Chapter X: A Midnight Phantasy in California 197 (4)

Two men they stood them back to back, and never a word they said;
But, face to face with an easy death, what thoughts were in each
head!
“You go,” the white man spoke at last; “for you owe naught to me;
You go; for I can die alone, that you may go out free;

“You go; it seems your time has come to draw the color line;
You and your breed owe naught to me, nor certainly to mine.
I’ll go to death as my fathers went”――between his cold set lips――
“My fathers who used to use your kind for trade――and poker-chips.”

One was a black of the Twenty-fourth, and his face was washed with
fear,
And his breath came quick, and his bowels were sick, as he thought
of the knife-blades near.
Then steady his hand swung to his belt, and back to the bolt again,
And he loaded and fired, as a well-drilled man, and counted his dead
to ten.

And, “Man,” he said, “in ole Kaintuck a mammy she prays foh me;
An’ Ah laks to lib lak yo’ laks to lib, but ouah end it am plain to
see.
Ouah colah an’ blood it ain’t de same, but we sets to de same old
boahd,
An’ if we diffah in skin an’ blood, w’y, we pass dat up to de Lawd.

“Ouah colah an’ blood it ain’t de same, but de flag dat covahs us bofe――
It nevah has changed on de colah line, an’ dey didn’t colah ouah oafe;
Yo’ go yo’ route to de gates o’ Gawd an’ I shell trabel mine――
An’ we shell see, when we reach His knee, how He’s drawin’ de colah
line.

“Doan’ fink Ah’m fightin’ foh de lub o’ yo’ or de breed that yo’ laks
to brag――
Ah’m fightin’ foh mammy in ole Kaintuck, an’ lub o’ mah kentry’s
flag;
Yo’ watch dem niggahs along yo’ front, an’ Ah’ll attend to mine,
An’ we’ll go up to de Gates o’ Gawd to settle de colah line.”

Two men they stood them back to back, and the white man called to
the chief:
“He’s answered the call of the color line, and his answer will bring
you grief.
We don’t declare as brothers-in-blood, or the burden of friendship
drag,
But we do unite on a color line, and our color’s our country’s flag.”

Two men lay dead in the jungle path, and their faces stared at the
sky;
And out in the bush on each man’s front the Moros were piled waist
high.
And when the warriors they went in to mutilate the dead.
They found them lying back to back, but white and black were red!

“How strange it is,” the chief he cried, “these men should together
go;
They did not love each other’s kind――in blood they differed so.
For one was black and one was white, and yet they chose to die
Because they served a single flag; in honor they shall lie.

“What gods they worshipped I know not――what gods I do not care――
They fought me well, and for their flag, and they shall have a
prayer.
For be he white, or be he black, his flag be what it may――
All honor to him who dies for that――my men, kneel down and pray.”

Two mounds they stand in a jungle path; they buried them back to
back;
And the wondering Moros tell the tale of the white man and the
black.
Oh, the warlike Moros pass that way to kneel in silent prayer,
And ask their gods for the spirit of the men they buried there!

The Island of Mindanao, which lies about six hundred miles south of Manila, bordering on the Sulu Archipelago, was highly esteemed by marines in 1903 as an ideal place to soldier, notwithstanding the fact that the natives were extremely hostile, and it was of common occurrence to hear of a sentry being treacherously boloed or speared while walking his post in the jungle.

Having yearned for active service for several weeks while stationed at Fort San Philippi, Cavite, the spell of anxiety was broken one day when orders were received detailing three marines to proceed by the first available transportation to Prang Prang, Mindanao, to replace those who had suffered the fate of many other soldiers and marines at the hands of the barbarous natives. Having made application for this post in Mindanao, I received orders to report on board the _Zafiro_, one of Admiral Dewey’s old colliers at the battle of Manila Bay.

On reporting to the executive officer of the vessel, I was assigned to quarters, and, after unbuckling my accoutrements and placing them safely away, I met Corporal Bates and Drummer Vogt, from another company, who were also detailed on a southern trip,――Bates to Isabella de Basilan, a post on the Island of Basilan, and Vogt to the post where I was bound for.

It was New Year’s eve, December 31, 1902, and, as the ship was under orders to sail at 9 P.M., we decided to hurry ashore, purchase a basket of edibles, drinkables, cigars, and playing cards, that we might see the old year out and the new year in, in true military fashion. Jumping into a launch we were taken ashore, and, after laying in a supply, hastened back to the ship.

Having returned on board this historic old collier, which had been converted into a supply-ship manned by a Chinese crew, we reported to the “skipper” who was responsible for our safe delivery at the destinations designated in our orders.

The chief engineer, McDonald, a typical Scotch-Highlander, whose birthplace was in Ayr, Scotland, but who had lived most of his life in Australia, was glad to have company this New Year’s eve and greeted us with that fervor so characteristic of his race. We were introduced to First Mate Meigs and Quartermaster Nolan. Meigs had held a lieutenant’s commission in the Brazilian navy during the revolution, while Nolan had served under General Kitchener in the Soudan.

The Chinese crew of the _Zafiro_ were thorough sailors to a man, from the “chink” who handled the wheel down to the fellows who passed the coal.

At two bells (9 o’clock) anchors were weighed, and the splash of the propellers made it evident that we were under way. Chinese could be seen at their various posts of duty, in that semi-unconscious custom so perceptible in this class of people, whether steering a craft or ironing the bosom of a shirt.

As the ship passed through the Mona Chica, the gateway between the China Sea and Manila Bay, we could see, off to starboard, the lights on Corregidor Island, which faded from view as our vessel steamed into the darkness of the China Sea.

As the ship cruised along the coast of Luzon, Chinese off duty could be seen engaged in playing Fan Tan, some pleating their cues, while others stored away potions of chop-suey.

In the cabin of McDonald, Vogt picked a banjo, while Bates and myself sang songs such as, “There’s a red light on the track for boozer Brown” and “Oh, Mona, you shall be free.” Stories of adventure were told by Meigs and Nolan, and Chief McDonald recited poem after poem of the great poet Burns.

On the dawn of the new year 1903, the siren was blown, and the bell struck 19 and 3, after which the entire contingent surrounded a table laden with turkey and all the accessories of a new year’s dinner, including Scotch high-balls and Manila cigars, and a more enjoyable new year’s dinner or breakfast I never expect to experience. The songs varied from the “Bonnie, Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond” to “The Wearing of the Green,” interspersed with stories of love, war, and adventure, and I doubt if we marines could have been entertained with more satisfaction in the most exclusive suite of the _Lusitania_ than we were this night in the cabin of McDonald on the _Zafiro_.

After cruising for two days along the verdant shore of Luzon, we entered the picturesque harbor of Isabella de Basilan, a Filipino village situated along the water’s edge surrounded by banana and cocoanut groves. Quaint-looking fishermen, adepts at throwing the seine, were scattered over the bay, while a motley crowd of native women were engaged in pounding calico with smooth stones, their mode of cleansing.

Barracks on the edge of the town contained a company of marines; among these I found a number of whom I knew. After unloading provisions and other stores, and leaving Corporal Bates behind, our ship steamed on her voyage to Polloc, the name of the village where the garrison was located. Having a cargo of freight on board for Zamboanga, the capital of Mindanao, we touched this harbor just long enough to dispose of it, and continued our cruise, steaming south along a mountainous range studded with extinct volcanoes, and ere long had moored to the wharf at Polloc in the bay of Prang Prang. Here we were met by seventy marines, all anxious to hear the news from the outside world, as mail was received here but twice a month.

Although isolated, Polloc was an ideal post, a health-giving resort with excellent water and trees teeming with tropical fruit. Game, such as wild boar, deer, and wild cattle, roamed at will throughout the island. The Moros of this island kept “Uncle Sam’s” soldiers guessing for several years, until finally subdued through the efforts of General Wood. Unlike the Filipino, the Moro is a brave warrior, preferring the open to jungle fighting. The Moros handle the spear, barong, and kreese with great skill, and, when not engaged in a game of monte, may be seen practising with these weapons of warfare.

The nights in this island of the Celebes Sea commence immediately at sundown, there being no twilight; a calm serenity pervades the barrios after the shades of night have fallen, when natives gather under the drooping palms surrounding the nippa-shacks, around which the graceful coils of smoke ascend from a smudge kept burning to check the advance of the ever-annoying mosquito. Here, to the accompaniment of harp and guitar, the Filipino inhabitants (for there are many of these in Mindanao) sing quaint songs in the Tagalog or Visayan tongue. Dancing girls, bearing such names as Oleano, Agripina, Donaziti, and Juana, perform the “Fandango” with bewitching contortions, gracefully tapping a tambourine and snapping the castanets to the music of the “La Paloma.” The village is dimly lighted by cocoanut oil, kerosene being a rarity in this section of the world. At such places we marines off duty gathered nightly, where, over a bottle of dulce tinto and box of alhambras, we spun yarns of our adventures, occasionally joining the señoritas in their late carousals, to the delight of the friendly Moros who inhabited the village.

The Moros had become quite hostile in the Lake region, and a battle had been fought near what is now Camp Vicars on Lake Lanao, with dire results to the enemy; this had exercised every native warrior on the island to such an extent that it became necessary for the marines to re-establish an outpost overlooking the bay and the Amadao Valley. Having volunteered for this particular duty, we were ordered (one sergeant, two corporals, and ten privates) to pack everything of necessity pertaining to field-service on ponies and proceed to our destination.

With a string of pack ponies, two Colt automatic and one machine gun, we set out for the site of the outpost amid deafening cheers from the garrison. We reached the knoll of a hill, a splendid point of vantage, seven miles distant from the town, from which we could view the entire surrounding country; here stood an old Spanish blockhouse, from which we flew “Old Glory,” and, after policing the ground, pitched tents, mounted the guns, posted a sentry, and were ready for action. The following day we were connected by telephone with the garrison and had cut the underbrush away from the knoll of the hill on which we were stationed.

The only break in the monotony of several months of this life would occur when a detail, sent into the garrison for rations, would return, bringing us mail from the outside world and news from the company in quarters.

Game abounded plentifully in this section of the island, and at night the weird grunt of a wild boar and the bark of a deer could be heard in the near-by jungle. Large vampires, darting overhead like phantom aeroplanes, were numerous here as in other islands of the Philippines.

Moros approaching the outpost were compelled to leave their side-arms in the jungle. Quite a number desired to be friendly with the Americans; these were traders. They would bring in chickens, eggs, fruit, wild-fowl, venison, fish, roasted grasshoppers, and tuber. Eggs containing chickens, as in other parts of Mindanao and northern Luzon, were more valuable than fresh eggs. Tuber is a native beverage taken from the cocoanut tree, and has all the exhilarating effects of “Dry Monopole.”

Thousands of monkeys infested the jungle surrounding the camp. On one occasion while returning from a boar hunt, something happened which nearly converted me to the Darwinian theory. Near the edge of a coffee plantation I spied a number of monkeys in a mango tree; raising my rifle I fired, dropping a monkey. The animal, merely wounded, came running toward me, bleeding from the chest and uttering a pitiful cry, then, leaning against a tree, placed its hands over the wound and, with a most pitiful and appealing expression, gazed up at me in tearful agony, as much as to say, “What the devil did I do to you?” I ended its suffering, and resolved never to shoot another monkey.

While hunting wild-boar in company with Weismantle, a member of the detachment, we had come across a “wallow” in a ravine near the Rio Grande River. Weismantle, being an experienced huntsman, could tell that the “wallow” had recently been frequented by hogs; he said, “You take a position about forty feet on one side of the ravine, and I’ll be on the opposite side; sit perfectly quiet, don’t even smoke, as the boar is sure to return.” Following his directions to the letter, I sought the shade of a large grape-fruit tree, where, seated on a log with a bramble-bush blind, I awaited the arrival of the game.

In deep meditation I had sat with my rifle cocked for perhaps forty minutes, eagerly awaiting the shadow of a pig, and was beginning to get restless, when hark! a dull thud on the ground attracted my attention to a guava tree near by, where I saw, hanging from and partly wrapped around a low limb, an immense boa constrictor. For a moment I was hypnotized; the snake’s head was hidden by the underbrush, and in fact it was impossible to see either end of the monster; I could merely see the coils wrapped around the limb and hanging from the tree. To say that the sight of a boa constrictor excited horror in my mind is putting it mildly, for, being unable to see its head, it would have been folly to shoot with a rifle; furthermore, I imagined I was in a den of these powerful life-crushers; every moment I expected to feel myself enwrapped in the monster’s coils, and for this emergency I had drawn my knife. Another twist of this snake, and I was hitting the high places only; I leaped through the tall grass like an Igorrote head-hunter, and now, to add to my mental discomfiture, I ran on to a wild-boar, which gave a most unearthly squeal; this, followed by the report of Weismantle’s rifle, made it seem as though all the demons of hell had been turned loose. After regaining my composure, I tracked the boar by drops of blood for several hundred yards, where we found it in time to bleed it properly. When I told the marine the experience I had had, he wanted to return, but I refused to point in the direction, so the trip was postponed. After tying the feet of our game together, we cut a long bamboo pole, on which we packed it into the outpost, where it was roasted on a spit.

Chess, pinocle, whist, and poker were popular games in the camp, as they are in all quarters of the army and navy, and in this way many pleasant hours were spent when off duty.

The migration of locusts on the Island of Mindanao is a novel sight; approaching in the distance, they appear like a large black cloud, the forerunner of a tornado; millions upon millions of these jumping insects, totally eclipsing the sun, continue on their flight for hours, leaving leafless trees and devastated fields in the train of their route.

A great character at the outpost was Corporal Jim Iddles, a Scotchman, and a great friend of mine. Jim had a keen appetite for tuber, and, growing weary of the simple life, approached me one morning with the suggestion that we take a hike to a near-by “barrio” in quest of some native sangaree. The nearest barrio was Mongahon, seven miles distant, so, slipping on our belts, with six-shooters and rifles, we hit the trail over the mountains, informing Sergeant McKenzie, who was in charge of the outpost, that we were going a short distance in the jungle to shoot a deer.

On our arrival at Mongahon, we found the village deserted, with no natives to climb the cocoanut trees, and, as tuber is tapped at the top of the tree, we were out of luck, as an American cannot climb these trees owing to the millions of red ants that infest them. The nearest village from this point was Amadao, in the Amadao Valley, on the Rio Grande River eight miles distant. At this juncture it was decided to toss a coin, head for Amadao, tail for the outpost. As the coin was tossed on the “heads I win, tails you lose” system, it was not long before we were beating the trail, with the valley of the Rio Grande for our destination. The tribes in this section of the island had been very hostile, and a battle had been waged near Amadao some months previous; but, as we had been dealing with traders from this valley, we decided to keep on the alert until we found these, whom we knew would represent us as being amigo Americanos.

As we drew near the “barrio,” we noticed Moros here and there withdrawing from the fields toward their casas or shacks, evidently apprehensive of impending danger, as a Moro, on seeing two or three soldiers within their territory, infers at once that they are an advance guard of a larger body. Many Moros, in addition to their own lingo, speak a mixture of Spanish and Visayan, so that with this help we were able to trace our traders. Resting at a shack in a large cocoanut grove while an apparently friendly native went in search for a trader, we were soon greeted by old “Montone,” a native warrior, but friendly to the Americans. Montone had a complexion as black as the ace of spades, and was reputed to have been a formidable pirate in his palmy days, operating along the coast of the Celebes Sea. He bore evidence of this reputation by the valuable ornaments he possessed; on his wrist he wore a jade bracelet, above each elbow a bracelet of solid gold, while two massive rings hung from his ears; his kreese was priceless, containing pearls and other precious gems, the blade being inlaid with gold, while surmounting the hilt was a solid gold helmet. Besides, he was tattooed from his shoulders to his wrists; truly he was “the king of the cocoanut grove,” and, while not a “Datto,” had all the authority and appearance of one.

Montone at once sent a native for a stick of tuber (a bamboo cylinder holding three quarts). Tuber is a cool tropical beverage, the sap of the cocoanut tree, which can only be drawn by tapping the top of the tree. It has a sharp sweet taste and, like champagne, its effects are lasting. After finishing the first order we sent for more. I believe we were on the fourth order when the Scotchman endeavored to entertain an imaginary audience, and the last I remember of him before a profound slumber claimed me, he was standing on a stone pile singing, “Green grow the rushes O, Green grow the rushes O,” et cetera, to an imaginary audience of about twenty thousand, it seemed to me.

Dawn was breaking when I awoke, I knew not where; my first thought was of my six-shooter; it was gone; my rifle, belt, and ammunition were gone, and several moments were spent in conjecture as to the reality of my personal existence. I tried to think, but all seemed blank; I had reached the abysm of oblivion, when I recalled that last song of my partner Jim, the tuber, and alas! the sequence mysteriously puzzled my brain. Had I been sleeping like Rip Van Winkle in the Catskills? or was it the hallucination of a dream, that would vanish with the awakening? I was soaking wet. Quietly crawling to an aperture through which the rays of a moon-beam shone, I discovered that I was in a nippa-shack on the brink of a ravine. Suddenly I heard deep breathing. Quietly tiptoeing in the direction of the sound, I saw in another compartment several natives scattered about in peaceful slumber. Satisfying myself that they were Filipinos and not Moros, I awakened one of the men, who arose, exclaiming, “Ah! amigo Americano, mucho bueno grande hombre.” Fortunately, this Filipino was a friendly native who had formerly been employed by the provost in the town of Polloc.

He informed me that he was _en route_ from Cota Bato (a small shipping port), where he had taken a shipment of hemp, and, passing through the village of Amadao, had seen me in the company of hostile Moros, and had invited me to ride on the back of his caribou to his casa. In fording the Rio Grande River, the animal had stumbled, throwing us into the stream, and this accounted for the wet condition I was in.

On making inquiries about my rifle, the native went to the adjoining room, returning with my six-shooter, rifle, and belt. Both weapons I had made useless by taking the drum and pin from the revolver and the bolt from the rifle, a custom a soldier is taught early in his military career, for cases of emergency.

When I inquired about my partner Jim, the Filipino said that I was the only white man he had seen in the valley, but that, at about midnight, he had heard rifle volleys in various directions. Here I concluded that the garrison had been turned out in quest of the two missing marines, and the shots had been fired with the hope of getting an answer.

By this time the other members of the household had awakened, and, after being served with hot black coffee, I was directed to follow the trail along the Rio Grande River, which led through tall grass and bramble.

As I hiked along the lonely trail, my thoughts were centred on my friend Jim Iddles. I could imagine his lifeless form lying cold in abhorrent demise, and conjectured how if alive we were to escape the punishment of a general court-martial. After many miles of tiresome travel, I was hailed from a branch trail by a friendly Moro, a dwarf of the mountains, whose abode was in the village of Panay and who frequently visited the outpost, selling produce and game. This diminutive spirit of the forest, who reminded me of the elves in Irving’s Rip Van Winkle, aimed straight for me, cutting his way through the jungle with his kreese. He greeted me with the customary “Amigo Americano,” and informed me that he had been sent out in search of me by the commanding officer of marines at Polloc. Leading the way, I followed him in single file along the trail through banana groves and jungle where parrots and monkeys were numerous. After a weary hike, I spied “Old Glory” waving in the breeze from the old Spanish blockhouse at the outpost; as we drew near, I could see the soldiers gazing intently in my direction; the sentry had spied us and aroused the camp. After a cheer and a hearty handshake from the boys, my mental agitation was relieved when informed that Iddles had been found in Amadao about midnight, by a detachment that had been sent out from the garrison.

Iddles was found asleep in a Moro shack, in front of which patrolled a Moro sentry carrying Jim’s rifle, belt, and six-shooter.

After relating part of my adventure to the boys, the garrison was informed of my safety, and in a few hours the commandant and captain of marines were on the scene to ascertain the facts connected with our absence. Meanwhile both Jim and myself, looking the worse for wear, policed ourselves to a high degree of soldierly immaculateness, and after a confab it was decided that I should act as spokesman on the arrival of the officers.

The story we framed was this: that, having followed the bark of a deer for a considerable distance in the jungle, we lost our bearings (“lost our bearings” was good!), and, differing in opinion as to the direction of the camp, we were each directed by the influence of our respective opinions, resulting in both getting lost. The circumstances in connection with the finding of James had been withheld from the officers; while my experience had been only partly related to the men, they having heard that I departed from the valley mounted on a caribou driven by a Filipino.

When confronted by the officers, I told the tale of our adventure: of our having followed the bark of a deer leading us into a labyrinth of perplexity (as dears sometimes do!), of our difference in opinion, the friendly attitude of the Moros, and the kindness of a Filipino in conducting me to his casa, where I was provided with quarters for the night. Iddles corroborated my story as far as it related to himself, and dwelt particularly on the friendliness of the Moros of the Amadao Valley. After asking various questions in cross examination, the captain said, “Well, men, I am glad to see you alive; your adventure has been of some profit.” Then, turning to Sergeant McKenzie, he said, “If two of our men can go into the jungle as these men did, mingling in friendship with the natives without being molested, I can see no necessity of continuing the outpost; stand relieved, break camp, and return to the garrison.”

There was no court-martial, scarcely a reprimand, and the soldiers of the outpost tendered Jim and me a vote of thanks for the hand we played in getting them back to the comforts of the barracks.

It is a singular fact that a few months later, on the renewal of hostilities in the Lake region, a band of Moros of the Amadao Valley, under the leadership of a noted “Datto,” offered their services to the commanding officer at Polloc. Like the American Indians, the Moros are divided into tribes, among whom for ages past there has been strife or contention for superiority.

Our two years having expired in foreign service, the detachment was ordered to Olongapo to join the homeward-bound battalion. Shortly after this we bade adieu to Moroland and swung out of the bay of Prang Prang _en route_ to the Island of Luzon.

X.

A Midnight Phantasy in California

The Vision――The Capture――“Frisco” and Its Favorite Haunts.

Having had considerable experience with copper thieves in the navy yards of Washington, D. C., New York, and Cavite, Philippine Islands, I was not overly surprised when, about midnight late in the autumn of 1903, while serving in the capacity of patrol at the Mare Island Navy Yard, California, as I chanced along the waterfront, to see the shadow of an apparent river pirate, presumably collecting copper bars from a large pile of this valuable metal. The man evidently, it appeared to me, had a boat in which he was storing the bars to be rowed across the channel to Valejo, the old Spanish gambling town and gold-miners’ retreat of the old days.

Without the least exaggeration, I must acknowledge to having been during my career in some very uncomfortable predicaments while grovelling through the vicissitudes of life’s various phases, and a strong resolution, which I have always held sacred, has been, never to take a life without giving the person a chance for his own; therefore, self-defence or being in action with the enemy could be my only palliation. This night, however, presented cause for exception to this rule. The corner of a large steam-engineering building hid from view the man whose shadow played in grotesque evolutions on the pier, and it was impossible to see him without uncovering myself to his gaze, but there lurked the shadow of every move cast vividly before my keen-set eyes.

As I quietly knelt in seclusion surrounded by the densest gloom, meditating as to how I might take the object alive, positively realizing that he was well armed, from my previous experience with river thieves, I saw the shadow portray a man drawing a gun and examining it closely, the shadow indicating that he was either trying the trigger or testing the T block of an automatic pistol.

It dawned on me that my duty bade me to halt this man, and, if in any way he attempted to evade me, to kill him.

I had the narrow neck of the channel covered, and it was my intention, if he attempted to shove off in a boat with any copper, to halt him, and, if he ignored my command, to fire. However, not seeing the shadow disappear for even an instant aroused my suspicion, as to load the copper in the boat in any shape or manner it would have been necessary to pass on the opposite side of an old obsolete sentry-box, thereby obliterating even the semblance of a shadow.

I was cognizant of the fact that had I aroused the guard they would send out the steam-launch to cover the exit, and, if the man attempted to escape, fire on him, which I wished to prevent.

What in the devil can that fellow be doing? I conjectured in silence, as the mystical representation of his every move, like a phantom depicting anything and everything, was cast along the ground and pier as if superinduced by some supernatural agency. Merely prowling for the choicest bars, I soliloquized. Hark! “Number one, one o’clock and all is well!” The stillness of the night had been broken by the sentries calling off the hour. “Number two, one o’clock and all is well!” “Number three, one o’clock and all is well!” “Number four, one o’clock and all is well!” “All is well!” repeated sentry number one at the guard-house as he continued on his beat. “Third relief, fall in! Get a move on, boys! The officer of the day is apt to be lurking around!” commanded the corporal of the guard, as the men promptly fell into their proper places for posting formation. “Count off!” commanded the non-commissioned officer, each man counting the number of his post. “Port arms! Open chambers! Close chambers! Order arms! Number one!” As number one was being posted, the sergeant of the guard interposed: “Corporal, I want those sentries to turn over not only their special orders but their general orders as well; see that they know them thoroughly: have them tell you what is to be done in case of fire, and be sure that they know where the fire-plugs are located. Butt Plate Willie is officer of the day and is raising hell around here because the sentries don’t know their orders; now, they better get wise to the military or off come their belts.” “Pshaw! Butt Plate Willie don’t know his own orders,” ejaculated the corporal as he gave the command, “Shoulder arms! Right face! Forward march!”

The shadow had taken another position and seemed to be in kneeling posture at the rifle-range, setting the wind-gauge of his rifle for the prone figure in the skirmish run.

The corporal was marching the old relief back to the guard-house, as sentry number one called out, “Number one, half past one and all is well!” followed in succession by each sentry calling off the hour. Each man of the relief, on falling out, kicked like a mule for being detained overtime on post.

It was half past one and surely time for me to make the rounds through my various posts of duty.

At this instant the shadow disappeared, followed by the dull sound of dislodged copper. The moon had taken a position behind a dark cloud, which gave me an opportunity to skirt the end of the pier to another secluded spot where I could await its reappearance, when I could positively determine whether this shadow was an apparition, a reality, or merely a transcript in the memory formed by the imagination of phantasy.

As the lunar glow beamed through the clouds, the outlines of a soldier appeared to my view, merely the profile, with his face resting in the palms of his hands. I momentarily seized this opportunity and pounced upon my prey, and, for the “love of Mike,” who was it but “Stormy Bill,” a “character” at the post. “Ha! ha! What in hell are you doing here? robbing the copper pile, hey?” I exclaimed, knowing in my heart Bill was as honest as the night was long. Like the raven, Bill quoth, “Never more.” “What brought you here at this hour of the night?” I asked. “Bad whiskey,” sighed Bill, his light of enthusiasm burning dimly. “I hid a flask here yesterday and came here to-night to look for it.” “Yes, and keep me prowling around all night expecting every minute to be shot by copper thieves,” I interposed. “You’re a fine specimen of a marine! What do you think this navy yard is, a picnic ground?” Continuing, “Now you draw yourself together quick or I’ll have you manacled and thrown in the brig.” “Ah!” he said, “cut out the strong talk. I came here to look for a flask of rye, I am not going to run away with the copper pile.” “That will do you,” I said. “You have evidently found the rye, and I want you to blow out of here.” “Yes,” said “Stormy,” “I have found it.――Eureka! Let’s go.”

I felt like kicking him a few times, then rubbing him with liniment and kicking him again, merely using the liniment to keep him from becoming callous lest he should fail to feel the kicks.

He became garrulous, and, in order to get him to the barracks without falling into the hands of the guard, it was necessary for me to walk him about two miles to reach one-fourth the distance. Having piloted him over lawns and through the shade of the leafy trees, we finally reached his quarters, where his affable disposition required him to apologize for my trouble, and, thanking me, he hied off to his cot. “Stormy,” in the parlance of the soldier, was “good people,” his greatest fault was in being on too good terms with old “Cyrus Noble.” A few weeks after this event I left “Stormy” behind, having been ordered to another post.

_En route_ from the Philippines with the Twenty-ninth Infantry in 1909, as the transport pulled up to the pier at Honolulu a voice from the dock called out my name. Leaning over the taffrail, whom should I see but “Stormy Bill!” He had been made a non-commissioned officer in a battery of artillery and was stationed on the Island of Oahu.

Mare Island covers considerable space in the Bay of San Francisco, lying about sixteen miles northwest of the “Golden Gate” overlooking the bay and Pacific Ocean. It is the naval base of California.

While stationed at this post I frequently ran over to “Frisco,” either by steam-boat or rail, where with a good convivival bunch I joined in the festivities at such temples of mirth as the famous “Poodle Dog,” from whose showy tiers or projecting balconies the pageants and processions of Market Street could be seen passing by, as the guests, environed by the sweet notes of a Hungarian rhapsody, were the embodiment of gayety and content. Lombardi’s, famous for Italian “table d’hôte” dinners and particularly noted for their mode of preparing macaroni; Svenguenetti’s, whose reputation in crustacean specialties, particularly in the culinary of lobsters and shrimps, was known to the Bohemians far and wide. Zinkand’s, and scores of others, where the music thrilled one’s very soul, and where the nymphs of the “Golden West” could tell you how to braid a lariat and a quirt, break a pony, and twirl the rope, and, although not adepts at the game of golf, could tell some funny stories of picking hops under Western skies. Kearney Street, which afforded the halls for the graceful glide, wherein could be found the same aspect of the West of frontier days. Prepossessing maidens in scalloped buckskin skirts, high-topped shoes, sombreros beautifully banded with Indian beads, and corsages cut very décolletée, danced with gallant young fellows whose costumes savored of the Mexican variety and whose bright and breezy effulgence was conducive to the merriment of the night. The Orpheum, Oberon, Log Cabin, Cascade, and the Grotto, all flourished in prosperous placidity, through a long chain of patronage of the world’s bohemians since the days of the path-finding “Forty-niners.”

Occasionally we tripped to “Mechanic’s Pavilion,” to witness the knights of the fistic art battle for supremacy, and note the radiant smiles of the shining lights of the arena as a “knockout” was perfected. But alas! the old haunts of Market and Ellis Streets and the beautiful edifices of the old-time “Frisco”――where are they? The echo answers, “Where?” Vanished with the stroke of nature’s wand, that calamitous earthquake and subsequent fire of 1906, in whose train the mournful ravages of devastation grinned in fiendish glee.

Though similar to the overwhelming destruction of the ancient city of Campania, San Francisco’s ruin was not irremediable, for, like the surprisingly sudden demolition, there burst into view, like spring flowers following a thunder-storm, the magnificent new city of the “Golden Gate,” blazing in the zenith of prosperity. It may be necessary to make inquiries or perhaps consult a city directory, but you will find the same old joyful haunts flourishing as of yore.

My tour of duty at Mare Island was brought to a close on being ordered to New York to join the mobilization of the St. Louis battalion.

XI.

Semper Fidelis――the Guard of Honor

U.S. Marines at the St. Louis Exposition――Veterans of Various
Expeditions――Mobilization at Washington, D. C.――Arrival in St.
Louis――An Ideal Military Camp――Exhibition Drills, Marines in
Bohemia――The Spanish Señoritas of Old Madrid――Coleens and Harpists
of the Emerald Isle――Cheyenne Joe’s Rocky Mt. Inn――Palm Garden
Dances in the “Wee Sma” Hours――Chaperoning a Theatrical Party――A
Dinner at the Tyrolean Alps――A Famous “Broadway” Actress Meets
Geronimo the Apache Chief――Marines Battle with Filipino
Scouts――Arrival of Mounted Police, Farewell to the “Fair”――Oh,
Maryland, My Maryland.

The battalion of marines that composed the Guard of Honor at the Louisiana Purchase Exposition in St. Louis in 1904 was the finest representation of Uncle Sam’s sea soldiers that has ever been mobilized. In order to meet the requirements in organizing this battalion, it was necessary to select men from the Atlantic, European, and Asiatic fleets, besides the various navy yards of the United States. The requirements of the navy department in selecting material for this detachment were: that each man must be not under five feet and eight inches in height and of military bearing, a veteran of foreign service, possessing an excellent character and a clean military record. Several months were spent in securing the necessary quota to complete these essential conditions, which, when perfected, represented not only the flower of the United States Marine Corps, but a worthy rival for honors with the best military force ever organized.

Washington, D. C., was the site of our mobilization. Every member of the battalion was exempt from duty, save that which tended to the arduous exhibit of military evolutions, calisthenics, and bayonet exercise. The drill in these was strenuous; five hours each day under the tutorage of a skilful drill-master soon brought the battalion to a state of perfection. The famous United States Marine Band furnished the music during these drills, and the pleasure derived from this alone offset the tedium of manœuvre.

Each man was perfectly fitted by a tailor for the eight uniforms which he was required to have; these were of blue, khaki, and white duck. Every article of his wearing apparel had to be an exact fit, from shoes to cap. Every article of equipment and all accoutrements were issued brand new. Flags, tents, ditty-boxes, cots, blankets, mosquito-bars, rifles, six-shooters, bayonets, belts, canteens, haversacks, toilet-sets were all fresh and new.

The Louisiana Purchase Exposition, which commemorated the centennial of the purchase of the Louisiana Territory in 1803, opened April 30, 1904, and closed December 1, of the same year.

The site of the Marine Camp was near and on the west side of the Palace of Liberal Arts, lying between the Liberal Arts building and the Intramural Railway, near the Government building, and north of the Tyrolean Alps, lagoons, and cascades.

May 20, 1904, the day set for our departure from Washington to St. Louis, was an ideal day in every respect. The Marine Band discoursed inspiring music, and, as the battalion of two hundred marines, under the command of Major (now Colonel) Mahoney, made their appearance on the parade-ground, the band took a position reaching from the arcade of Marine Headquarters to the street. First call was sounded, followed by assembly, each marine took his place in line, the roll was called, and the battalion formed. As the stentorian voice of the battalion commander rang out, “Battalion, attention! Right forward, fours right! March!” the Marine Band struck up, “Under the double eagle,” as the entire column swung into Pennsylvania Avenue. All along the route to the Pennsylvania Railroad station, from sidewalks and windows, the battalion met with expressions of popular applause. Boarding two sections of Pullman sleepers with baggage- and dining-cars attached, each man adjusted himself conformably to his surroundings, with that decorum born only of military experience. The signal given, the train rolled out of the station, the band playing, “Meet me in St. Louis, Louis, meet me at the Fair.”

The men who comprised this “Guard of Honor” were tried and seasoned veterans: some had been with Dewey at the battle of Manila Bay, some with the American squadron at Santiago, while others had taken part in the Philippines insurrection, the “Boxer” campaign in China, the campaign against hostile Moros, and the Samar expedition. Several had been awarded certificates of merit for valor by Congress, while at least one man――namely, Sergeant John Quick, “the hero of Guantanamo”――was distinguished as possessing that most coveted emblem of heroism, “the Medal of Honor,” which can be gained only by exceptional gallantry in action in the presence of the enemy.

To these soldiers of the sea this trip was of considerable moment as regards the novelty thereof. Thousands of miles had been covered by land and sea by the majority, who had touched at the ports of every country on the face of the globe, many of whom having served in the City of Pekin, China, as members of the Legation Guard; so that this variation from the irksome duties aboard a man-of-war, or the burning sun of the tropics, to the more tranquil atmosphere of a model camp at a “world’s fair,” was more than rejuvenating. The trip was devoid of the usual skylarking attending a body of raw and untried recruits, and it is a matter of fact, that, a few days after the arrival at the Exposition, Major Mahoney received, from the management of the Pennsylvania Railroad, a letter commending him on the excellent deportment of his command.

Arriving in St. Louis Sunday morning, May 22, we immediately alighted from the train, the battalion was formed, and marched to the “Fair” grounds, through the Olive Street entrance, to the site of our rendezvous; the colors were hoisted to the flagpole, and by 12 o’clock noon our camp had been pitched, each A wall tent towering uniformly over the chalk-marked square on the red shale, and with the precision of the Barnum and Bailey shows. Each tent had a well-fitting floor, and between each row of tents stretched a beautiful lawn of grass, on either side of which was a board-walk. The battalion commander’s headquarters, as well as the tents of the other officers, faced the head of the company streets, and were separated by a unique road, over which vehicles were debarred. The camp was illuminated by large arc lights. In the rear of the last row of tents stood the sick quarters, canteen, guard-house, barber-shop, cobbler, tailor, and shower-baths.

The camp was typically a model military village, with all modern conveniences, even to an up-to-date restaurant which had been erected purposely for the accommodation of the battalion. This building was beautifully situated in a shady grove opposite the Kentucky building. In India the British are noted for their model camps and bungalow quarters; but an English officer, after seeing the marines in St. Louis, was heard to remark, that this American camp beggared description.

The Plaza Orleans was the scene of daily exhibitions given by the West Point cadets, Philippine scouts, and United States marines. Thousands of spectators thronged the roped enclosure daily, and the applause from these was deafening. Strains of music from a dozen different bands filled the air, the most famous of these being the United States Marine Band, Sousa’s, Gilmore’s, Hawaiian, Mexican, Royal Grenadier of London, Philippines Constabulary, La Republic of France, Band De Espanol, Neapolitan of Italy, and the army bands,――the Second and Twenty-fourth Infantry, the latter colored. Besides these there were scores of others, including bagpipers and the insular band of the Tagalogs with bamboo instruments.

In addition to the exhibition drills and camp exhibit of the marines, they also had charge of the naval exhibits in the government building. Each man had to be thoroughly familiar with the mechanism or history, as the case might be, of the integral point of each exhibit, in order to explain and answer questions intelligently. The camp was garrisoned by a detail of marines, who patrolled on each side of the square, from the day of our arrival until the close of the “Fair.”

This style of soldiering was a rare treat to the boys; they were given free admittance to every concession on the grounds, and the six months spent in the heart of this stupendous show of the earth will ever remain vivid in the memories of the men who comprised this battalion.

Stretching over a vast area of Forest Park, enclosed by a high board fence, stood the magnificent Palaces of Varied Industries, Liberal Art, Agriculture, Mines and Metallurgy, Manufacture and Transportation, Palaces of Machinery and Electricity, Festival Hall, and the Cascades, the Government Building, Tyrolean Alps, the Stadium, Ferris Wheel, and the sunken garden; the camps of the West Point cadets, Artillery and Infantry; Hospital, Signal, and Life-saving Corps. Museums containing relics of anthropology, zoölogy, geology, anthology, and numerous other scientific researches were everywhere in evidence. In one British concession, soldiers of the “Household” cavalry of London stood watch over the magnificent “Queen’s Jubilee presents” which had been presented to Queen Victoria by the nations of the earth. Five hundred Indians, representing various tribes, in all their habiliments of war, here flourished at their best, the most prominent chiefs among these being Geronimo, Iron Mountain, and White Cloud. Every State in the Union was represented with an appropriate edifice, that of the State of Missouri being the most imposing. Statues and images from the chisels of the world’s most famous sculptors adorned a section in the Palace of Varied Industries, while the art galleries were filled with the rarest paintings of the most celebrated artists of all times and all nations.

To enumerate even the most important exhibits of this prodigious exposition would require volumes, and, for the benefit of those whose duties prevented them from seeing the “Fair,” I wish to say that it is impossible to form a conception of the progress this world attained during the century since the purchase of the Louisiana Territory.

At night the electrical display was a dazzling glitter of phosphorescence; myriads of incandescent lights of variegated colors were strung along the lagoons, cascades, and Pike, these combined with large arc lights completed an illumination of festive splendor.

A group of marines could be found nightly in social session on Napoleon bridge, a span of the lagoons, meditatively absorbing the sweet strains of the ever-entrancing Italian Yama Yama, sung by Venetian “gondoliers,” as they gracefully plied parties in gondolas through thread-like canals fed by the waters of the cascades. The inspiration animated by the grandeur of the surroundings on these occasions, the thrilling sweetness of the singing, to the mellow-toned accompaniment of mandolins and guitars, had a most electrifying effect. Music, music, music, music, everywhere; sweethearts, music, and mirth, that was the slogan. “Love me and the world is mine” is hummed in chorus by this happy-go-lucky bunch of jolly tars, whose only responsibilities are confined to the hours of love and duty, and whose motto is, “Be a good fellow here, and you’ll be a good fellow there.”

“The Pike, the Pike! let’s shove off for the Pike.” They stop a few moments to hear the soft tones of Il Trovatore by the famous Hawaiian band, and exchange greetings with some St. Louis friends, who propose a mild stimulant for their infirmities which consist chiefly of a severe thirst that needs quenching. Downey’s cabaret is sought, where in a cosey corner of bohemia the corks are drawn from ice-cold bottles of “blue-ribbon” as they sing of “the soft-flowing dreamy old Rhine” and “Meet me to-night in dreamland.” The latest stories are told and toasts are drunk to the health of the absent. From the tinkling glasses of bohemia, the marines meander to the Pike. Ten minutes’ walk from the north pole to Ireland through a labyrinth of gayety. Everybody visited the Pike, particularly at night, when the soft pedal was put on conventionalities and every “piker” became a thoroughbred bohemian, and then some. Commencing at the north pole you would follow in rotation on either side of this animated thoroughfare: first the Galveston flood, an excellent representation of the devastation of that Texan city: Battle Abbey, with its relics of antiquity, on the right; cross over, and you see Hobson sinking the _Merrimac_, also the battle of Santiago. There is a rush, and we find ourselves in Turkey, watching the slim princess trying to beat it with an American kodak fiend. After “shooting the chutes” a few times, in order to be sure of not missing anything, you stroll to a palmy dance-hall and join in a “Frisco dip” or perhaps a “St. Louis rag,” with liquid refreshments during the intervals.

From this point you take a boat for the “Garden of Eden” and the scenes of creation; the dark recesses of this cavernous route were the cause of many leap-year proposals in 1904. Leaving Paradise you stop to watch a fellow picking confetti out of his sweetheart’s eyes; he is laughing, and some one throws a handful of confetti into his mouth; he swears at this, but he is only joking. A barker on the opposite side is holding a crowd with his spiel on “Hereafter.” You enter a dark subterranean passage likened unto the intricate caves in the “Chamber of Horrors” depicted in Dante’s Inferno, a journey along the river Styx on the outskirts of hades, and you are transported to Paradise for a turn along the “golden strand.” Returning to earth, the strains of music from a Spanish orchestra can be heard in Old Madrid, where troubadours and matadores exchange stories over a bottle of madeira. A dark-eyed señorita from Cordova, who wears her clothes well, sings La Paloma, clicking the castanets to the accompaniment of an orchestra from Barcelona. “Bravo! bravo!” yell the marines, as she joins them in a Pall Mall and goblet of wine.

All aboard for St. Petersburg shouts the conductor of the Great Siberian Express, from Vladivostok to St. Petersburg and return. “Under and over the sea” pipes a sailor; “take a ride in a submarine, ten thousand leagues under the sea.” From a balcony over the entrance to the Old St. Louis arena, “The Cowboy’s Farewell” is being played by a genuine cowboy band. This arena is the Indian’s favorite place of amusement, as the scenes are typical of frontier life. Wading ankle deep in confetti, you enter into the enchantments and desolations of Paris, with its relics of the Inquisition, Waterloo, and the Bastille, the bridge of the Invalides, Rue de Rivoli, and Champs Elysées, here represented in miniature, where songs were sung by gay Parisians. Further on are the Japanese and Chinese tea-gardens, Cummings’ wild west show, Hoyle’s fire-fighters, and Hagenbach’s celebrated animal show.