Chapter X: A Midnight Phantasy in California 197 (5)

Arabs with tomtoms are attracting a stream of people to mysterious Asia. Here you find Hindu jugglers, magicians, and snake-charmers, Oriental dancers of the hootche kootche, and venders of wares of the “Far East,” camels and donkeys for hire, elephants with gorgeous canopies in which the children love to ride. This concession has the spicy odor and Oriental aspect of the Far East.

Blarney Castle and the Irish village are next. “Ho for the Irish jaunting car!” All pile in, and we’re off for the Lakes of Killarney, climb to the Castle and kiss the blarney stone. A Dublin colleen who is vending shillalahs, canes, and other ornaments of Irish bog-oak, sweetly sings, “Where the River Shannon flows,” as she pins a fresh green shamrock on each uniform, then remarks, “If I was a man, I’d be a soldier too.” The café has a seating capacity of nearly one thousand people; here the tinkling of glasses is interspersed with sweet music by harpists from the “Emerald Isle.” You order an Irish high-ball, and you receive a crême de menthe with a shamrock in it.

The Pike was the favorite promenade of the “Fair,” something doing every minute. Here millionaires nudged elbows with paupers; celebrities of distinguished vocations with the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick-maker. The various nations of the earth here commingled in harmony, all possessed with the same feeling of curiosity and intent on having pleasure.

After doing the Pike, the Tyrolean Alps was a favorite resort for midnight diners whose mirth and good fellowship were in keeping with their surroundings. Delicious terrapin, lobster, and rare-bits were specialties in this extraordinary café. From a pass in the mountain chain of the Alps came the clear yodel of a quartette of Tyrolean singers, whose notes reverberated from the cliffs to the scenes below.

Swiss maidens from Geneva presided over stalls of quaint curios from Switzerland, beer-steins and long tobacco-pipes being the most favored articles. These Swiss girls were great favorites of the marines; they were constant visitors at the camp during the entire exposition, scarcely a tent was lacking in some ornamentation or other from the booths of this Alpine exhibit, while each girl wore pinned to her shirt-waist an ornament emblematic of the marines, consisting of the semisphere, the eagle, and the anchor.

Though not on the grounds, one of the most interesting places of amusement, and one which without seeing the visitor’s trip to the “Fair” was incomplete, was “Cheyenne Joe’s Rocky Mountain Inn.” This famous or infamous resort, as you will have it, had a seating capacity of more than one thousand people. Tables arranged in squares over a saw-dust floor were attended by waiters in cowboy costume; in the centre of this large pavilion a vaudeville performance entertained its racy patronage; music was continuous, two bands being used for this purpose; as one ceased playing, the other commenced without interval. A trained donkey bedecked with ribbons ran from table to table nodding to the guests. About every twenty minutes, Cheyenne Joe mounted on a pony would gallop into the scene and cry out, “How much money did we take in to-day?” In unison the cowboys would yell, “Ten thousand dollars.” Joe would shout, “Burn half of it up and shoot out the lights,” whereupon each cowboy drew his gun and banged away, snuffing out every light in the joint. The lights, of course, were operated mechanically; darkness ensued for a few moments only, when the light would be restored. The placards alone were worth a visit to read; but the mirth and revelry indulged in not only by soldiers, civilians, and Indians, but hundreds of the fair sex, during the midnight hours in this Rocky Mountain resort, though lacking in splendor, were akin to the revels at the feasts of the bacchanalians.

During the wee sma’ hours of the morning the Palm Garden, a rustic summer dancing pavilion, with its glossy floor and Italian orchestra, was ablaze with the scintillating flashes of diamonds which glittered from the smartly clad feminine patrons of the dizzy whirl. Here, to the music of such selections as, “Any rags, any bones, any bottles to-day?” a rag two-step is being performed by a marine and a Venus with a florid style, whose magic spell lends soothing to the blues, but whose high heels were not made for a minister’s daughter.

Surrounding the Fair-grounds and in close proximity were shows of every description. Conspicuous among these were Forest Park Highlands, a veritable Coney Island; Luna Park; Delmar Garden, the scene of the celebrated extravaganza “Louisiana,” the old mill-wheel and “the girl in blue,” “the cave of the wind,” and “the Queen of the Gypsy fortune-tellers,” the Delmar Race-track, where gathered together could be found the most famous thoroughbred racers of the world, with their coterie of noted jockeys and attendants.

“Old Heidelberg,” in the German village, was the bohemia of the outskirts of the big show; here, to the strains of “Die Wacht am Rhein,” it was strictly proper to eat “hot-dogs” and drink cold steins of imported “hoff-brau.”

Sundays, when the Fair was closed, the permanent summer resorts of St. Louis were flooded with people. Montesano, an island in the Mississippi River connected by a fleet of steamboats, was the most favored Sunday resort; the trip down the river alone broke the monotonoy of the quietude of a hot summer day. The island, with its groves of shady maple trees and inviting dells, extending from the smooth sandy beach and through the interior, was an ideal spot to while away the midday hours in lingering lassitude. There were dancing, boating, fishing, roller-coasting, flirtations, and all that goes to make up an ideal pleasure resort. Along the beach, children with diminutive spades dug holes in the sand in search for shells. Games of all descriptions were conducted quietly, and with far less compunction than under the restraint and restrictive laws elsewhere enforced.

Merrimac Highlands and Creve Cœur Lake, reached by scenic railways, were also popular places of amusement.

The daily average attendance at the exposition was sixty thousand, and those represented nations of all countries and zones.

It was very amusing to hear some of the nonsensical questions that were asked by our rural friends from the land of the sage-brush and cactus. On one occasion I was approached by an elderly lady with the following query, “Soldier, would you kindly tell me what time they feed the lagoons?” I was nonplussed at the question, but ventured to ask, “Is it a bird or an animal?” She wasn’t sure which, she said, but a friend of hers had told her that it was a mighty interesting sight. I had heard of raccoons, loons, and baboons with Mr. Hagenbach’s wild animal show, and, knowing these had to be fed, I directed the misinformed old lady to this site on the Pike, where I trust her misconstruction of the word or misinformation was amended.

Having some business in St. Louis in connection with our canteen or camp exchange which necessitated the carrying of my haversack, I had left camp for the Olive Street car line, when I noticed a fellow in hot pursuit who reminded me of a butterfly catcher in a field of daisies down on the farm. Hailing me, he gasped, “Mail-man, please stamp these cards and mail them for me;” handing me a half-dollar with a bunch of post-cards, he continued on his leap-frog gait. “Whoa! come back here,” I shouted. “Oh, that’s all right; buy yourself some cigars with the change,” he answered. On mailing them I noticed they were all addressed to Arkansas; that accounts for it, I said to myself, he must be one of those Arkansas travellers.

Not far from our camp was a high spiral tower, on the top of which was the wireless telegraph exhibit connected by a lift or elevator. “Is this the scenic railway?” a young lady inquired. “Not yet,” I replied; “that is the elevated railroad.” She smiled and thanked me very much. Why, they even went to the Kentucky building to invite Daniel Boone out for dinner!

Every day the marine camp was the scene of a constant stream of visitors, many of whom were in search of friends and relatives. For more than a year before my departure from the Philippine Islands I had studiously contemplated serving at this post of duty, and felt assured of my success, so in consequence had written a number of friends in various cities of the United States who I knew were anticipating the pleasures of the greatest show on earth.

The cool days of early autumn seemed to be the most popular season for the Eastern and Western visitors; each day groups of friends, ensconced under the khaki canvas of an A wall tent or seated on steamer-chairs along the smooth level lawn, joined in social intercourse with these jolly rovers of land and sea. Tent number 2 was daily the scene of some festive occasion, the erstwhile pranks of which were likened unto a scene from the “Rodgers Brothers in Paris.” On these occasions the author was assisted by his dear friends and compatriots Boland and Fynmore.

Before going to St. Louis as pay-clerk of the battalion, I had spent three years afloat and in the tropics, and during that time had met but one man from my native town, with the exception of my father, who visited me in Washington, D. C., prior to our departure, and whose perplexities in the Executive Mansion on meeting President Roosevelt were brimful of excellent humor even though the seasoning was of the ludicrous variety.

The circumstances attending the meeting of the other man in question were exceptionally singular. It was late in the autumn of 1902, and I was stationed in the old “Quartel de Espanol” at Fort San Philippi, Cavite, P. I. Every evening about sundown, when not on duty, it was my custom to stroll with a friend or two to a hacienda in the adjacent “barrio” of San Ruki, where the soft-toned music from a harp and guitar was artistically rendered by two charming mestizos. At this native bungalow, shaded by large palms and drooping banana stalks, gathered nightly the elite of the village, and occasionally señoritas from the city of Manila, whose predominant beauty, in fluffy kimonos woven from the fibre of the pineapple with a texture as fine as silk, was augmented by that indisputable mark of Spanish aristocracy, the ever-propitious mantilla. By the dim light of a candelabrum which fluttered in the evening zephyrs, these social gatherings were regulated with that Oriental quiescence and technique to the manner born.

It was while wending my way home in the moonlight from such an allurement of beauty and music, that I chanced along the Calle Real and into the Café Del Monte, when I was agreeably surprised to see, seated at a game of cards, my old shipmate “Jack” Lavery of the cruiser _New York_. Being clothed in a suit of civic white duck, I was unrecognized for a moment. “Hello, Jack!” I exclaimed. “Well, Bill! for God’s sake, where did you come from? I thought you were in China on board the monitor _Monadnock_?” “No, the application was disapproved of, so I fired in another for shore duty.” “Well, but you left us in Shanghai.” “Yes, my application was approved there, I crossed the sea on the gun-boat _Manila_.” “Well, where are you now?” “Fort San Philippi.” “Good! Shake hands with some friends of mine.――Fellows, we’ll have the story about the Moors in Algiers to-night.――Waiter! take the order; bring in some Egyptians and a new pinocle deck.” Having been furnished with the order, the cards were dealt and we made our melds.

The fourth game was in progress, and, as the cards were being dealt, I remarked to my partner, whose cuffs had been rolled back, “Corporal, that dragon represents artistic work; where did you have that done?” “The dragon was tattooed by an expert on the Queen’s Road in Hong Kong; these storks I had put on in Kobe, Japan; and the spider’s webb was worked in at Cairo, by a professional who had the honor of tattooing his excellency the Khedive of Egypt.” “That is pretty work, and I see it harmonizes with the blue scar on your wrist; where did you dig coal?” “Oh, years ago, away back in Pennsylvania, all the way from slate-picking to working a gangway.” “What part of Pennsylvania, may I ask?” “Hazleton, Luzerne County.” “Hazleton? Are you from Hazleton?” “Pretty close to it; my home is in Beaver Brook, a little mining hamlet about three miles south of the city.” “Great heavens! ten thousand five hundred miles from home, and here is a native of my own village,” I soliloquized. “Did you ever know a family in Beaver Brook named A――――?” “Did I?――for the Lord’s sake, is it possible that you are young B――――y A――――?” “That’s me, old chap.” “Well! Well! put her there, old boy. Twenty-two years have passed by since I worked for your father. I am Johnny Coyle; don’t you remember Jack?” “Well, Jack, my old school-mate, shake again. Truth is stranger than fiction. School-mates, ship-mates, landsmen, bandsmen, and marines, come on, let’s celebrate; press the button, sergeant, and we’ll sing, ‘I’ll meet you at the hedge where the huckle-berries bloom.’”

For several days my home city, Hazleton, Pennsylvania, was well represented at the “Fair,”――a special containing a large concourse of Sir Knights of the Masonic Fraternity who, accompanied by their wives and daughters, were homeward bound from San Francisco, where they had been attending a Masonic conclave. Having the esteemed acquaintance of nearly every member of the jolly bunch, I was delighted and felt highly honored with their visit in our camp. In my four years of travel around the world, these were the first people from home whom I had met, with the afore-noted exceptions.

Each day was given to some especial event. Every State in the Union celebrated on one particular day, the buildings representing the State being more elaborately decorated for this occasion. This function was attended by their respective governors and staff, occasionally accompanied by a troop of horse or infantry. Various branches of business had their day; there was also theatrical day, automobilist day, Elk day, and in fact every day during the continuance of the “Fair” was taken up by some particular branch of business or profession, the turnstile recording the largest attendance on Chicago and St. Louis day.

Theatrical day I had the pleasure of escorting a party of the profession, whose names in glittering light frequently adorned the theatres along Forty-second Street and the “Great White Way,” through the marine camp, the Pike, Cheyenne Joe’s, and later joined in the merriment at a dinner in the Tyrolean Alps. A quartette of Indian chiefs occupied a table some distance from ours, among whom was the famous old Apache warrior Geronimo. On learning that one of the chiefs was Geronimo, a member of our party, a celebrated singer of coon songs, expressed a desire to meet him, whereupon I invited the Indians to join the “Merry Wanderers of the Night.” After the introduction the old chief made a speech in the Apache tongue; they sang, danced, chanted, and became quite hilarious; this was not due, however, to the stimulants of the Tyrolean Alps, for, although the Indians would have relished a mint julep, they were obliged to indulge in milder potations. Each chief, before departing, had ardently proposed to the actress of his choice, who accepted him in the language and manner of the stage. The wee hours of the morning were gliding by as this jovial party of merrymakers boarded their “special” of palace sleepers, and thus ended a round of joy, keen wit, and humor.

Strong resentment against the conduct of Filipino scouts had been expressed in different quarters of the “Fair,” and trouble between these and the white soldiers had been narrowly averted a number of times. The flirtations between white women of apparent respectability and the islanders had created adverse criticism. The marines, goaded by these flirtations and seeing fashionably gowned women on the arms of Filipinos promenading the Pike, felt that it was more than they could stand. In consequence a plan of campaign was outlined. One of the officers said, “I foresaw this situation and gave warning that it would come about. It is amazing the way white women shower attentions on the scouts, parading them to their homes and all that sort of thing.”

On several occasions marines had interfered when white girls were seen with the scouts; this usually precipitated a fight, causing bitter feelings in both camps. The resentment against the brown men, which continued growing stronger daily, took form when, at about ten o’clock at night, sixty soldiers of the scout battalion surrounded and assaulted ten marines, who, after a pitched battle, compelled their assailants to retreat. The marines returned to camp, and, expecting trouble, were awaiting reinforcements, when a marine rushed in, spreading the alarm, that the Filipinos had sought succor at their camp and that about three hundred were coming down the Pike armed. Always reckless and ripe for excitement, a marine shouted, “Come on, boys! let’s clean the Gu Gus off the earth.” This exclamation was hailed with cheers, and in a few moments more than one hundred marines were in pursuit of the enemy. Before reaching the Irish village, the detachment split into two sections, one section covering the north end of the Pike while the other hurried on to intercept the chocolate soldiers near Bohemia. On seeing the marines entering the Pike, on the double, the scouts fled, retreating presumably for a darker section of the grounds where they could adopt their accustomed mode of fighting. It was too late, however, for, alas! they were hemmed in, and to the victor belonged the spoils. The marines charged, a pitched battle ensued, in which the Filipinos, being in the majority, held their ground for a short space of time, but soon wilted under the terrific onslaught of the Americans.

This scene was laughable in the extreme, and reminded me of a chapter from “Gulliver’s Travels”; those who had escaped a knockout were glad to end the struggle. Having retreated toward their camp, they had arrived in the vicinity of the Agricultural Building, when some of them drew arms and commenced firing. This enraged the marines to such an extent that they decided to charge their camp, which precipitated a clash with the Jeffersonian Guards in which two of the guards were seriously injured. At this juncture an alarm brought the mounted police galloping to the scene, who finally restored order, both sides withdrawing to the peaceful habitations of their camp.

Washington was apprised of the affair, and the troops were severely reprimanded; but the lesson taught the scouts had great bearing on their future attitude toward the Americans. The St. Louis newspapers depicted the scenes of this riot, and devoted several columns in which they eulogized the marines for the stand they had taken.

No military organization could have been treated with more courtesy than the marine battalion at the St. Louis Exposition, and, when the day arrived for its departure, it was with reluctance rather than pleasure that the comfortable tents, the scenes of so much merriment, had to be vacated for the less desirable quarters in barracks.

After breaking camp and securing our equipment, we bade the big show a fond farewell. A long line of street cars conveyed the battalion to the Union Station, where Pullman sleepers of the “Big Four” draped with streamers awaited it. The Sixth Infantry band discoursed music as the soldiers of the sea bade their friends good-by, and, as they boarded the two sections of the train, the reverberating strains of “Maryland, my Maryland” were received with vociferous applause by the multitude that crowded the station platform. As the hand rendered the old war-songs “Yankee Doodle” and “Dixie,” so sacred to the North and the South, the train rolled off for the quaint little city of Annapolis, the capital of Maryland.

The marine barrack at Annapolis is the finest military post in the United States. On our arrival in the city, the battalion was met by the marine band, and escorted to the quarters, where an especially arranged dinner lay in waiting.

The following day, orders were received for the battalion to proceed to Washington, D. C., to participate in the unveiling of a monument to “Frederick the Great,” presented to the United States by Germany. This was the last procession in which the St. Louis battalion was seen intact.

Shortly after our return to Annapolis, an order was received from marine headquarters, detailing all men having two years or more to serve, on the Panama expedition. Having less than one year to serve to complete my enlistment, I was ordered to duty at the United States Naval Academy, until the expiration of my enlistment.

XII.

Topographical Survey in Northern Luzon

The Friars’ Monastery――Headquarters of the Insurgent Aguinaldo――In
Charge of the Cargadores――Meeting with Albinos――Among the Igorrote
Head-hunters――Enamored with a Beautiful Señorita――Planting Rice to
Music――A Midnight Ride Through the Jungle――A Moonlight
Fiesta――Quartered in a Cholera Infected Hacienda――The Jungle――The
Rainy Season――Return to Civilization.

In the summer of 1908 while stationed at Ft. William McKinley, a military post in the Philippines, I was detailed from brigade headquarters for topographical survey on the Island of Luzon. This assignment was more than welcomed as a departure from the monotonous routine of guard duty, wearisome marches, and military manœuvres. I was instructed to report to First Lieutenant Kenyon A. Joyce of the Thirteenth Cavalry, whose headquarters were in an old Spanish monastery in the small nippa-shack village of Lolomboy, near the “barrio” of Bocaue, situated along the Manila and Dagupán Railroad between Manila and Baguio, the famous Philippines health resort.

Hastily gathering together my necessary field equipment with transportation and orders, I departed for my destination with a feeling akin to that of the small boy on his first excursion from home. Alighting from the street car on the escolta near the old bridge of Spain, I purchased some periodicals and a large sombrero, then, engaging a caramato, was driven to the Tondo station, where I boarded a first-class coach for Bocaue.

After a wearisome ride through stifling humidity, over rice-dikes and through jungle, I arrived at my post of duty and immediately reported to the commanding officer of the detachment, after which I divested myself of my accoutrements and met the members of the survey party, consisting of about twenty-four soldiers, representing every branch of the United States army.

This aged edifice, with its mysterious subterranean vaults, its columns of Tuscan and Doric origin, and surrounded by balconies encompassed with ornamental balustrades, was occupied by the soldiers and used as headquarters by the topographical ensemble.

Prior to the Spanish-American war, this building had been a sanctuary of worship, the abode of mendicant friars. At the time of the insurrection, the old monastery was occupied as headquarters by General Aguinaldo, until compelled to relinquish his stronghold by the American troops.

Expert Filipino draughtsmen were employed in the plottings of the survey, their work in delineating offsets being admirably executed.

The circuitous route our journey necessitated through mountains, jungle, and across innumerable streams and ravines made it impossible to use ponies or caribou in the conveyance of our provisions, so that a contingent of native cargadores were employed in drawing a native cartello, which carried not only the provisions, but also the camp equipage, including our cooking utensils.

The entire party was divided into three sections, each section comprising one commissioned officer, eight enlisted men, and four brawny cargadores who handled the native cart or cartello. Each section had a separate circuit on which to work, these circuits penetrating jungle and mountainous country hitherto unexplored by the military. Provisions for two weeks were usually carried, the length of time it required in covering our territory.

My first duty in connection with this survey was recording the readings of the transit, operated by the officer in charge. Our route led through the “barrios” of Marilao, Santa Maria, Tomano, Buena Vista, San Jose, Bagbaguen, Prensa, and Santa Cruz, in the province of Bulacan. The heat endured on these expeditions was intense, especially along the rice-dikes, which were barren of foliage. Occasionally, when in the vicinity of a barrio where we had but one night to remain, instead of spreading canvas we bivouacked under the roof of some convenient casa. On one occasion, having worked until sundown, our cartello was drawn alongside of an old native house of worship, in the barrio of Buena Vista, where a “fiesta” had been in progress for several days. Here, under the eaves of this sacred shrine, this soldier outfit dined “A la cartello.”

In the interior of this sanctuary, the flickering lights in a large candelabrum, at the base of the crucifix, shone dimly through the gloom. With a feeling of absolute safety, the soldiers spread their ponchos over the bamboo matting and, wrapped in blankets, reposed in peaceful slumber. There was nothing to disturb the tranquillity of this night until, shortly before the break of dawn, we were aroused by the tolling of the bells, and the chanting of the Ave Maria, uttered in solemn devotion by a long procession of natives garbed in ceremonious black, preceded by a señorita bearing a cross, flanked on either side by torch-bearers. As the procession moved slowly down the aisle, the soldiers arose from their unusual berth and, occupying seats, observed the ceremonies with respectful silence. These natives were the thoroughbred Tagalogs, the aborigines of the Philippines, the greater number of them being converts to Roman Catholicism, the balance adhering to the doctrines of the Reformation, or the Protestant religion.

Leaving Buena Vista, our route led through the beautiful Marquina Valley, with its immense forests of bamboo, ebony, sapan-wood, and gum-trees entwined by the bush-rope of palasan, trees teeming with the luscious mango and guava, bordering on plantations and groves of the vegetable kingdom, including the banana, plantain, sugarcane, pineapple, coffee, cinnamon, and tobacco.

From Marquina our course led into the dense forest of the San Madre Mountains. Before leaving the valley, I was detailed to handle the cargadores. This party in itself was a comedy; the only things they thought seriously of were cigarettes, salmon, and rice. I gave each of them a sobriquet,――namely, “Blinky,” Pedro, Carlo, and Pablo de Gusman. Blinky, a one-eyed dusky savage, was the hero of the drama; when he wanted anything, he would pat me on the arm and exclaim, “El capitan, mucho bueno,” and in the same breath, “Dalle mi cigarillo.” He would then wink at the others. Blinky was familiar with the lay of the land, and was a valuable assistant when it came to questions of emergency, such as getting the cartello across a stream or a deep ravine. It was sometimes necessary in crossing a river, to unload our cargo and ship it across in a binto, a boat similar to a canoe, then float the vehicle across the best way we could.

Having been detained rather late one evening in a barrio where I had been exchanging rice, bacon, and salmon, for chickens, eggs, and vegetables, I could have made my objective point before sundown had not something unforeseen occurred; we had reached an unexpected ravine or gorge through which a torrent of water gushed; here we found it necessary to cut two bamboo trees on which to slide the cartello across on its hubs. We were having excellent success when the hubs slipped off, dumping our cargo into the stream and Pablo de Gusman with it. Luckily the native grabbed the wheel of the cart and was saved. A rope attached to the front of the cartello was the means of our saving the greater part of the rations; but we were in a sorrowful plight, it being impossible to drag such a load up the precipitous slopes. We found it necessary to pack the cargo up piece by piece. The scene was laughable in the extreme: Blinky looked as though he had been sentenced to be shot, while the singsong chorus of native lingo, like the buzzing rabble of Italian emigrants, combined with reaching the site of our camp in the darkness, completed my baleful imbroglio. Let it suffice to say: an impatient mapping detail awaited our arrival.

The country through which we passed was one of tropical grandeur; monkeys, wild-boar, and parrots were frequently seen along the mountain ranges. At night it was interesting to watch the vampires darting hither and thither over mango-trees, nipping the delicious mangos, sometimes carrying them to their roosts for their young. These vampires resemble a bat, though much larger; the body is about the size of a kitten, the wings measuring when fully developed six feet from tip to tip.

Albinos are frequently met with in northern Luzon; on one occasion, strange to relate, we came in contact with a small colony of this type of people, unrelated, however, as the albino is a freak of nature possessing no inherency. They were reluctant to converse, contenting themselves with looking on, as they shielded their pink eyes from the rays of the sun with a fan of the palm-leaf. The interest we Americans manifested in these people seemed greatly to amuse the Filipinos.

The Igorrote head-hunters are a wild tribe inhabiting the northern provinces. Their features are large, with kinky hair, large teeth, and black complexions. They are far below the other tribes in intellect and intelligence. The appellation “head-hunter” has its significance in the fact that the head of the enemy is taken as a relic, similar to the custom of the American Indian in scalping his victim. We watched these barbarians killing dogs for market, saw them making grasshopper pies, and, to our disgust, they ate eggs with chickens in them. Eggs containing chickens were worth double the price of fresh eggs.

It was a great pleasure to return to our headquarters in the old monastery, where wholesome food and cool shower-baths could be had. The evenings at this domicile were always enjoyably spent, either at cards, reading, or music. Occasionally, Sebastian Gomez, an old Filipino, would bring his two granddaughters to the quarters; these were fairly good-looking señoritas and excellent musicians, the one playing the harp while the other played the accordion, accompanied by the old man with a guitar. Very often a deputy revenue collector, who spent considerable time with us, would join this trio with a violin, and these instruments combined rendered excellent music.

Occasionally my work consisted in planting signal-flags on points of vantage, where they could be seen through the telescope of a transit. It was incidental to one of these trips that Kane, of the Engineer Corps, and myself, while driving through a remote barrio, came in contact with the beautiful Señorita Carmen Lemaire. In my travels I had encountered many odd freaks of nature, leaving me not overly susceptible to surprise; on this occasion, however, the unique circumstance attending the incident created little less than astonishment. The fact that to hear the Anglo-American tongue spoken by natives even in Manila was a rarity seldom enjoyed, made this event the more surprising.

We had left headquarters at Lolomboy in the early morning, with a pony hitched to a cartello containing the signal-flags, tent equipage, and rations for three days. Crossing the ferry at Bocaue, we struck a northerly route running west of Malolos, the old Filipino capital. We had covered a number of miles over a dusty road and through sweltering heat, when a quaint little barrio shaded by cocoa and palm trees on the banks of the Cianti River was reached. As the pony jogged along through the heart of the village, turning out occasionally for the little pickaninnies who played in the street, my eyes fell on something unusual for this section of the world,――an exceptionally beautiful señorita, apparently a mestizo of European extraction, presiding over a fruit-stand in front of a large hacienda, from which exhaled the sweet odor of grated-cocoanut boiling in the syrup of the sugarcane.

“Kane, did you see that?” I asked. “Yes, some class; I wonder where that complexion came from,” he replied. “Let’s try and find out,” I said.

It was about the hour for the Filipino siesta and time for “tiffin”; so, drawing under the shade of a large mango tree, we tied and fed the pony, and I informed the engineer that I was going to buy some eggs. “Let me buy them,” said Kane, smilingly.

Approaching the hacienda, I saw standing under the eaves, with the grace of a Wanamaker cloak-model and the beauty of the allegorical Psyche, a Filipino señorita still in her ’teens, whose raven tresses would have been the envy of the “Sutherland sisters.” “Buenos dios, señorita,” I ventured. “Buenos dios,” she replied. “Tiene weibus?” (Tagalog for “Have you eggs?”). “Si, señor,” she replied. Kane, whose knowledge of the dialects was limited, appearing on the scene, said, “How do you do?” “Quite well, thank you; how are you?” she said. “Better,” said Kane, smiling in expressive surprise. At first I thought it an apparition with a voice; to hear good old United States spoken in a feminine voice, after being inflicted for months with the pigeon English of Chinese and the smattering cackle of the natives was almost too good to be true.

“Are you soldiers the advance-guard of a regiment, or merely out for a joy ride?” she inquired, showing two rows of pearly teeth through an inquisitive smile. “Joy ride is right, with room for six,” replied Kane. Here my curiosity led me to inquire as to how this illustrious personage had acquired such fluency in the English language. Whereupon she informed me that she had been educated at the University of Manila and was a school-teacher home on vacation.

Having purchased some eggs, she further attracted our attention by volunteering to fry them, and asking if we desired the albumen scrambled with the yolk. Her complexion was a study, for, although her hair and eyes were of raven black, her color was fair, with features resembling the Louisiana Creole. She set a very dainty repast, consisting of rice, fish, eggs, and fried plantains, and, suffice to say, we three――Kane, the pony, and myself――were exceedingly happy; the pony because he had reached the end of his journey, for there were no flags put up that day.

Before our departure we exchanged addresses; I found her name to be Carmen Lemaire, which further increased my curiosity. Having asked permission to pay her a visit some evening in the future she informed me that it would afford her much pleasure to have me call, but that several natives were very jealous of her, including a cousin whose ire, if aroused by my calling after sundown, might jeopardize my life; therefore any other than an impromptu daylight visit would be imprudent for her to approve. Assuring the señorita a little boastfully of my utter disregard for the marksmanship of her suitors, of my utmost confidence in fate, and my inability to call during the day she set an evening in the following week for me to see her.

Bidding adieu, we left this hacienda with its fair inhabitant, and journeyed on our route. The following day the pony had to go some to make up for lost time, and it required the best part of three days to complete the work. Our return trip was the longest way round, but not the sweetest way home.

On our return to Lolomboy we told the story of having met the beautiful señorita. The old Filipino Sebastian knew of her, and told us she had been selected to act as queen of the “Grande Fiesta” at the Manila Carnival.

The following Thursday evening before sundown, “knighthood was in flower.” Having selected and placed some choice literature in my saddle-bags, I mounted a pony and galloped off for the scene of my triumph with the visage of the charming Carmen before me.

The iridescent hues of the vanishing sun tinted the western horizon, as I reined my pony into a verdant trail, winding with the course of the river, almost hidden from view by the high grass that lined the trail on either side. The moon at its full shone through the cocoanuts hanging in clusters from the tall trees, as I dismounted at the Lemaire hacienda in the barrio of Montao. A Filipino patrol passing by took charge of the pony, thereby relieving my mind of the fear of its being stolen by ladrones, who lurk in the mountain districts of Luzon.

On entering the large bamboo casa, with its nippa eaves extending beyond the walls, I was met by the affable Carmen, and conducted to a cosey retreat, in the manner and customs of the Philippines, After meeting her mother, a very retiring Filipino lady. I presented the señorita with the periodicals, which included the San Francisco Sunset Magazine, containing my picture taken at Salt Lake City when a soldier in a machine-gun battery. Her beauty on this occasion was augmented by a pretty silken kimono and straw sandals, characteristically simple. In her hair she wore a pink carnation, which vied in beautiful contrast with her complexion. A gold necklace with pendant attached and a finger-ring of turquoise and diamonds completed her attire.

Side by side on the wall hung two large pictures,――one the martyred patriot Jose Rizal, the other the ex-Governor-General of the Philippines, now our President, William H. Taft. On the opposite wall hung the señorita’s much-cherished diploma from the University of Manila and a certificate of belles-lettres. Books were shelved in galore. An East Indian matting covered the bamboo floors, while the sleeping compartments were hidden from view by large portières. Various articles of interest were shown to me, including photographs, a prayer-book printed in Spain in the sixteenth century, and the bridal-veil worn by her mother on her wedding morn.

During the evening the son of the presidente of the village, accompanied by his sweetheart, a pleasing young couple, called at the hacienda. Being unable to hold an intelligent conversation with these guests, our conversazione was one of ignorance crasse. The elder Señora Lemaire,

Carmen’s mother, served the guests with limeade and charlotte-russe, which were delectable and refreshing.

After the couple had departed, I related several stories of the United States to this amiable señorita. I told of my home away off in Pennsylvania, my school days, friends, escapades, the war, my travels, and incidentally mentioned the resemblance she bore the Creoles of New Orleans, among whom I had spent a winter; being careful to impress on her mind, that the Creole is of Spanish and French descent, not negro, as some educated people suppose. She listened very attentively to my stories, occasionally asking questions, particularly regarding the Creoles.

The anecdotes of her college days were more than interesting, as were the stories she told about the insurrection. She was very familiar with the history of the war, from the blowing up of the _Maine_ to the battle of the “crater” in the Sulu.

“Lemaire is a very uncommon name in the Philippines, is it not?” I remarked. “Yes,” she sighed, “very uncommon.” Realizing the interest I took in her, and the eagerness I possessed to hear some of her life’s history she continued:

“About twenty years ago a party of European surveyors employed by the Manila and Dagupán Railroad, in surveying this section of my country, were stationed at Malolos, my former home. In the course of human events, one of the party――namely, Armand Lemaire――became enamoured with and courted my mother, with whom he was eventually joined in holy wedlock. Of this union I am the fruition. At the expiration of my father’s duties in the Philippines, he was ordered to India, where, falling a victim, he succumbed to the plague.” Reaching into the drawer of an escritoire, she drew forth the picture of a man, whose intelligent features clearly indicated the ancestry of this charming young woman.

Continuing, she said: “My mother, on receiving notice of my father’s death, took up her residence on this plantation, provided before his departure for India, and here she has lived ever since in pensive quietude, never fully recovering from the effects of her dire misfortune.”

There was something unusually pathetic in this sincere girl’s story, and my conjecture, as I gazed on her mother’s bridal-veil, had found a sequel. With the assurance of my utmost sympathy, the conversation switched on to other topics. Glancing at my watch the hands indicated midnight, and I had told the patrol to be on hand with my pony at eleven o’clock.

Glancing over the balustrade, Carmen inquired, “Donde cabalyo?” The patrol had arrived with the pony as if by magic.

As I bade Carmen Lemaire a fond adieu, she again admonished me as to the possible violence of her jealous suitors. “Keep on the alert and take no chances,” she said.

After tipping the patrol a two-peso note, I mounted my pony, and wafting a “buenos-notches” galloped off in the pale moonlight, sincerely wishing some dusky rival would take a shot at me, that I might demonstrate “the survival of the fittest.”

My ride through the jungle in lonely contemplation was uneventful until the barrio of Bocaue was reached. Here I found a barrier in the shape of a river. I had failed to take into consideration that the ferry ceased running at midnight. The ferry, a flat-bottomed scow capable of carrying about fifty people, was moored on the opposite side of the river and no one there to man it. I had my choice of two things,――namely, swim the current or wait until dawn. Having placed a photograph along with some other valuables in the band of my sombrero, I reined my pony to the brink, and was about to plunge when I saw looming on the opposite shore the figure of a police patrol.

In imitation of the semaphore system, I wig-wagged the Filipino, and with a hoarse voice in bad Spanish impressed on his mind the necessity of my getting across. Having a passing acquaintance with the municipal officer, he recognized me, and propelled the boat across himself by means of a cable, the river being about one hundred yards wide at this point. On reaching the other side, the patrol was as much pleased in making a little side money as I was delighted in getting across. It was not long before I had stabled my pony and sought peaceful repose in my Helen Gould cot in the old monastery.

A few days later I set out with the cargadores on a new circuit. A very odd scene we encountered on this trip in the province of Pangasinán was a skirmish line of Filipinos transplanting rice to music. The rice paddies, or dikes, resembled level meadow-land and stretched out as far as the eye could discern in every direction. About one thousand Filipinos, men and women dressed in loud colors, were engaged in this work. Their formation was in the shape of a skirmish line, with a deploy of about two feet; each planter was covered in rear by another who passed the rice plants as the supply became exhausted; a short distance in rear of all were bands of music with intervals of one hundred yards. Large sun-shades, with long spike handles stuck in the soil, afforded considerable shade for the musicians. As the music from these bamboo instruments resounded o’er the meadows, each planter moved forward one step, at the same time placing a rice shoot in the soil, with the utmost uniformity and in absolute harmony with the band.

This was one of the most interesting sights I have ever seen; the progress these natives made was wonderful; besides, each seemed to be getting a great deal of enjoyment out of life. It reminded me of calisthenics in the navy, where they execute the movements of their exercise to the strains of a familiar march.

It was nearly time for the rainy season, and we were making our last circuit. Cholera was prevalent throughout the Island of Luzon, and in many instances smallpox had been reported. A “Division” order made it a court-martial offence for any soldier in the jungle to drink water that had not been boiled. This order, however, was not very stringently adhered to. Reports of deaths from cholera were received daily, in many instances soldiers being the victims. Whenever we found it convenient to boil water we did, but never went thirsty waiting for boiled water.

About three o’clock one scorching afternoon we struck a trail in a remote section of the San Madre Mountains which indicated that cartellos drawn by caribous made daily trips over this road. While resting at this point, the day suddenly grew dark and it became perceptible to us all that a typhoon was approaching. The lieutenant in command of the party, being a recent graduate of West Point and having had little experience in the field, was slow to comprehend what might be the consequence if a raging typhoon was to encompass this party in the jungle.

I suggested to him that we select a place at once and spread canvas. To this he acquiesced, and ordered me to take a Filipino and follow the trail until I reached a place of shelter suitable for the pitching of a camp. With one of my cargadores, “Blinky” (with whom I had just had a scrap for paring potatoes with a bolo), I hit the trail, and had covered about one mile when my eyes fell on a bamboo shack which appeared to be unoccupied. On investigation I found it to be an unusually fine casa for this mountain district. I found earthenware olios filled with water, dry wood, and a stone grate, but no sign of any occupants. Tearing a leaf from my note-book, I informed the lieutenant of our good fortune in having shelter from the typhoon without the necessity of pitching tents, dispatched “Blinky” with the message, and ere long the cartello and party had arrived.

A fire having been made, the coffee was put on to boil, the natives pared the potatoes, while I sliced the bacon and opened several cans of corn and salmon. The salmon was served to the Filipinos with rice. After a hearty supper by candle-light, cigarettes were smoked, blankets spread on the bamboo floor, and we all stretched out for a good night’s sleep.

The advance guard of the typhoon had arrived; a terrific wind, which whistled through the palms and nippa-roof, threatened at times to carry our shack away. Deep peals of thunder reverberated from the aerial regions, while dangerous flashes of blazoned lightning tore through the celestial firmament. “A nice night for a murder,” remarked Corporal “Free,” of the Sixth Cavalry. There was little sleep that night, which was evidenced in the morning by the numerous sacks of “Bull Durham” that lay scattered on the floor.

The storm continued throughout the following day, abating on toward midnight. The following morning deep gullies were worn in the soil, streams were flooded, while the drooping palms presented a scene of picturesque desolation. Overhead the fleecy clouds hovered round the blazing sun which cast its rays through the spice-laden atmosphere.

Having walked some distance from the hacienda, I heard off in the mountains that familiar guttural accent of a cochero driving a caribou; I listened, and he gradually grew closer. On his arrival I found him to be a Filipino with a load of sugarcane and bananas, _en route_ to Malolos. Being curious to know why this substantial home was unoccupied, I inquired in Spanish from this man, who informed me, with great stress, that no natives could be induced to live here, as the entire family, the occupants, had fallen victims to the dreaded cholera. Well, right here I felt as though I was on my journey across the river Styx. Shortly after, on meeting the lieutenant, I said to him, “Lieutenant, has it not aroused your curiosity as to why this house is unoccupied?” “Why, yes, it seems strange,” he replied. “Well, I will enlighten you a bit,” said I. Then I told him the story the cochero had told me. I once saw a man sentenced to be shot, and, if looks count, his feelings and those of the officer were identical. He thought it wise to move in the direction of the monastery; but I informed him that there was no need to worry; that, if we had suffered contamination, it would have been all over long before this, as there is no delay in the operation of an Asiatic-cholera germ. On learning this he was greatly relieved; so we shoved off and completed our circuit. However, some of the party were pretty uneasy; they had drunk unboiled water from the olios. “Furthermore deponent saith not.”

We returned to headquarters just in time to escape the rainy season. Here we spent weeks in idleness, playing cards, reading, and occasionally I would run up to Malolos by rail, then engage a caromato to convey me to Montao to see Carmen Lemaire. Sometimes the river was so swollen by the torrents of rain that it was impossible to get across. Naturally, life became rather monotonous, and upon request I was relieved and returned to duty with my regiment, back to civilization and the lights and music of the Luneta. This engaging mestizo señorita visited Manila a number of times before my departure for the States, and, although the honor of “queen of the carnival” fell to the lot of an older mestizo, the charming presence of Carmen Lemaire on this occasion brooked no competition, for beauty, grace, or intelligence.

Rudyard Kipling, whose “Barrack-ballads” are favorites in the army and navy, describes in mililoquent tones incidents appertaining to the “Far East,” in “On the Road to Mandalay,” from which I quote:

When the mist was on the rice-fields, and the sun was droopin’ low,
She’d get her little banjo and she’d sing the coola la lo.
With her arm upon my shoulder, and her cheek against my cheek
We used to watch the hathis, and the elephants pilen teak;
Elephants a pilen teak in the smudgy sludgy creek,
Where the silence hung so heavy, you was half afraid to speak.
On the road to Mandalay, where the flyin’ fishes play,
And the dawn comes up like thunder out a China ’cross the bay.

The last occasion on which I saw her was on the eve of my departure for the United States. In a “victoria” accompanied by two University classmates, she called at my quarters in Ft. William McKinley, where I joined them for a ride to the haunts of my old marine days, in the village of San Ruki, near Cavite. Among old friends and the ever-predominant harp and guitar, I enjoyed the fascinations of their quaint moonlight “fiesta.”

The drive homeward to Manila under the shades of night, through the “barrios” of Bacoor, Paranacque, and Pasay, with the wavelets of the sombre bay breaking on the sandy beach, was one of imposing grandeur that will ever remain vivid when my mind reverts to tropical sublimity.

At a dinner party on the roof-garden of the Hotel “Oriente” this night, I bade Señorita Lemaire farewell.

XIII.

Cock-Fighting, the National Sport of the Philippines

Training of the Birds――Mains by Electric Light――Aristocracy Patrons
of the Arena――Chinese “Book-makers”――Filipino Touts――Flower
Girls――The “Pit”――The Strike of the Game Birds――The Crucial
Moment――Game to the Last――Honest Sport.

The national sport of the natives of the Philippine Islands is cock-fighting. From infancy the Filipino takes to this line of sport, as a duck takes to water, and he early acquires the art of heeling and training the bird which is sooner or later to increase his wealth or perhaps send him back to the drudgery of the rice-fields, where he must eke out an existence and little by little accumulate sufficient to back another favorite chanticleer in his efforts to recover from his sorrowful state of depression, as a Filipino will bet all on his favorite game-bird.

The enthusiasm these people manifest around the pit during a main is akin to that of the Spaniards and Mexicans during a bull-fight. For weeks before a battle the bird is dieted, his claws and beak are manicured, feathers cropped, and plume trimmed. Its weight requires either increasing or diminishing, as the case may be, and it is handled with the care of the tots in a baby incubator.