Chapter IV: Part 4

Johnny, the boy of the slums, may not have been so patriotically inspired as some of his comrades, but he was a fighter by instinct, and a soldier by profession. He knew his duty, fear was a thing apart from him, and he attended strictly to “business” as he understood it, namely, to obeying orders, shooting true, and keeping tab of the Filipinos he potted. There be those who say that his game bags were not only large, but of select contents. He had a keen eye for brown officers, and, as he said, there were so many Filipino generals and such folk, that there were enough for everybody, even after he had taken his multitudinous pick.

It was not long before the mighty ones at staff headquarters became quite familiar with Johnny’s ways. Our soldier soon found himself in demand, a demand which, from details of special and hazardous duty, occasional at first, but finally very frequent, won for him a sergeant’s stripes, and regrets at headquarters that it was not possible to immediately decorate his shoulders with strap and bar. Never did better man wear non-com’s stripes.

The sergeant is the pivot around which, as upon an axis, revolves the discipline and efficiency of the rank and file. He is the key-stone of both the individual and company arch of courage. Johnny was all that a disciplinarian should be, and more, he was idolized by the men. Twice was he wounded by a ball that smashed several ribs and narrowly missed taking out so much of his chest wall that, as he said, his heart and lungs would have been subject to indecent exposure. Again did the little “brown bellies” get him,--with a bolo this time. But Johnny’s bayonet was a fraction of a second too quick for the luckless Filipino who wielded the “chopper” and the heavy blade missed the vitals by a hair. A siege of typhoid followed, but Johnny said, when the surgeon wanted to have him sick-leaved home. “Hell! no. It wouldn’t be business, an’ besides, I’m at home now--anyhow, as near as I’ll ever be. Shootin’, cuttin’ and typhoid never was calculated to kill gutter snipes, an’ so long as I keep away from water, which is the only thing that I hain’t tried, I reckon I’ll pull through. Then there’s old Miss Krag, here,” and he tenderly patted his rifle, “she can’t get any furlough, cause she hain’t had any pluggin’ or boloin’, or fever, an’ she’d be lonesome.” And so Johnny stayed at the front, and shot Filipinos, swore great oaths and--got well.

The Filipinos were “pacified,” so all the home papers said, save those few that were politically favorable to the democratic “outs” and opposed to the republican “ins.” A few boloed soldiers or native women and children were not evidences of war, they were mere “local disturbances, occasional manifestations of unrest, etc.” The men at the front and the friendly brown ones thought differently, but who cares what the pig under the knife thinks? Uncle Sam didn’t seem quite so certain of himself as the papers would have us believe he was. Whilst egging the eagle on to scream peans of victory as a soothing embrocation for such as might be restive under the war tax, he kept his weather eye open just the same. To clinch the matter of pacification, troops were ordered here and there into the towns adjacent to the swamps and rocky fastnesses where lurked the more troublesome of the ladrones. Small detachments were often sent, much smaller in some instances than was safe, as the government learned to its sorrow.

Much of the outpost duty fell upon the --th Montana. K company was ordered to duty in the province of Zambales, island of Luzon, and took up its quarters at Poombato, a place which could be called a town by courtesy only. It was nothing more than a handful of palm thatched huts, inhabited chiefly by old men, women and children who couldn’t become enrolled with their “pacified” brethren who, bolo in hand, were lurking in the neighboring hills and thickets, awaiting a chance for a sudden dash upon the enemy and a merry boloing in the camp of the Americanos. The men of K company were no “kickers,” as they were wont to express it, but the idea of rotting in the wilds while trying to protect a few miserable natives from possible outlaws who were their own kith and kin, and with whom the protected ones kept in pretty close and friendly touch, was not the pleasantest.

The men of K company knew the Filipino--knew him root and branch--they had fought him long enough, the Lord knows, and had discovered that caution was the price of sound throats. Their commander, Captain Benning, was ever a discreet officer and careful of his men, above all he knew that somewhere in the vicinity hovered the worst of all the brigands and cut throats the Philippines had yet produced, “Captain” Agramonte, but the deadly monotony of their daily duties was more than the men could stand. Despite warnings and, it must be confessed, not infrequently despite strict orders, the men would stray away into the jungle, often in quest of a scrap with stray Filipinos, sometimes seeking such excitement as shooting wild game affords. These little excursions were apparently safe enough at first. No accidents happening, however, the men grew bolder, and roamed about almost at will, and then the trouble came. Man after man was found boloed, or disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him up. On one occasion a small searching party, in quest of a missing comrade, was ambushed and narrowly escaped annihilation. Captain Benning was not left long in doubt as to whom he was indebted for the loss of his men. The ghastly, recently severed head of one of his men was hurled from the brake one night into camp, rolling, as chance would have it, its bloody way to the very door of the captain’s own tent. Affixed to the awful thing was a scurrilous note signed, “Agramonte.”

Captain Benning was a brave officer, with just enough revenge corpuscles in his blood to make the possession of Agramonte’s person the one thing in all the world to be desired. This last atrocity was more than he could endure. Agramonte’s life he must and would have. He knew well enough that there was but one way to kill or capture the outlaw. Having but one company at his command he could not well send a large party against the enemy. Indeed, the entire company was scarcely large enough to make a punitive expedition safe. Whatever was done must of necessity be done by strategy, and by a small party. A set plan was impossible. What was wanted was a “man,” and the captain thought that he knew where to find him. Turning to his orderly he said, “Tell Sergeant Blank that I want him to report to me at once.”

Johnny promptly appeared at the captain’s quarters and stood respectfully at attention, awaiting his commander’s pleasure.

“Sergeant,” said the captain, pointing to the outlaw’s grim token of defiance, “do you know Agramonte when you see him?”

“I think I do, sir,” replied Johnny.

“Well, Sergeant, I want him, and I want him badly. If anybody can get him, you can. You have done plenty of scouting. What do you think about it?”

Johnny glanced at the gory head of his comrade, lying at the captain’s feet, and his jaws set ominously. He answered through his teeth:

“I think I’ll get him sir, or he’ll get me.”

“Very well, then,” said the captain, “go after him, and be sure you get him.”

“Alive, sir?”

“Alive if you can; I wish to make an example of him, for the benefit of those cut-throats of his, but don’t take a chance of losing him. I want to see him at my tent door, and a few holes more or less in his miserable carcass will not mar his beauty much in my eyes.”

“All right, sir; any instructions?”

“None whatever, Sergeant, except to get him, get him sure and as quick as the Lord’ll let you.”

The captain rose, and with a total disregard of military etiquette held out his hand and said,

“Good luck to you Johnny, and don’t forget that you are worth more to me than that d--d renegade. If you don’t land him, be sure to bring yourself back. We are old comrades, you know.”

“Don’t bother your head about me, Captain,” replied Johnny, his eyes glistening, as he grasped his commander’s hand; “I’ll come back all right, and I’ll bring that d--d renegade with me. We may neither of us be pretty to look at when we drop in on you, but you can bet we’ll get here together,” and Johnny disappeared in the darkness.

* * * * *

An army scout travels “light” and when he is about to set out on an expedition, his preparations are a marvel of speed and simplicity. Johnny was even speedier than usual in getting ready for his perilous mission. He had little to do save to strap on a brace of navies, his canteen and haversack and say goodbye to his “bunky.” The latter, as his friend was leaving, handed him an enormous bowie knife, saying, “Here’s a western lancet that I want you to take with you, just for luck. We like ’em out our way. They don’t miss fire, nor go off half cocked, and they can’t be beat for tickling the solar plexus.” The bunky forgot to mention the bowie’s chief merit, that it wasn’t noisy. This was left for Johnny’s own exploitation.

Johnny loosened his belt, slipped the bowie upon it and said, “Thanks, and speakin’ of the West reminds me of a little trick one of the boys taught me when we was cooped up in Manila. I almost forgot this,” and reaching up he took down a coil of rope that hung at the side of the tent. This he slung over his shoulder, sash-wise.

In less than half an hour after his interview with his captain, our soldier slipped through the picket lines and plunged into the jungle. He knew that he must get beyond the outskirts of the town under cover of darkness if he would elude the watchful eyes of the Filipinos who hung about in the surrounding hills and jungles. Had he not started before dawn it would have been necessary to await the coming of the next night, in order to leave the camp unobserved by the enemy.

Agramonte’s base of operation was so well known that the uninitiated may naturally wonder why he had not been captured long before. It requires only a moderate knowledge of the native character and of the nature of the country to understand why Captain Benning with the small force at his command, had hitherto refrained from attempts at the outlaw’s capture. A formal campaign against him would have necessitated beating up the Filipinos precisely as game is beaten up in a battue. This would have required a very large and powerful force. Agramonte, fully cognizant of the situation, had established himself at Masillo, a little village in the foot hills less than five miles from the camp of the Americans, where he conducted himself precisely as if there was no such thing existing as the United States of America or a hostile army. The Batolan river lay between him and his enemies in khaki. This was a turbulent mountain stream of considerable width, with no ford nearer than some seven or eight miles from the renegade’s headquarters. Granting that his enemies succeeded in crossing the stream, which was not an easy thing for a small force such as he believed would probably be sent against him to do under fire, he had but to hide himself amid his native rocks and ravines and he could snap his brown fingers at the hated Americanos.

Knowing the outlaw’s lair, and the character of the country, Johnny had evolved his plans of campaign before leaving camp, while he was hastily preparing for the expedition. From his experience in scouting expeditions he knew that the only way to succeed in his mission was to beat the Filipino chief at his own game, by taking him completely by surprise at such time as he might be found separated from his companion ladrones. The lariat which Johnny had slung over his shoulder was perhaps the most methodic and pertinent of his preparations.

Travelling through the Luzon brake is neither easy nor comfortable, even in broad daylight, but at night it is practically impossible to the inexperienced traveller. But Johnny was no novice at the business in which he was engaged, and seemed to instinctively know the weak spots in the wild tangle of trees and brake. He was apprised from time to time that he was an intruder in the jungle. Troops of monkeys chattered at him saucily as they swung down from limb to limb of the trees to get a nearer view of the strange object that had disturbed their sleep. Having seen him, they screamed affrighted warnings to the other jungle folk and fled back to the topmost boughs, there to hurl defiant challenges at the intruder. Enormous bats beat their foul wings fiercely against his face as he toiled on, their whizzing, whirling flight sending the heavy, strangely perfumed night mist of the tropic wood pulsing against his face in dank waves. Once, as he crept through the brake, almost on his hands and knees, he nearly fell face down upon a huge creature of some kind. Johnny never knew the nature of it, for startled as he was, the beast was more so. It sprang up with a frightened yelp and crashed off through the jungle, snarling back at the strange thing that had roused him from his peaceful slumbers.

Again, as our soldier, breathing more freely as he emerged from the brake into the open, was skirting a little glade in the forest, a monster serpent dangling its death dealing loops downward from a bough struck him fairly upon the chest, with a resounding whack that almost knocked the breath out of him. A man less nervy and experienced would have been entangled in the cruel coils of the gigantic reptile, but with a quick push of his powerful arm against the cold, clammy folds of the awful thing and a cat-like spring aside he was free. Courageous as he was, this encounter made his flesh creep. But none the less, he saw a ludicrous side to the incident, and muttered to himself, “Major Brice used to say somethin’ to me about the early bird catchin’ the worm. I’m the early bird, all right, all right, but that worm’s a little too big for Johnny’s craw. Wonder what the dear old major’d think o’ that chap, anyhow. I suppose he’d like to bottle him.”

And there were other things, less pretentious relatives of the giant snake who so nearly did for Johnny. As his feet stumbled on through the luxuriant tangle of tropic weeds and grasses, he heard certain rustlings and hissings that warned him of the nearness of reptiles of lesser bulk, whose fangs were carriers of liquid death, relentless and sudden, yet slow enough for the victim to suffer the agonies of the damned ere he died.

But Johnny pulled through the night without mishap and, worn and haggard, as morning dawned, he found himself upon the banks of the Batolan. Here he knew he must stop until nightfall. A white man’s head bobbing up and down in the stream would have made too good a target for even Filipino marksmen, wretched shots though they are, to miss at such easy range. It would have been suicidal to attempt to swim the river in broad day light, besides, at that point the current was too swift for a tired man to breast. Johnny was nearly exhausted, so after a bite from the small store in his haversack and a pull at his canteen he laid down amid the bamboos that fringed the river bank to await nightfall with what patience he could.

Tired as Johnny was, he did not dare sleep. The day was excessively warm and it was not easy to keep awake, but under the stimulus of several parties of Filipinos of whom he caught a glimpse at various times as they passed to and fro on the hill sides upon the opposite side of the stream, he managed to fight off the drowsiness with which his fatigue and the tropic heat combined to overpower him. He did not dare to even light his pipe, the soldier’s consolation, lest he attract the attention of the enemy, and with nothing to help him while away the hours the day seemed almost interminable.

But the fiercely glowing red ball of the sun finally sank behind the hills to westward, and the tropic twilight mist began to rise from brake and stream. Not far from the bank opposite the spot where Johnny lay concealed, he noted through the gathering shadows the twinkle of lights upon the opposite hillside and the glow of what appeared to be a camp fire, and said to himself, “I reckon that must be Masillo, an’ if it is I’m pretty close to that d--d brown belly’s headquarters. It won’t do to let him see me first. We hain’t been introduced and he might cut me.”

Rising to his feet and pulling himself together, “just to get the kinks out,” Johnny crept cautiously through the brake up stream, with the intention of crossing at a point which would be safer from detection by the enemy. He had traversed the river bank about a mile, when he noticed that the river had widened out considerably and was dotted here and there by a number of broad, low lying, bamboo covered islands, their outlines being clearly discernible in the light of the gorgeous moon which was just rising. “This ought to be a good place to get across,” he thought. “I’m likely to find bottom part of the way, an’ the walkin’ must be purty fair on them islands.”

Divesting himself of all his clothing and accouterments save his belt and lariat, Johnny rolled his effects into as compact a form as possible, and with his bundle under his arm waded out toward the nearest island. The water rose only to his waist, and although it was hard to keep his footing in the swift running current, he was not long in reaching his destination. The brake was so dense upon the island that he found it easier to traverse its lower shore to the opposite side. Between the first island and the next one, a little further down stream, the water was deeper and swifter than before, and our soldier had to swim for it. When he reached the second island he was pretty well blown and was compelled to take a breathing spell. From the second island to the opposite bank the water was very shallow and easily forded, a circumstance of which, as the sequel proved, the Filipinos themselves were fully cognizant, and of which they had showed their appreciation by stationing a reception committee for possible invaders at that point.

Johnny clambered up the bank and pausing in a diminutive clearing near the water, proceeded to leisurely dress himself. He was just stooping to lace his leggings when two forms sprang upon him from the brake, one of them landing upon his back. As he went down under the sudden rush, he was dimly conscious of a heavy cutting blow upon his head. As he struggled with his foes he felt the hot blood streaming down from his temple and into his eyes. He managed to turn face upward as the Filipino bore him to the earth, but for a few seconds he could do no more than grip his man tightly by the body and prevent his striking him with the bolo with which he was armed. The other Filipino tried frantically to land a blow upon the Americano, but without success, as his comrade was most persistently and unwillingly in the way. As soon as his wits returned Johnny, suddenly letting go of his adversary’s body, got a strangle hold on the Filipino’s throat with his left arm, while with his right hand he drew his bowie. Two quick jabs with the knife, and the soldier knew that this part of the drama was over. Practiced wrestler that he was, it was an easy matter to slip from under the limp body, and spring to his feet and bound away to the edge of the little clearing.

Running away was farthest from Johnny’s mind. He wheeled about and faced the second Filipino who, having recovered from his astonishment at the denouement of the struggle in which he had taken a subordinate part, rushed toward the soldier, swinging his terrible bolo with the evident intention of bisecting him post haste. Johnny, nothing loth, awaited the rush, bowie in hand, as calmly as if he were on parade. And then came a dodging and cutting match that was as unfair as a two foot bolo wielded by an uninjured Filipino, opposed to a ten inch blade in the hands of a wounded soldier could make it. But Johnny was an athlete, and his pugilistic training was not lost in such a contest.

In the first mad rush of his foe Johnny was very nearly done for. As he sidestepped to avoid the heavy Filipino blade, his foot slipped and he nearly fell. The weapon missed his head but inflicted a severe wound upon his right shoulder, crippling for the moment his sword arm. Feeling himself growing faint, he soon determined to mix matters with his opponent who, after missing his stroke, had sprung back preparatory to another rush. As the Filipino closed in with a vicious sweep at his enemy’s head, Johnny transferred his knife to his left hand and suddenly ducked under the descending blade squarely into the arms of the Filipino, who instinctively grappled with him, and forever lost the opportunity of using his own weapon. One short-arm swing of the bowie and the Filipino, cut through the chest, hung limp in the soldier’s arms. The weight of his foe bore Johnny to the ground, where he lost consciousness, the two combatants lying locked together like two wild beasts that had fought each other to the death.

All through the night the two men lay motionless upon the ground, to all appearances lifeless. Meanwhile a storm blew up and just as the morning dawned the rain fell in torrents. Johnny had merely fainted from loss of blood, and the cool raindrops beating upon his face revived him. At first, as he became conscious, he had no clear conception of where he was or of what had happened. He had a hazy recollection of a struggle, but not the slightest notion of what it was all about nor with whom or how many he had fought. As his mind gradually recovered itself, however, he remembered all the details of the battle in which, as he now discovered, he had been victorious. Disengaging himself from the body of his late antagonist, he rolled and crawled away a little distance, and finally sat up and looked about the arena in which they had battled.

The Filipino who had first attacked the soldier lay a little distance away, stark dead. The other, however, was still living. As Johnny looked in his direction the body moved unmistakably with a slight convulsive movement of the chest, and a faint groan escaped the lips.

“Hello,” said Johnny, “my friend over there seems pretty lively for a corpse. Sorry I didn’t cut just right. I’d have saved Uncle Sam and Sergeant Blank a lot o’ trouble. I s’pose I’d orter fix the d--d cuss up, story book style, but charity begins at home, and it’s me for first crack at the aid package.”

With this the sergeant proceeded to take account of stock. After a careful survey of his wounds, he dressed and bandaged them as best he could, and took a bracer from the whiskey flask, with which the haversack of the army scout who knows his business is always supplied. He followed the stimulant with a meagre breakfast from his rations.

It was not long before Johnny was strong enough to get upon his feet. The first thing he did was to inspect the wounded Filipino. To facilitate matters he kneeled beside the fellow and rolled him over upon his back. As he glanced at the cruel, savage face, it seemed strangely familiar. Looking at the face more critically, as suspicion of the identity of his fallen foe entered his mind, he brushed back the mat of coarse hair that covered the Filipino’s forehead. There, running transversely across the brow, close to the tangled hair, was a livid, jagged scar of an old time sword stroke. Forgetting his own wounds he sprang to his feet in amazed delight and exclaimed, “Agramonte, or I’m an Indian!”

The Filipino was evidently recovering consciousness. He too, had suffered from a severe loss of blood. Johnny examined his enemy’s wound and found that the blood had clotted and was no longer flowing. He applied a compress and bandage and gave the wounded man a swig of whiskey, with the result that he soon revived sufficiently to recognize his surroundings. If he remembered the encounter that had been so unlucky for him he made no sign. As soon as he became conscious, he ceased groaning and made no sound thereafter. He lay as stolidly as a manikin, his beady black eyes watching every move the soldier made.

Noting that his patient was rounding up nicely, and fearing that he might cry for assistance, Johnny proceeded to make the situation clear to the Filipino. Not daring to use fire arms for fear of bringing a swarm of brown bellies about his ears, he had not yet drawn a revolver. He did so now, however, although with as little intention of using it as ever. Leveling the navy at the wounded man’s head he said: “I don’t know whether you savvy my language or not, Mr. Agramonte, but I reckon you can savvy sign language all right. You saved me a lot o’ trouble when you an’ your partner did the wild cat act on my back. I was sure lookin’ for you, but I didn’t expect to come up with you quite so immediate. Seein’ as how you saved me so much trouble, I’ll give you a tip that’ll save you some. If you open your yap, even to whisper, I’ll scatter your brains all over the province. I’ve got a pressin’ engagement to take you to headquarters, and this is a mighty good place to start from. It’s just about time to mosey, too, for some of your friends is likely to rubber down here to see what’s doin’.”

Agramonte evidently “savvied,” but he contented himself with glaring at his conqueror as some captive savage beast might have done. It required little discernment to guess what he would have done to the Americano, had their respective positions been reversed.

Still menacing the Filipino with the revolver, Johnny compelled him to struggle to his feet as best he could. Unwinding his lariat he put the noose about his captive’s neck. Thinking evidently that he was about to be hanged and thus receive poetic justice, Agramonte would have cried out, had not his captor suddenly tugged at the lasso, thus choking the sound of alarm in his brown throat. The strangling process was quite effective, and when the noose was loosened the prisoner was as docile as could have been desired.

Leaving some six feet of rope between himself and his captive, the sergeant, after adjusting the noose, wound the other end of the lariat about his own body. This done, he said, “Now, Mr. Filipino, you can’t lose me, and if you don’t object we’ll take a little stroll together. Just to be perlite I’ll let you go first, so just mosey right along an’ don’t look back or make any noise. If you bat your eye in a way I don’t like, away’ll go your brains to fertilize the Island of Luzon. It’s us for the river, so skip along, an’ make it lively.”

But making it lively was easier said than done. Neither the prisoner nor the captive was in condition to travel rapidly, and the mere effort of clambering down the river bank was almost the limit of their endurance. But Johnny shut his teeth together like the bars of a steel trap, and pushing the tottering Filipino roughly into the water, waded slowly after him, retracing the same route he had traversed in crossing the river. In their exhausted condition it was not easy for the men to maintain their footing. Agramonte’s feet slipped from under him several times, bringing him face downward on the sand and rocks of the river bed. The soldier, although himself in little better form than his prisoner, by a supreme effort raised the latter to his feet and relentlessly urged him on. The island reached, the two fell exhausted.

As the soldier and his prisoner lay panting upon the ground it seemed to Johnny that rest was the only thing worth living for. He did not dare gratify his inclination in that direction, however. The body of the dead Filipino was likely to be found at any moment, for it was probable that he had been on picket duty, and if so, a relief would probably be sent to that point before long. Pursuit once begun, escape would be well nigh impossible. Should he be captured the soldier knew only too well what would happen. Another ghastly token of Agramonte’s affection would be sent to the American camp.

Staggering to his feet, Johnny fairly dragged his prisoner to a standing posture. He compelled the Filipino to take several swallows of the whiskey, drank a stiff one himself, and driving Agramonte before him continued on his way around the edge of the island. When they arrived at the opposite side, the Filipino, gazing terror stricken at the swift current in mid-stream, stopped short and shook his head in feeble protest against entering the water.

“It does look middlin’ dubious, that’s a fact, an’ it’s goin’ to be a close call, but we’ve got to make it,” said Johnny. “I promised the Captain that I’d land you at the door of his tent, and land you I will. He’d be glad to have your head to even up for poor Jack Kennedy’s, but it’ll please him better if I deliver your ugly carcass to him whole. In with you, d--n you, and no monkey business or I’ll”--and Johnny cocked his revolver, which clicked suggestively.

The Filipino slipped into the water and would have gone down post haste, had not the soldier supported him by his tangle of coarse hair. And then began the supreme struggle. Many times as he battled with the current did Johnny regret that he had not decapitated Agramonte and taken his head into camp. But once in the swift running water he would not weaken, nor would he let go of his prisoner. He resolved that if Agramonte went down, he would drown with him, rather than return to the captain empty handed. Twice the two struggling men were swept under, but thanks to Johnny’s bull dog grit rose again. They were swimming diagonally against the current, and it was almost miraculous that both men were not drowned. Had the middle channel been a few yards wider, they certainly would never have lived to reach the next island.

But reach the island they did, and with a desperate effort Johnny pulled himself upon dry land, dragging his half dead charge after him. After a somewhat longer rest than before, the two again entered the water, and with great difficulty waded to shore on the opposite side of the Batolan. Once the awful strain of crossing the river was over, there was no longer any choice in the matter of resting; both men fell exhausted; Johnny had barely strength enough left to crawl into the brake out of the range of vision of possible stray Filipinos and pull his half dead captive after him.

The sun was well up in the heavens and beating mercilessly down upon captor and captive before Johnny was able to move. He finally managed to get upon his feet again and decided to take a fresh start toward the camp. It seemed safer to take the chance of meeting hostile natives in the jungle in broad daylight, than to remain until nightfall and then run the risk of being found by a searching party of the enemy. The Filipino, however, was unable to rise. He was wounded no more severely than his captor, and surely should have been no worse affected by the fatigue of his journey, but he was a prisoner, and lacked the spirit of a victor, and, like most children of the tropics, he had not the physical nor moral fibre of which strenuous heroes are made. He was certainly “all in,” much to our soldier’s dismay. Urging and threats alike were without avail, and when dragged to his feet the renegade fell to the ground again as limp as a rag. Knowing that camp was but a few hours distant, Johnny’s disgust at the situation was most violent, and he swore in salvos.

“You d--d cut-throat, you’re more trouble than your miserable neck is worth! You might have been game enough to stick to the finish. But you wasn’t, so there you are, an’ I reckon it’s up to me to get you to camp the best way I can. Come, Aggie, old boy, an’ rest on this bosom;” saying which, the soldier helped the Filipino to his feet once more, and half carrying, half dragging the almost helpless man, struck out through the brake.

The will is a wonderful thing;--it conquers worlds,--but no man’s will is so strong that extreme physical weakness will not defeat it. Johnny’s nerve was impregnable, but wounded and fatigued as he was, his physical strength could not withstand the additional strain put upon it by the endeavor to assist the Filipino through the jungle. Then too, his wounds had become inflamed and very painful. He felt alternately hot and cold, and finally had a chill that fairly made his teeth rattle. This was followed by a tremendous fever. The poor fellow felt as though he were on fire. Things began to look queer. From time to time he fancied he saw fantastic shapes amid the brake. Sometimes huge, fiercely snarling animals seemed to brush by him. Again, a Filipino, twice as large as life, leered at him from behind every bush and tree. Once he fancied he saw the huge serpent that had flailed his chest the night he spent in traversing the jungle. Its horrid mouth yawned widely, and he heard it calling in a hoarse roaring voice the multitudinous folk of the jungle. And the soldier knew that the delirium of wound fever was upon him, and feared lest he should lose his senses altogether.

Bad as was his captor’s condition, the Filipino’s was much worse. When nature could stand no more, and Johnny was finally compelled to drop the renegade, it was evident that the latter’s end was in sight. A few drops of whiskey poured down his throat revived him for a brief period, but it was hate’s labor lost, for within the hour Agramonte gave a faint expiring sigh and joined the shades of his brown skinned ancestors.

Johnny had fallen exhausted beside the body of his captive and supporting himself on his elbow had watched, in his lucid intervals, the passing of his chances of delivering the living Agramonte to Captain Benning. The Filipino dead, there was but one thing to be done. The gathering of evidence was as simple as it was gruesome; he drew his knife and decapitated the body, making in his weakened condition, it must be confessed, rather a “hacky,” tearing job of it. The head removed and tied by its long hair to his belt, Johnny rose to his feet and totteringly resumed his journey toward camp.

As our soldier uncertainly blundered on through the brake, his fever rose higher and higher and his delirium increased. There were no longer any lucid intervals, and the direction of his steps was largely a matter of chance. Good luck, rather than volition guided him, but while his course was the proper one, luck was not always with him. Several times his feet became entangled in the undergrowth and he fell heavily. Again, as he struggled to his feet and stumbled blindly on, he crashed against a tree so violently that only the fictitious strength of delirium prevented his being incapacitated from further effort. But every step was bring him nearer his comrades, and nearer the fulfillment of the promise which no longer meant anything to him, poor boy.

* * * * *

The evening relief of sentries had just been made by Company K. The sun had dropped his huge glowing ball of molten copper behind the hills to the west of Masillo. The waning light was playing hide and seek with the flickering, erratic shadows of wood and brake. At the edge of the little clearing just outside the town stood a khaki clad sentry. He was leaning upon his rifle and gazing abstractedly into the jungle, thinking, perhaps, of that rancher’s daughter in far-away Montana. As he stood there musing, his attention was suddenly attracted by a rustling sound amid the undergrowth some distance away. He instantly brought his gun to a ready, and peered excitedly into the jungle. The sound grew plainer.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

A shape as of a man creeping stealthily along through the brake upon his hands and knees became dimly discernible. Again the sentry’s voice rang out.

“Halt, or I fire!”

The shape, now plainly that of a man, crept nearer and still nearer.

The Krag cracked like a huge whip, a thin, filmy cloud of smoke arose from the nitro, and the creeping form in the brake fell forward upon its face without a sound.

“Corporal of the guard, post seven!” shouted the sentry.

The regulation call was unnecessary for, immediately the rifle cracked, a squad of the sentry’s comrades with the corporal at their head rushed to the spot.

“I’ve bagged a brown belly, I think,” said the sentry, waving his hand in the direction of the spot where his quarry had fallen.

The corporal, followed by his men, cautiously approached the spot indicated by the sentry. A few minutes search in the cane and they came upon a body clothed in tattered khaki. Hanging from the belt at the dead man’s side, was the recently decapitated head of a Filipino.

The startled corporal turned the body over upon its back. He gave one horrified glance of recognition at the dead man’s face and exclaimed, “My God! It’s Johnny!”

Tenderly the men in khaki raised the limp form of their fallen comrade and silently bore it past the horror stricken sentry into the camp. Halting before the captain’s tent, they laid the body down and covered it reverently with a blanket.

The corporal approached the door of the tent and addressing his commander, said sorrowfully, his eyes wet with tears, “Sir, Johnny has returned.”

Captain Benning sprang to his feet and exclaimed, “Where is he; why does he not report?”

“He is here, sir,” replied the corporal. The captain went to the door of the tent, and not seeing Johnny, looked at the corporal inquiringly.

The corporal pointed to the body lying almost at the officer’s feet and said, “That’s him, sir.”

The captain raised the blanket, and gazed long and silently at the dead soldier and the gory testimonial of duty performed that lay beside him.

The silence was finally broken by the corporal, who said, as his hand rose slowly in salute--

“Sir, Johnny has made good.”

And the captain replied, huskily:

“Yes, boys, too good.”

MY FRIEND THE UNDERTAKER

I have become quite convinced that the most entertaining man in the world is the undertaker. Now, I do not pretend to say that there is anything original about my observations. Others have in all probability frequently commented on his peculiarities--but I nevertheless feel that it is my duty to give him a little attention in order to repay him, at least in part, for the many favors received at his hands.

Let it be understood that I am no more indebted to the “post-medical profession” than are many other physicians, but I am peculiar in that I always like to express my gratitude to those who have befriended me--and if there is any office that friendship can perform for us, equal to concealing one’s mistakes and hiding one’s failures from the gaze of a carping and cruel world, I don’t know what it is.

Another reason for my determination to devote a little personal attention to the undertaker is that he is a much maligned and misunderstood person. He is supposed to be heartless and unfeeling, and is usually considered austere and unapproachable; some say he has no generosity.

It shall be my pleasure, as well as my duty, to correct these erroneous impressions regarding a noble craft that has always taken a lively interest in its patrons--an interest that has never been reciprocated by those most benefited by the undertaker’s labors.

There may be captious critics who will differ with my belief that the undertaker is the most entertaining man in the world, on the ground that those whom he entertains never give him any _encores_. This is very easily explained. There are no gallery gods at his entertainments, and the people in the boxes are never demonstrative. They are people of taste and discretion, and rather reserved and sedate than otherwise;--knowing when they have had enough of a good thing, they do not attempt to recall the artist. Unquestionably, the chief patrons of the undertaker are people of refined susceptibilities and not given to demonstration. Even when a clod is rung in upon the boards, they give no sign of anything but courteous and silent attention--although the nerves of others in the audience may be fairly set on edge. It is hardly necessary to expatiate further on my first proposition.

The austerity of the undertaker is more apparent than real, and is the result of association rather than innate acerbity of feeling. Even when he is iciest and most frigid in his ways it is for the benefit of others. By such a demeanor he enables his patrons to maintain their composure even under circumstances the most trying and in all kinds of weather. What though he does shroud his real feelings in an atmosphere of chilling reserve, so long as his heart is warm and true! Were he less calm and philosophic, he might err on the side of sympathy and ere long some of his friends would find that they had unconsciously been placed in a very bad box.

As to his being unapproachable, I believe that the undertaker is misunderstood. It is true that he does not thrust himself forward in a pretentious manner--as do some people of inferior breeding--nor has he ever been known to meet a patron half way, but just let one of your friends hint that you need his services and see how quickly he will put in an appearance. And he will not pay you unnecessarily prolonged visits either, and should you be compelled to entertain him for a time, he is a quite inexpensive guest--he always furnishes his own board. He is even likely to be offended if you force your hospitality upon him. One of my friends once made this mistake, and the undertaker gave him a great laying out, I assure you.

We mustn’t be too hard upon the undertaker, then, even though he is a trifle stiff and conventional in his ways. His work furnishes him with subjects for contemplation which are so serious, and of such monumental importance, that it is small wonder he should acquire a somewhat funereal and solemn demeanor.

I have often marveled at the equability of temper displayed by the undertaker. I never heard of his swearing at, or using rough language to his patrons. He has such a soothing way with him, too; whenever he notices that his patron is inclined to get a little hotheaded he does everything in his power to allay his warmth, knowing full well that the man will get cooled down after a while. And his judgment is rarely at fault--the other fellow always does cool down. You see, it’s a poor quarrel that won’t keep--and the undertaker’s differences with his patrons are no exception to the rule.

It has always been a source of wonderment to me, that any one could accuse the undertaker of being heartless and unfeeling. Why, I have known undertakers who were the acme of tender susceptibility and delicacy of feeling. One mortuary gentleman whom I knew, had such a sympathetic vein in his composition that he used to mix lamp black with his embalming fluid. So considerate and thoughtful of him, was it not? And shall we say of such men, “They are heartless and unfeeling?” Never!

And what shall we say of the “funeral director” who had buried six husbands for a lady, and who, knowing how sensitive she was upon the subject, upholstered her own mortuary receptacle with white satin marked with six delicate bands of heliotrope? Could any human being display a finer intuitive perception of the eternal fitness of things?

No, the undertaker is not unsympathetic, and he is delicacy personified.

Let us cultivate the undertaker--he does all he can to cultivate us. And he is an unselfish cultivator too--he knoweth full well that what he soweth he cannot reap. Let us cultivate him, therefore, and do our best to repay him for his kindness to humanity. And we may possibly profit thereby, for pleasant associations retard the decay of these mortal frames of ours--the remorseless scythe of time blunts upon those fortunate mortals who are favored by the kindly offices of the skillful undertaker. To them we may not inappropriately say, “How well preserved you are!”

How well, indeed!

It would seem unnecessary to say that the popular notion regarding the undertaker’s lack of generosity is wrong--the fact should be self-evident. I feel, however, that my whole duty would not be done, did I not say that in my opinion the undertaker is one of the most generous of men. What merchant would ever dismiss a patron without an endeavor to secure his future patronage? None, I fancy. But not so your undertaker--he is willing, aye, even anxious, to let somebody else have his patrons after he has filled their first order. He is often, apparently, very glad to get his customers off his hands--not caring a whit if some professional rival gets their custom. And the social position of his patron seems to make no material difference--indeed, the “higher” the person, the more anxious the undertaker is to see the case fall into some rival’s hands. Some might say that this is due to a disposition to make game of the customer, but I don’t believe it.

There is one characteristic that distinguishes the undertaker from the common herd of men with mercantile instincts; he is scrupulously honest. He always gives full measure. This is very comforting to his patrons--especially those who like a comfortable fit. There is not a tailoring establishment in this blessed town that can show such a record as my friend Blank, the undertaker. Why, he has been making underclothing most all his life and never yet had a misfit turned back on his hands.

I tell you what, my good friends, the undertaker is the last man in the world with whom we have occasion to find fault.

I shall always entertain a high personal regard for some of the members of the undertaking profession.

If there is any attribute of man especially to be admired, it is a keen sense of humor. One of my undertaker friends--long since dead and gone to a just reward--one Nathaniel Black, had this faculty developed to a preternatural degree.

There was something very impressive in the skillful manner in which Nathaniel used to conceal his humorous impulses while in the presence of death. His air of subdued merriment was, it is true, painful at times,--especially to himself--but this made it all the more impressive, as showing how some spirits can, by exercising will power, rise superior to their immediate surroundings.

When my friend Black was away from the actual presence of a corpse, he would unbend and show the true inward cussedness of the born humorist--with the evident self-sacrificing purpose of making life pleasant for his many friends. I happened to be one of the fortunate individuals who luxuriated in his friendship, and will cheerfully bear testimony to his devotion to the occupation of increasing the happiness of those about him. I feel that I could do no less, without stamping myself an ingrate.

One of the first things I did on entering practice, many years ago, was to invest in a typic doctor’s buggy. This was done in self-defense--my face was as smooth as a pippin, my mustache was a caricature of the real article and, taken all in all, there was nothing about me to inspire confidence. There was consequently but one thing to do, and that was to look and act as professional and prosperous as possible. It was with this end in view that I bought a buggy which looked unmistakably professional. As I had many friends and acquaintances, the moral effect of my turn-out was excellent. Had I been able to live on moral effect life would have been one vast smile of peaceful, well-fed joy and contentment, but I could not dine on any sort of effect, least of all upon the moral variety--which is a delusion and a snare.

Observing the marked attention that was paid to my equipage--and incidentally to the prosperous young doctor--I was well pleased; there were times when even my stomach was forgotten. It seemed to me that it was better to ride on an empty stomach than to walk upon a full one, provided I attracted sufficient attention to warrant my remaining in practice--or the hope of practice.

On some occasions the people I met appeared especially delighted with my appearance. Being self-satisfied with the notion that I was at last beginning to be appreciated, I made no investigations to determine why so much more attention should be paid to me on some occasions than upon others. Such is the blinding power of self-conceit!

The advisability of hiring a colored driver suggested itself to me as an additional bait for popular applause. The idea so impressed me that I consulted one of my friends, Jack T---- about it. He advised me to wait a while, and seemed much entertained by my story of increasing popularity.

“Well, my boy,” said he, smilingly, “you are indeed getting on in the world. Let me see--you lecture at a medical college, are surgeon to a free dispensary, physician to the order of Sons of the Blue Hen, physician to the hospital of the Big Sisters of the Rich, medical examiner for the Knights of the Empty Cupboard, and have the swellest turn-out in town. You certainly are to be congratulated.”

“Yes, Jack,” I said, “I feel that my career is full of promise. By the way, old man, lend me a dollar, will you? This is my day for dining--every third day, you know. I’ll pay you back next week.”

“Certainly, doctor, I am happy to contribute to the comfort of one whose future is so brightly illumined by--promise. But, nevertheless, I still maintain that it is too early in the action for you to think of a colored coachman--every third day is--”

“Well, Jack,” I interrupted, “I must be going. Much obliged for your contribution to the free silver question. And, by the way, I’m just on my way to a meeting of the county commissioners. I’m slated for the County Hospital Staff.”

“Oh--h--h!” groaned Jack. “Has your ambition for wealth no bounds?”

A day or two later I was driving at a “sent for” gait, down Michigan Avenue, enjoying the evident admiring approbation of the people whom I met, when I saw my friend Jack a short distance ahead of me. He caught sight of me, stopped short and walked out to the curb, where he awaited me with a decidedly pleased expression on his handsome face.

“Hello, doctor!” he cried, as I drove up to him and reined in my horse. “You seem to have a bad case on hand.”

I winked and said, “Never mind the case. Come along with me for a ride. You have nothing else to do at this hour of the day.”

“Don’t care if I do,” replied my friend, stepping into my buggy forthwith.

My rig continued to attract considerable attention, much to Jack’s edification, apparently. He finally said, “Well, doctor, your turn-out does excite the interest of the public, doesn’t it?”

“So I have already informed you,” I replied.