the subterrane of “Little Hungary,” the famous Bohemian hostelry of Houston Street, on New York’s east side. Here, seated on a wine-cask, a fiddler bowed a “viola,” as the Creoles, in their primitive originality, and with all the inimitable grace of Loie Fuller in the “fire-dance,” performed the “Farandole” and the “La Bourree,” their beautiful bare arms in ornamental bracelets, shading the contortions of their movements, rising and falling in gesticulating harmony to the rhythm of the music, as the nymphs of an unexplored grotto. Nearby we were shown the old slave-market and block from which the auctioneer bartered his human wares to the highest bidder, their lives invariably to eventuate in the drudgery of the cotton fields.

Voudooism, which included all the intricacies of the black-art in prognosticating future events, flourished uninterrupted for years in New Orleans, until finally eradicated by the hands of authority. This superstitious form of worship was practised principally by the negroes, who carried its inheritance with the first trading vessel from the shores of Africa to the United States. We were told that the negroes would indulge in the voudoo dances in uncontrollable frenzy, until, overcome from exhaustion, they would sink to the ground.

Stories are told of the handsome fortune-telling quadroon Madame La Bouchere, who held her court near the Bayou Saint John, and in whose sumptuous boudoir the patrons of her art, consisting not only of the bourgeoisie, but the Creole aristocracy, paid visits incognito to suffer the enchantments of the “goddess” of this shrine of sorcery. A landau driven to the door of this cypress-sheltered dwelling, there hastily alighted therefrom a veiled lady, who, carelessly brushing by the magnolias, vanished from view. In this green-curtained domicile the intrigues of forbidden love, deceptions, betrayals, and future certainties, would all be revealed to the satisfaction of the votary of this dark-eyed enchantress, without the evil eyes of the gossip-mongers to feast upon and scatter broadcast. Madame La Bouchere’s soft voice and alluring smiles have vanished with the strokes of time; in the slumberous shade of the willow she rests in a tomb of the old Metaire cemetery, her soul having passed to the realm beyond this life.

The cemeteries of New Orleans have a particular charm, the bodies being buried above-ground. In handsome memorial to the Confederate soldiers, there have been erected gigantic mausoleums, shafts, and columns, monumentally inscribed to the memory of Louisiana’s departed heroes.

Mardi Gras week was ideal in every respect, all the personages of the characters of comedy blended in their primitive originality; “Columbine” flirted with “Harlequin,” while “Ajax” defied the lightning; “Vulcan” shaped harpoons for “Neptune,” and “Falstaff” drank to the health of “Bacchus.” Mountebanks, clowns, and buffoons all joined in the revelry of mirth. The street pageant was a magnificent spectacle; floats garlanded with flowers representing every State in the Union, trades and professions, were led by Rex, the king of the carnival, surmounting the “globe,” and the Queen, the most beautiful Creole lady in New Orleans, riding in a chariot drawn by sixteen cream-colored horses. The array of the Crescent City Jockey Club evoked tremendous applause, all the famous jockeys of the track on favorite mounts participating; “Louisiana Tigers,” and the “Texas Rangers,” sailors from the United States cruiser _New Orleans_, and bands of music from all over the State, joined in completing this gigantic saturnalia, which had, for its gorgeous setting, the Creole “bal-masque,” where New Orleans’ most exclusive society, costumed in Parisian elegance, was seen at its best.

The entire week was one round of jollification, at the close of which my friends Gautrell and Clark left for their homes in Georgia. I remained in New Orleans for four months, when, cases of “yellow-fever” having been reported, I concluded to seek a more congenial clime. Boarding the _Knickerbocker_, of the Cromwell Line, I made a most delightful cruise through the gulf and along the coast to the city of New York.

* * * * *

Three years having elapsed since my departure from the little railway station in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Pennsylvania, for New Orleans, the vicissitudes of destiny found me enjoying the balmy zephyrs and moonlight evenings of the tropics. My career in the navy had taken me into every port of importance on the Asiatic station, and my ship, the _New York_, had recently slipped into the harbor of Manila, and lay anchored off the break-water. Having gone ashore this particular afternoon for the purpose of attending the races at Pasay, I had engaged a “victoria” and with some friends attended the scenes at the track, called at the “Hefting House” overlooking Manila Bay, had dined in the old walled city, and driven to the “Lopez” road-house at Caloocan. The sun had set back of the hills of Olongapo, ere I discharged the cochero on the Plaza de Goiti and entered the Hotel Metropole. “Hello, boys,” said old Maulini, the proprietor; “I am glad to see you, you’re just in time to sample some fresh ice-cold hoff-brau; it just arrived to-day on the _Kronprince_ from Germany.” Drawing the rustic hardwood chairs around the square tables, we sat in the delightful breeze of the electric fans as large fantastic steins of cool hoff-brau were served.

Through the short swinging screen doors of the café could be seen the cosmopolitan procession wending its way on business and pleasure; army and naval officers in “victorias,” Red-Cross nurses natilly attired in pure white lawn, friars in black habit and broad-brimmed hats, mestizos of Chinese, Spanish, and French extraction, East Indian, Malay, and Japanese merchants, and American soldiers, all stalking along the plaza.

“Tell us a good Dutch story, Maulini,” asked one of the boys, as another put in, “Ah, Maulini ain’t Dutch; he’s a French carpet-bagger.” As Maulini was about to take up cudgels in his own defence, there entered the café a bunch of cavalrymen, among whom I instantly recognized my old friend Loomis the cowboy. “Great heavens!” I said, “is this Loomis?” “Well, for the love of the powers that be, Adams, is it possible this is you?” “Yep,” I replied, “this is the fellow you taught how to throw a lariat.” “Where have you been the last three years?” he asked; “the last I heard of you was through Clark and Gautrell; they called to see me at Fort McPherson, and said they had left you in good company in New Orleans; never hearing from you, I had concluded you had cashed in. Come on, fellows, I want you to meet a friend.” Drawing their chairs around our table, it was an “O-be-joyful” gathering that swapped stories as the steins of hoff-brau were replenished. Loomis told the story of our meeting in Washington and the subsequent journey to Atlanta; of how the Third Cavalry had been ordered to the front in the Boxer campaign, where they had seen hard service, at the close of which they were ordered to the province of Ilocas Norte, in northern Luzon, where the duty was also very strenuous. Handing me his discharge, I read:

“ARMY OF THE UNITED STATES.

“_To All Whom It May Concern_:

“Know ye that Harry K. Loomis, First Sergeant of Troop ‘M,’
Third United States Cavalry, who was enlisted at
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, on the 1st day of February,
1899, to serve three years, is hereby honorably discharged
from the Army of the United States by reason of expiration
of enlistment. Said Harry K. Loomis was born in the city of
St. Louis, Mo., and when enlisted was 22¾ years of age, by
occupation a cowboy, had blue eyes, dark brown hair, ruddy
complexion, 5 feet 11 inches in height.

“Given under my hand at Division Headquarters, Army of the
Philippines, Manila, P. I., this 31st day of January, 1902.

“Colonel DODD,
“Commanding Third Cavalry.

“Character EXCELLENT.
“No objection to his re-enlistment known to exist.”

On the back of this discharge, in red ink, several lines told of the meritorious conduct of this soldier, his unflinching bravery in the face of the enemy in action, his promotion for bravery during the Chinese campaign, and a recommendation for a “certificate of merit.” Some time was spent in the exchange of experiences, and it goes without saying that this event was appropriately celebrated, ending a very unique coincidence.

Loomis, on the arrival of his transport, returned to the United States, and at present, besides being a successful ranchman in Oklahoma, is an intrepid and fearless deputy United States marshal.

IX.

Life Among Hostile Moros in the Jungle of Mindanao

A Trip to the Sulu Archipelago――New Year’s Eve on Board the
_Zafiro_――A Royal Bit of a Time in the Cabin of McDonald――Blowing
the Siren――New Year’s Dinner at 1.00 A.M.――Isabella de
Basilan――Prang Prang――Dancing Girls of the Nippa Villages――Roasted
Grasshoppers――Outpost Duty――Nearly Converted to the Darwinian
Theory――Experience with a Boa Constrictor while Hunting
Wild-Boar――Rescued from Hostile Moros――Relief of the Outpost.

Two men were caught in a Moro trap, and the Datto’s guns sang near,
And one wore an officer’s shoulder-strap, the other a private’s gear;
One was a black of the Twenty-fourth, and one was a Southern man,
And both were caught in a dark defile by the line of the Moro clan.

Oh, wonder it is, and pity it is, that they send the scouts alone
To die in the silent jungle paths with never a word or groan;
Wonder it is, and pity it is, but the two stood back to back,
And never a word between them passed as they waited the first attack.

What prayers they said they said them low, and to their beating hearts
That thumped so loud and out of tune; and now the battle starts.
A ring of flame about them ran; a tongue of fire shot through;
Then as machines their muscles moved and aimed their rifles true.

The bullets whined, the wounded shrieked, the rifle bores grew hot;
But still the two stood back to back, and answered shot for shot.
And now the Moro fire dies down, and now there comes a hush;
And white and black, with bayonets fixed, await the bolo rush.

They heard the Moro chief call out, “Oh, black man, hark to me!
You give to us the Christian dog and you shall go out free.
Heed you the call of color and blood――what need we longer fight?
In color and blood you’re brother to me. Oh, black man, give the
white.”

Now, one was a white of the Southern breed, and cheap he held the
black,
And little he’d thought, as the two had fought, of the man behind
his back;
He loved to live as the white man lives, but the Datto’s words rang
true;
And he had no doubt, as the chief called out, what the black behind
would do.