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               The Great White Tribe in Filipinia

                               By

                        Paul T. Gilbert


                  Cincinnati: Jennings and Pye
                   New York: Eaton and Mains







                        Copyright, 1903,
                      by Jennings and Pye





Preface


The legendary white tribe that is said to wander in the mountains of
Mindoro is but distantly related to the Great White Tribe now scattered
through the greater part of Filipinia. Extending from the Babuyanes
off Luzon, to Tawi-Tawi and Sibutu off the coast of Borneo, the Great
White Tribe has made its presence felt throughout the archipelago.

The following pages are the record of my own impressions and
experiences in the Philippines. The few historical and geographical
allusions made have been selected only as they were significant,
explanatory, picturesque. A logical arrangement of the chapters will
enable the reader to survey the islands as a great bird hovering above
might do--will make the map of Filipinia "look like a postage-stamp."

I promise that the reader shall be introduced to all the most important
members of the Great White Tribe, as well as to the representatives
of races brown and black. We will peep through the hedge together
as the savages and pagans execute their grotesque dances or perform
their sacrifices to the god of the volcano. Furthermore, the reader
shall attend the Oroquieta Ball with Maraquita and Don Julian, or,
if he likes, with "Foxy Grandpa" and "The Arizona Babe."

I ought to dedicate this book to many people,--to that wonderful brown
baby Primitivo, who has written that he "loves me the most best of
all the world;" to "Fresno Bill," that charter member of the Great
White Tribe, with whom I have knocked around from Zamboanga to Vigan;
or to that coterie of college men in old Manila who extended me so
many courtesies while I was there. I send them all my compliments
from the homeland, and ask the reader, if he will, to do likewise.

Cincinnati, Ohio,

_December, 1903._





Contents


        Chapter                                        Page

        I.      In Old Manila,                            9
        II.     All About the Town,                      23
        III.    The White Man's Life,                    36
        IV.     Around the Provinces,                    50
        V.      On Summer Seas,                          67
        VI.     Among the Pagan Tribes,                  80
        VII.    A Lost Tribe and the Servants of
                Mohammed,                                97
        VIII.   In a Visayan Village,                   121
        IX.     The "Brownies" of the Philippines,      142
        X.      Christmas in Filipinia,                 150
        XI.     In a Visayan Home,                      163
        XII.    Leaves from a Note-book,                181
                1. Skim Organizes the Constabulary,     181
                2. Last Days at Oroquieta,              195

        XIII.   In Camp and Barracks with the Officers
                and Soldiers of the Philippines,        223

        XIV.    Padre Pedro, Recoleto Priest.--The
                Routine of a Friar in the Philippines,  236
        XV.     General Rufino in the Moro Country,     254
        XVI.    On the Iligan-Marahui Road,             270
        XVII.   The Filipino at Play,                   280
        XVIII.  Visayan Ethics and Philosophy,          292




Illustrations


        Map of Filipinia,                      Frontispiece
                                                Facing Page
        In Old Manila,                                    8
        All About the Town,                              26
        On Summer Seas,                                  68
        Negrito Pigmy Vagrants,                          98
        Our Latest Citizens,                            120
        In a Visayan Village,                           128
        A Carabao,                                      144
        The Oldest Cathedral of Manila,                 238
        General Rufino in Moro Country,                 256
        Captain Isidro Rillas with the Datto,           256
        A Deserted Moro Shack,                          274
        Moro Weapons (Spear and Dirk),                  274





Chapter I.

In Old Manila.


As the big white transport comes to anchor three miles out in the
green waters of Manila Bay, a fleet of launches races out to meet
the messenger from the Far West. The customs officers in their blue
uniforms, the medical inspectors, and the visitors in white duck suits
and panama hats, taking their ease upon the launches without the
slightest sign of curiosity, give one his first impressions of the
Oriental life--the white man's easy-going life in the Far East. But
the ideas of the newcomer are to undergo a change after his first few
days on shore, when he takes up the grind, and realizes that his face
is getting pasty--that the cool veranda and the drive on the Luneta
do not constitute the entire program, even in Manila.

Unwieldy lighters and strange-looking _cascos_ now surround the
transport, and the new arrival sees the Filipino for the first
time. Under the woven helmet of the nearest _casco_ squats a shriveled
woman, one of the witches from Macbeth, stirring a blackened pot of
rice. A gamecock struggles at his tether in the stern, while the deck
amidships swarms with wiry brown men, with bristling pompadours and
feet like rubber, with wide-spreading toes. With unintelligible cries
they crowd the gunwale, spurning the iron hull of the transport with
long billhooks, as the heavy swell sucks out the water, leaving the
streaming sluices and the great red hull exposed, and threatening at
the inrush of the sea to bump the _casco_ soundly against the solid
iron plates of the larger ship. A most disreputable-looking crew it
is, the ragged trousers rolled up to the knee, the network shirts,
or cotton blouses full of holes drawn down outside. Highly excitable,
and yet good-natured as they work, they take possession and disgorge
the ship, while Chinamen descend the hatchways after dirty clothes.

Off in the hazy distance lies Cavite, or "the port," with its white
mist of war ships lying at anchor where the stout Dutch galleons rode,
in 1647, to attack the Spanish caravels, retiring only after the
Dutch admiral fell wounded mortally; where later, in the nineteenth
century, the Spanish fleet put out to meet the white armada,
the grim battleships of Admiral Dewey's line. Where now the lazy
sailing vessels and the blackened tramps are anchored, lay, in 1593,
the hostile Chinese junks, with the barbaric eye daubed on the bows,
the gunwales bristling with iron cannon that had scorned the typhoons
of the China Sea and gathered in Manila Bay.

This bay has been the scene of history-making since the sixteenth
century. Soon after the flotilla of Legaspi landed the first Spanish
settlers on the crescent beach around Manila Bay, the little garrison
was put to test by the invasion of the Chinese pirate, Li Ma Hong. The
memory of that brave defense in which the Spaniards routed the
Mongolian invader, even the disaster of that first of May can never
drown. In 1582 the little fleet put out against the Japanese corsair,
Taifusa, and returned victorious. In 1610 the fleet of the Dutch
pirates was destroyed off Mariveles. Those were stirring days when,
but a few years later, the armada of Don Juan de Silva left Manila
Bay again to test the mettle of the Dutch. Another naval encounter
with the Dutch resulted in a victory for Spanish arms in 1620 in
San Bernardino Straits. And off Corregidor, whose blue peak marks
the entrance to Manila Bay, the Dutchmen were again defeated by the
galleons of Don Geronimo de Silva. Now, near the Cavite shore, is
seen the twisted wreck of one of the ill-fated men of war that went
down under the intolerable fire from Dewey's broad-sides. And in 1899
the Spanish transports left Manila Bay forever under the command of
Don Diego de los Rios, with the remnant of the Spanish troops aboard.

The city of Manila lies in a broad crescent, with its white walls
and the domes of churches glowing in the sun. On landing at the Anda
monument, you find the gray walls and the moss-grown battlements
of the old garrison--a winding driveway leading across the swampy
moat and disappearing through the mediaeval city gate. This portion
of Manila, laid out in the sixteenth century by De Legaspi, occupies
the territory on the south side of the Pasig River at the mouth. the
frowning walls of the _Cuartel de Santiago_ loom above the bustling
river opposite the customs-house.

Here, where the young American army officers look out expectantly for
the arrival of the transport that is to bring them their promotions,
or to take them home, Geronimo de Silva was confined for not pursuing
the Dutch vessels after the sea fight off Corregidor. The crumbling
walls still whisper of intrigue and secrecy. The fort was built in
1587, and became the base of operations, not only against the pirate
fleets of the Chinese, the Moros, and the Dutch, but also in the riots
of the Chinese and the Japanese that broke out frequently in the old
days. At one time twenty thousand Chinamen were beaten back by an
alliance of the Spaniards, Japanese, and natives. On this historic
ground the treaty was made in 1570 between the Spaniards and the
rajas of Manila, Soliman and Lacandola. The walls survived the fire of
1603. The earthquake causing the evacuation of Manila could not shake
them. Another prisoner of state, Corcuera, who had fought the Moros
in the Jolo Archipelago, was locked up in the _Cuartel de Santiago_
at the instance of his Machiavellian successor. In 1642 the fort was
strengthened by additional artillery because of an expected visit
from the Dutch. Today a soldier in a khaki uniform mounts guard at the
street entrance. The courtyard is adorned by pyramids of cannon-balls
and tidy rows of _bonga_-trees. The soldiers' quarters line the avenue
on either side, and bugle-calls resound where formerly was heard the
call of the night watchman.

A number of elaborate but narrow passages--dim, gloomy archways, where
the chain and windlass stand dust-covered from disuse--connect the
walled town with the extra-muros sections. The _Puerto del Parian_,
on the Ermita side, is one of the most imposing of these gates. Near
the botanical gardens on the boulevard, at the small booth where
Juliana sells cigars and bottled soda, following the turnpike over
the moat, you come to the Parian gate, crowned by the Spanish arms,
in crumbling bas-relief. Beyond the drawbridge--lowered never to be
raised again--where rumbling pony-carts crowd the pedestrians to the
wall, the passage opens into gloomy dungeons, with barred windows
looking out upon the stagnant waters of the moat. With an involuntary
shudder, you pass on. A native policeman, in an opera-bouffe uniform,
stands at the further end in order to dispatch the vehicles that can
not pass each other in the narrow gate. Windowless, yellow walls, upon
the corners of the streets, make reckless driving very dangerous,
and collisions frequently occur. A vacant sentry-box stands just
within the city walls, and, turning here into the long street, you
immediately find yourself in an old Spanish town.

Here the grand churches and the public buildings are located;
the cathedral, after the Romano-Byzantine style of architecture;
the _Palacio_, built after Spanish notions of magnificence,
around a courtyard shaded by rare trees; and many other edifices,
used for official and ecclesiastic purposes. The streets are paved
with cobblestone and laid out regularly in squares, in accordance
with the plan of De Legaspi, so that one side or the other will be
always in the shade. Beautiful plazas, with their palms and statues,
frequently relieve the glare of the white walls. The sidewalks are
narrow, and are sheltered by projecting balconies.

The heavily-barred windows, ponderous doors, and quaint signboards
give the streets an old-world aspect, while _Calle Real_ is spanned by
an arched gallery, like the Venetian Bridge of Sighs. Tailor-shops,
laundries, restaurants, and barber-shops, where swinging punkas
waft the odor of bay rum through open doors, suggest a scene from
some forgotten story-book or the stage-setting for an Elizabethan
play. In the commercial streets the absence of show-windows will be
noticed. Bookstores display their wares on stands outside, while of
the contents of the other shops, one can obtain no adequate idea until
he enters through the open doors. The interesting signboards, whether
they can be interpreted or not, tend to excite the curiosity. "_Los
Dos Hermanos_" (The Two Brothers) is a tailor-shop, a _Sastreria_;
and the shoestore a _Zapateria_. The family grocery-store, _El Globo_,
is advertised by a huge globe, battered from long years of service;
and _La Lira_, or the music-store, may be known by the sign of the
gold lyre.

These streets have been the scene of many a drama in the
past. Earthquakes in 1645, in 1863, and 1880, caused great loss of
life and property. The plague broke out in 1628, when Spaniards,
Filipinos, and Chinese were swept off indiscriminately. Later,
epidemics of smallpox and cholera have made a prison and a pesthouse
of Manila. Only in 1902 the city suffered from a run of cholera,
and the Americans, in spite of all precautions, could not stop the
spread of the disease. The streets were flushed at night; districts of
native houses were put to the torch, and the detention-camp was full of
suffering humanity. The natives, in their ignorance, went through the
streets in long processions, carrying the images of saints, chanting,
and burning candles, and at night would throw the bodies of the dead
into the river or the canal. The ships lay wearily at quarantine
out in the bay, and the chorus of bells striking the hour at night
was heard over the quiet waters. Officers patrolled the streets,
inspected drains and cesspools where the filth of ages had collected,
giving the forgotten corners of Manila such a cleaning as they never
had received before.

But there were days of triumph and rejoicing--days such as had come to
Greece and Rome; days when the level of life was raised to heights of
inspiration. Not only have the streets re-echoed to the martial music
of the victorious Americans when Governor Taft or the vice-governor
were welcomed, but the town had rung with shouts of triumph when
provincial troops had come back from the conquest of barbarians, or
when the fleets returned from victories over the Dutch and English
and the Moro pirates of the southern archipelago. And the streets
reverberated to the sound of drum and trumpet when, in 1662, the
special companies of guards were organized to put down the rebellion
of the Chinese in the suburbs. But in 1762 the town capitulated to the
English, and the occupation by Americans more than a century later,
was a repetition of the scenes enacted then.

Because of the volcanic condition of the island, the houses can not
be built more than two stories high. The ground floor is of stone,
and contains, besides the storehouse or a suite of living rooms,
the stables, arranged around a tiled courtyard, where the carriages
are washed. A broad stairway conducts to the main corridor above. The
floor, of polished hardwood, is uncarpeted and scrupulously clean. Each
morning the _muchachos_ (house-boys) mop the floor with kerosene,
skating around the room on rags tied to their feet, or pushing a
piece of burlap on all fours across the floor. The walls are frescoed
pink and blue; the ceiling is often of painted canvas. The windows,
fitted with translucent shell in tiny squares, slide back and forth,
so that the balcony can be thrown open to the light. Double walls,
making an alcove on one side, keep out the heat of the ascending or
descending sun. The balcony at evening is a favorite resort, and
visitors are entertained in open air. In the interior arrangement
of the houses, little originality is shown, the Spaniards having
insisted upon merely formal principles of art. The stiff arrangement
of the chairs, facing each other in precise rows, as if a conclave
were about to be held, does not invite conviviality. There are few
pictures on the walls,--a faded chromo, possibly, in a gilt frame,
representing some old-fashioned prospect of Madrid, or the tinted
portrait of the royal family.

The Spanish residents and the _mestizos_ entertain with great
politeness and formality. Five o'clock is the fashionable hour for
visiting, as earlier in the afternoon the family is liable to be in
_negligee_. The Spanish women, in loose, morning gowns, or blouses,
and in flapping slippers, present a rather slovenly appearance during
morning hours; also the children, in their "union" suits, split tip
the back, impress the stranger as untidy. During the noon _siesta_
everybody goes to sleep, to come to life late in the afternoon. At
eight o'clock the chandelier is lighted and the evening meal is
served. This is a very formal dinner, consisting of innumerable courses
of the same thing cooked in different styles. A glass of _tinto_ wine,
a glass of water, and a toothpick whittled by the loving hands of the
_muchacho_, finishes the meal. The kitchen is located in the rear,
and generally overlooks the court, and near by are the bathroom and
the laundry.

In the walled city small hotels are numerous, their entryways well
banked with potted palms. The usual stone courtyard, damp with water,
is surrounded by the pony-stalls, where dirty stable-boys go through
their work mechanically, smoking cigarettes. The dining-room and office
occupy most of the second floor. This is the library, reception-room,
and ladies' parlor, all in one; the guest-rooms open into this
apartment. These are very small, containing a big Spanish tester-bed,
with a cane bottom, and the other necessary furniture. The sliding
windows open out into the street or the attractive courtyard, and the
room reminds you somewhat of an opera-box. My own room looked out at
the hospital of San Jose, where a big clock, rather weatherbeaten,
tolled the hours.

Manila to-day, however, is a contradiction. Striking anachronisms
occur from the confusion of Malayan, Asiatic, European, and American
traditions. Heavy escort-wagons, drawn by towering army mules, crowd
to the wall the fragile _quilez_ and the _carromata_( two-wheeled
gigs), with their tough native ponies. Tall East Indians, in their
red turbans; Armenian merchants, soldiers in khaki uniforms, and
Chinese coolies bending under heavy loads, jostle each other under
the projecting balconies, while Filipinos shuffle peacefully along
the curb.

The new American saloons look rather out of place in such a curious
environment, and telegraph wires concentrated at the city wall seem
even more incongruous.





Chapter II.

All About the Town.


The wide streets radiating from the Bridge of Spain are lined with
lemonade stands, where the cube of ice is sheltered from the sun by
striped awnings. Leaving the walled town on the river side--the gate
has been destroyed by earthquakes--you can take the ferry over to
the Tondo side. The ferryboat is a round-bottomed, wobbly sampan,
with a tiny cabin in the stern. You crouch down, waiting for the
boat to roll completely over, which at first it seems inclined to do,
or try to plan some method of escape in case the pilot gets in front
of one of the swift-moving tugs. You have good reason to congratulate
yourself on being landed at a stone-quay in a tangle of small launches,
ferryboats, and _cascoes_. The Tondo Canal may be crossed on a covered
barge, poled by an ancient boatman, who collects the fares--a copper
cent of Borneo, Straits Settlements, or Hong Kong coinage--much in
the same way as the pilot of the Styx collects the obolus.

Under the long porch of the customs-house, a dummy engine noisily
plies up and down among the long-horned carabaos and piles
of merchandise. Types of all nations are encountered here. The
immigration office swarms with Chinamen herded together, rounded
up by some contractor. Every Chinaman must have his photograph, his
number, and description in the immigration officer's possession. Indian
merchants, agents of the German, Spanish, and English business firms
are looking after new invoices. A party of American tourists, just
arrived from China, are awaiting the inspection of their baggage.

The Bridge of Spain, that famous artery of commerce, over which a
stream of carabao-carts, crowded tram-cars, pleasure vehicles, and
army wagons flows continuously, spans the Pasig River at the head of
the Escolta in Binondo. Here the bazaars and European business houses
are located, while the avenues that branch off lead to other populous
and swarming districts. _La Extramena_, a grocery and wine-store;
_La Estrella del Norte_--"The North Star"--diamond and jewelry-store;
the _Sombreria_, hatstore, advertised by a huge wooden hat hung out
above the street; and a tobacco booth, are situated on the corners
where the bridge and the Escolta meet. The Metropolitan policeman--one
of the tall _Americanos_ uniformed in khaki riding-breeches and stiff
leggings--who, in former days, controlled the traffic of the street,
is now supplanted by a Filipino comic-opera policeman. Very few of
the old "Mets" are left. It was a body of picked men, the finest
soldiers in the volunteer troops, and the most efficient police
force in the world. This officer on the Escolta used to be a genius
in his line. When balky Filipino ponies blocked the traffic in the
crowded thoroughfare, it was this officer that straightened out the
tangle. If the tram-car happened to run off the track, it was the
"Met" who showed the driver how to put it on again.

The river above the bridge is lined with latticed balconies; but from
the veranda of the Paris Restaurant, when that establishment was in
its glory, one could sit for hours and watch the bustling river life
below. The thatched tops of the huddled _cascos_ formed a compact roof
that extended half across the stream. Upon these nondescript craft
hundreds of Filipinos dwelt, doing their washing and their cooking
on the decks. The scanty clothes are hanging out to dry on lines,
while naked brats are splashing in the dirty water, clinging to the
tightened hawser.

Launches go scudding under the low bridge, rending the air with
vicious toots. Unwieldly _cascos_ are poled down the river, laden
heavily with cocoanuts and hemp. Small floating islands whirl along
in the swift current, and are carried out to sea. At the _Muelle
del Rey_--the "King's Dock"--lie the inter-island steamers, and the
gangs of laborers are busy loading and unloading them. Carabao drays
are hauling fragrant cargoes of tobacco and Manila hemp, while over
the gangplank runs a chain of men, gutting the warehouse of its
merchandise. The captain of the _Romulus_ stands on the bridge,
daintily smoking a cigarette, and supervising the disposal of the
demijohns of _tinto_ wine. The derrick keeps up an incessant racket
as the hold is gradually filled. Although the _Romulus_ is advertised
to sail to-day at noon, she is as liable to sail at ten o'clock, or
possibly to-morrow afternoon; and although bound for Iloilo or Cebu,
you can not be at all sure what her destination really is. She may
return after a month from a long rambling cruise among the southern
isles. The Spanish mariners, in rakish Tam o'Shanter caps, lounge
at the entrance to the warehouse, or the office of the _Compania
Maritima_, dreamily smoking cigarettes, sometimes imperiously ordering
the laborers to _"sigue, hombre_!" (get along!) a warning that the
Filipino has grown too familiar with to heed.

Armenian and Indian bazaars, where ivory and the rich fabrics of the
Orient are sold; cafes and drugstores, harness-shops, tobacco-shops,
and drygoods-stores, emporiums of every kind,--are found on the
Escolta, where the prices would astonish any one not yet accustomed to
the manners of the Far East. During the morning hours the _quilez_ and
the _carromata_ rattle along the bumpy cobblestones, the native driver,
or _cochero_, in a white shirt, smoking a cigarette, and resting his
bare feet upon the dashboard. Behind the curtain of a passing _quilez_
you can catch a glimpse of brown eyes, raven hair, and olive-tinted
cheeks, displayed with all the coquetry of a Manila belle. A Filipino
family in a rickety cart, tilted at an impossible angle, are drawn
by a moth-eaten pony, mostly bones. Public conveyances--if these
are not indeed a myth--are most exasperating. You can never find
one when you want it, even at the "Public Carriage Station." If by
chance you come across one in the street, the driver will ignore your
signal and drive on. Evidently he selects this walk in life merely
to discharge the obligations of his conscience, for he never seems
to want a passenger, nor will he take one till he finds his vehicle
possessed by strategy. The gamins of the corner offer eagerly to find
a _carromata_ for you, but they frequently forget the object of their
mission in their search. Sometimes, when you have ceased to think about
a _carromata_, one of these small ragamuffins will pursue you, with a
sheepish-looking coachman and disreputable vehicle in tow. Then twenty
boys crowd round and claim rewards for having found a rig for you;
as they all look alike, you toss a ten-cent piece among the crowd
and let them fight it out among themselves.

The driver will begin by making some objection. He will ask to be
discharged at noon, or he will make you promise not to turn him
over to another _Americano_. When the preliminary arrangements are
completed, lighting his cigarette, he cramps himself up in the box,
and, maintaining a continual clucking, larrups his skinny pony as
the crazy gig goes rocking down the street. The driver never seems
to know the town; even the post-office and the Bridge of Spain are
_terra incognita_ to him. And so you guide him, saying "_silla_,"
left, or "_mano_," right, "_direcho_," straight ahead, and "_'spera_,"
stop. You must be careful when you stop, however, as while you are
busy with your purchases, your man is liable to run away. While,
as a general rule, he shakes his head at the repeated inquires of
"_ocupato?_" (taken?) even though the carriage may not be engaged, if
some one more unscrupulous or desperate should step in, you would find
yourself without a rig. And the result would be the same if dinner-time
came round, and he had not had "_sow sow_." Even the fact that he
had not collected any fare would not deter him from his resolution.

Is it any wonder, then, that, after all these difficulties, no
complaint is made against the rickety, slat-seated carts, with
wheels that seem to bar the entrance of the passenger; against the
sorry-looking _quilez_,--that attenuated two-wheeled 'bus, where
the four passengers must sit with interwoven legs, getting the
more implicated as the cart goes bounding on? No; the Americans
are glad enough to ride in almost any kind of vehicle. But you
must be good-natured, even though the cab is tilted at an angle of
some thirty-odd degrees, and even though, in getting out, which is
accomplished from the _quilez_ in the rear, you lift the tiny pony
off his feet. It is enough to take the breath away to ride in one
of these conveyances through the congested portions of Manila. Not
only does the turning to the left seem strange, but taking the
sharp corners--an accomplishment for which the two-wheeled gig is
well adapted--frequently comes near precipitating a collision;
and, in order to avoid this, the driver pulls the pony to his
haunches. When the coast is clear, you will go rattling merrily away,
the _quilez_ door, unfastened, swinging back and forth abandonedly,
regardless of appearances. It is impossible to satisfy the driver on
discharging him, unless by paying him three times the fee. The stranger
in Manila, counting out the unfamiliar _media pesos_ and _pesetas_,
never knows when he has paid enough. Whether to pay his fifteen cents,
American or Mexican, for the first hour, and ten cents, or _centavos_,
for the hour succeeding, and how many _media pesetas_ make a quarter
of a dollar in our currency,--these are the questions that annoy and
puzzle the newcomer, till he learns to disregard expense, and order
his livery from the hotels or private stables.

At noon the corrugated iron blinds of the shops are pulled down;
all the carriages have disappeared; the only sign of life in the
Escolta is the comical little tram-car, loaded down with little
brown men dressed in white, the driver tooting a toy horn, and all
the passengers dismounting to assist the car uphill.

The banking center of Manila, built around a dusty plaza in the Tondo
district, and consisting of low buildings occupied by offices of
shipping and commercial companies, suggests a scene from "The Merchant
of Venice" or "Othello." English firms--such as Warner, Barnes &
Co.; Smith, Bell & Co.; the Hong Kong-Shanghai Banking Corporation,
where the silver _pesos_ jingle as the deft clerks stack them up or
handle them with their small spades--are situated hereabouts.

Near by, and on an emerald plaza, stand the buildings of the Insular
Tobacco Company and of the Oriente Hotel. These buildings are the
finest modern structures in Manila. Carriages are waiting in the
street in front of the hotel, and at the entrance may be seen a
group of army officers in khaki uniform, in white and gold, or--very
much more modern--olive drab. The dining-room is entered through the
rustling bead-work curtain. Here the Chinese waiters, in long gowns
glide noiselessly around.

But the Rosario, where opium-saturated Chinamen sit tailor-fashion
at the entrance to their little stalls--where narrow galleries and
alleys swarm with Chinese life--is one of the most interesting and
complex: of all Manila's thoroughfares. On one side of the street the
drygoods-shops are shaded from the sun by curtains in broad stripes of
blue and white. The dreamy merchant sits barelegged on the doorsill,
and is not to be disturbed by the mere entrance of a purchaser. The
opposite side is lined with _Chino_ hardware stores, and in each one
of them the stock is just the same. These shops supply the stock of
merchandise to the provincial agents; for an intricate feudal system
is maintained among the Chinese of the archipelago. The rich Manila
merchants who have seen their fellow-countrymen safe through from
China, and have furnished goods on credit, reap the profits like so
many Oriental Shylocks.

At four o'clock the shopping begins again in the Escolta. Apparently
the whole town has turned out for a ride. Since the Americans
have come, odd sights have been seen in Manila,--cavalry horses
harnessed to pony vehicles, phaetons drawn by Filipino ponies, and
victorias, intended for a pair of native horses, hastily converted
into surreys. Not only do the Spanish women come out in their black
_mantillas_, but the Filipino belles and the _mestiza_, girls, in their
stiff dresses of _jose_ and _pina_ cloth. A carriage-load of painted
cheeks and burnished pompadours of Japanese frail sisterhood drives by
upon its way to the Luneta. Army officers in white dress uniform, the
wives and daughters of the officers, bareheaded and in dainty gowns,
stop off at Clark's for lemonade, ice-cream, and candy. Soldiers
and sailors strolling along the street, or driving rickety native
carts, enjoy themselves after the manner of their kind. A brace of
well-kept ponies, tugging like game fish, trot briskly away with
jingling harness, with the coachman and the footman dressed in white,
a foreign consul lounging in the cushions of the neat victoria. A
private _carruaje_, drawn by a sleek pony, hastens along, the tiny
footman clinging on for dear life to the extension seat behind.

After the whirl on the Luneta, where the military band plays as
the oddly-assorted carriages go circling round like fixtures on
a steam carousal, the pleasure-seekers leave the driveway on the
sea deserted; soldiers and citizens vacate the green benches, and
adjourn for dinner. The Spanish life is best seen at the Metropole,
where _senors_, _senoritas_, and _senoras_, exquisitely gowned,
sip cognac and coffee at the little tables, carrying on an animated
conversation, with expressive flashes of bright eyes or gestures with
elaborately-jeweled hands.

Below, in the Luzon cafe, the Rizal orchestra is playing the
impassioned Spanish waltzes, "_Sobre las Olas," "La Paloma_," to the
click of billiard balls and the guffaws of soldiers. When the evening
program ends with "_Dixie_," every soldier in a khaki uniform--bronzed,
grizzled fellows, many of them back from some campaign out in the
provinces--will rise immediately to his feet, respectfully remove
his hat, and as the music that reminds him of the home-land swells
and gathers volume, fill the corridors with cheer upon cheer as the
lights are put out; then the sleeping coachman rouses himself, and
starts the reluctant pony on the journey home.





Chapter III.

The White Man's Life.


It happened that my first home in Manila was a temporary one, shared
with a hundred others, at the _nipa_ barracks at the Exposition
grounds. Who of all those that were similarly situated will forget
the long row of mimosa-trees that made a leafy archway over the cool
street; or the fruit merchants squatting beside the bunches of bananas
and the tiny oranges spread out upon the ground? There was the pink
pavilion where that enterprising Chinaman, Ah Gong, conducted his
indifferent restaurant. After these many days I can still hear the
clatter of the plates, the jingle of the knives and forks, placed
on the tables by the Chinese waiters. There was the crowd on the
veranda waiting for the second table, opening their correspondence
as they waited. And what an indescribable sensation was imparted on
receiving the first letter in a foreign land!

The long, cool barrack-rooms were swept by the fresh breezes. Here,
in the bungalow, the army cots had been arranged in rows and covered
by mosquito-bars suspended from the wires stretched overhead. When
tucked inside of the mosquito-bar, one felt as though he were a part
of a menagerie. "_Muchacho_" was the first new word you learned. It
was advisable to call for a _muchacho_ often, even though you did
not need his services, in order to exploit your own experience and
your superiority. And here you were first cheated by the wily Chinese
peddlers--although you had cut them down to half their price--when
they unrolled their packs of crepe pajamas, net-work underwear,
and other merchandise.

And all one Sunday afternoon you listened to a lecture from the
President of the Manila Board of Health, who told of the diseases
that the flesh was heir to in the Philippines, and cheerfully assured
you that within a month or two your weight would be reduced to the
extent of twenty-five or fifty pounds. And after dinner--where you
learned that _chiquos_ though they looked a good deal like potatoes,
were a kind of fruit--while you were strolling down the avenue beyond
the markethouse, you got a ducking from a sudden shower that ceased
quite as unceremoniously as it had begun. There was excitement in the
bungalow that night because of its invasion by a hostile monkey. An
impromptu vigilance committee finally succeeded in ejecting the
unwelcome visitor, persuading him of the superior advantages of
"Barracks B."

Together with a few dissenters, I moved out next morning, finding
better quarters in the first floor of a Spanish house in Magallanes. We
made the best of an old ruin opposite, which we considered picturesque,
and which was occupied by Filipino squatters, who conducted a hand
laundry there. Our first _muchacho_, Valentine, surprised us by
existing on the ten-cent dinners of the Chinese chophouse on the
corner. But he assured us that it was a good place; that the greasy
Chinaman, who fried the sausages and boiled the rice back in the tiny
den, was a great favorite. At our own restaurant, two <DW64> women
made the best corn-fritters we had ever tasted; a green parrot and
a monkey squawked and chattered on the balustrade; a Filipino boy
played marches on a cracked piano-forte.

And so we lived behind the heavily-barred windows, watching the
shifting throng--the staggering coolies, girls with trays of oranges
upon their heads, and men in curiously fashioned hats--driving around
the city in the afternoon (for Valentine was at his best in getting
_carromatas_ under false pretenses) till the little family broke
up. The first to go returned after a day or two, almost in tears
with the alarming information that the mayor of the town that he
had been assigned to was a naked savage; that what he supposed was
pepper on the fried eggs he had had for breakfast, had turned out
to be black ants--and wouldn't we please pay his _carromata_ fare,
because he was completely out of funds?

The carabao carts gradually removed our baggage. Valentine was faithful
to the last. Most of us met each other later, and exchanged notes. One
had escaped the target practice of ladrones; one had been lost among
the mountains of Benguet; another had been carried to Manila on a
coasting steamer, reaching the Civil hospital in time to fight against
the fevers that had wasted him; and poor Fitz died of cholera in one
of the most lonely villages among the <DW64>s hills.

"Won't those infernal bells stop ringing for a while and let a
fellow go to sleep?" said Howard as he got out of bed. "Look at those
creatures, will you?" pointing to the fat mosquitoes at the top of the
mosquito-bar. "The vampires! How do you suppose they got in, anyway?"

"It beats me," said the Duke. "It isn't the mosquitoes or the bells:
that ball of fire that's shining through the window makes a perfect
oven of the room."

The merciless sun had risen over the low roofs of the walled city,
and the heat was radiating from the white walls and the scorching
streets. The Duke was sitting on the edge of the low army cot in his
pajamas and his bedroom slippers, smoking a native cigarette.

"It must be about ten o'clock," said Howard. "I wonder if the Chinaman
left any breakfast for us."

"Probably. A couple of cold fried eggs, or a clammy dish of oatmeal
and condensed milk. Shall we get up and go somewhere?"

"I can't find any clothes," said Howard; "this place is turning into
a regular chaos, anyway." It was indeed a chaos,--lines of clothes
where the mosquitoes swarmed, papers and books scattered about the
floor, pajamas, duck suits, towels on every chair, and muddy white
shoes strewn around. "Doesn't the _muchacho_ ever clean things up?"

"That's nothing," said the Duke; "wait till the Chinaman runs off
with all your washing. I can lend you a white suit; and, say,--tell
the _muchacho_ to come in and _blanco_ a few shoes."



As there are no apartment-houses in Manila, the young clerk on small
salary will usually live in a furnished room in the walled city. For
the first few months it is a rather dreary life. The cool veranda and
the steamer chair, after the day's work, is a luxury denied the young
Americans within the city walls. The list of amusements that Manila
offers is an unattractive one. There is a baseball game between two
companies of soldiers, or between the Government employees representing
different departments. There is the cock-fight out at Santa Ana,
Sunday mornings and _fiesta_ days; but this is mostly patronized by
natives, and is not especially agreeable to Americans. The Country
club--reached after a long drive out Malate way, past the Malate
fort that bears the marks of Dewey's shells, past the old church
once occupied by soldiers, through the rice-pads where the American
troops first met the Insurrecto firing line--is little more than a
mere gambling-house. It is now visited by those whose former resorts
in the walled city have been broken up by the constabulary.

The races of the Santa Mesa Jockey dub are held on Sunday
afternoons. It is a rather dusty drive out to the track. A number
of noisy "road-houses" along the way, where drinking is going on;
the Paco cemetery, where the bleached bones have been piled around
the cross,--these are the sole diversions that the road affords. The
races are interesting only in the opportunity they offer to observe the
native types. Here you will find the Filipino dandy in his polished
boots, his low-crowned derby hat, and baggy trousers. He makes the
boast that he has not walked fifty meters on Manila's streets in the
past year. This dainty little fellow always travels in a carriage. He
flicks the ashes off his cigarette with his long finger-nail as he
stands by while the gay- jockeys are being weighed in. Up in the
grandstand, in a private box, a party of _mestiza_ girls, elaborately
gowned, are sipping lemonade, or eating sherbet and vanilla cakes,
while one of the jockeys leans admiringly upon the rail. The silver
_pesos_ stacked up on the table in the center of the box are given
to a man in waiting to be wagered on the various events. The finishes
are seldom very close, the Filipino ponies scampering around the turf
like rats. A native band, however, adds to the excitement which the
clamor at the booking office and the animated chatter of _duenas_,
_caballeros_, jockeys, and _senoritas_ in the galleries intensifies.

Manila, the City of churches, celebrates its Sabbath in its own
peculiar way. The Protestant churches suffer in comparison with the
grand church of San Sebastian--set up from the iron plates made in
Belgium--and the churches of the various religious orders. Magnificence
and show appeal most strongly to the Filipino. He is taught to look
down on the Protestant religion as plebeian; the priests regard
the Protestant with condescending superciliousness. Until the
transportation facilities can be extended there will be no general
coming together of Americans even on Sunday morning, as the colony
from the United States is scattered far and wide throughout the city.

As his salary increases, the young Government employee looks around
for better quarters. These he secures by organizing a small club
and renting the upper floor of one of the large Spanish houses. As
the young men in Manila are especially congenial, there is little
difficulty in conducting such an enterprise. The members of a lodging
club thus formed will generally reserve a table for their use at one
of the adjacent boarding-houses or hotels.

The fashionable world--the heads of departments, general army officers,
and wealthy merchants--occupy grand residences in Ermita or in San
Miguel. These houses, set back in extensive gardens, are approached by
driveways banked luxuriously with palms. A massive iron fence, mounted
on stone posts, gives to the residence a certain tone of dignity as
well as a suggestion of exclusiveness. Those situated in _Calle Real_
(Ermita) have verandas, balconies, and summer-houses looking out upon
the sea.

The prosperous bachelor has his stable, stable-boys, and Chinese
cook. At eight o'clock A. M. the China ponies will be harnessed ready
to drive him to the office, and at four o'clock the carriage calls
for him to take him home. Most of the Americans thus situated seldom
leave their homes. There is, of course, the Army and Navy club in
the walled city, and the University club in Ermita; but aside from
an occasional visit to these organizations, he is satisfied with a
short turn on the Luneta and the privacy of his own house.

The afternoon teas at the University club, where you can see the
sunset lighting up Corregidor and glorifying the white battleships, the
monthly entertainments at the Oriente, and the governor's reception,
are the social features of Manila life. The ladies do considerable
entertaining, wearing themselves out in the performance of their social
duties. As a relaxation, an informal picnic party will sometimes
charter a small launch, and spend the day along the picturesque
banks of the Pasig. The customs of Manila make an obligation of a
frequent visit to the Civil hospital, if it so happen that a friend
is sick there. It is a long ride along _Calle Iris_, with its rows
of bamboo-trees, past the merry-go-round, Bilibid prison, and the
railway station; but the patients at the hospital appreciate these
visits quite sufficiently to compensate for any inconveniences that
may have been caused.

During the holiday season, certain attractions are offered at
the theaters. While these are mostly given by cheap vaudeville
companies that have drifted over from Australia or the China coast,
when any deserving entertainment is announced the "upper ten" turn
out _en masse_. During the memorable engagement of the Twenty-fourth
Infantry minstrels, the boxes at the Zorilla theater were filled by
all the pride and beauty of Manila. Captains and lieutenants from Fort
Santiago and Camp Wallace, naval officers from the Cavite colony,
matrons and maidens from the civil and the military "sets," made a
vivacious audience, while the Filipinos packed in the surrounding
galleries, applauded with enthusiasm as the cake-walk and the <DW64>
melody were introduced into the Orient.

Where money circulates so freely and is spent so recklessly as in
Manila, where the "East of Suez" moral standard is established,
the young fellows who have come out to the Far East, inspired by
Kipling's poems and the spirit of the Orient, are tempted constantly
to live beyond their means. It is a country "where there ain't no Ten
Commandments, and a man can raise a thirst." Then the Sampoluc and
Quiapo districts, where the carriage-lamps are weaving back and forth
among pavilions softly lighted, where the tinkle of the _samosen_ is
heard, and where O Taki San, immodest but bewitching, stands behind
the beadwork curtain, her kimono parted at the knee,--this is the
world of the Far East, the cup of Circe.

There was the pathetic case of the young man who "went to pieces"
in Manila recently. He was a Harvard athlete, but was physically
unsound. As a result of an unfortunate blow received upon the head
a short time after his arrival in Manila, he became despondent and
morose. After undue excitement he would fall into a dreamy trance. At
such times he would fancy that his mother had died, and he would
be convulsed with sorrow, breaking unexpectedly into a rousing
college song. He meditated suicide, and was prevented several times
from taking his own life. On coming to Manila from the provinces,
he stoutly refused to be sent home, but lived at his friends'
expense, trying to borrow money from everybody that he met. Other
young fellows overwhelmed by debts have tried to break loose from
the Islands, but have been brought back from Japanese ports to be
placed in Bilibid. That is the saddest life of all--in Bilibid. Many
a convict in that prison, far away, has been a gentleman, and there
are mothers in America who wonder why their boys do not come home.

Somebody once said that Manila life was a perpetual farewell. The days
of the arrival and departure of the transports are the days that vary
the monotony. As the procession of big mail-wagons rumbles down the
Escolta to the post-office, as the letters from America are opened, as
the last month's newspapers and magazines appear in the shop-windows,
comes a moment of regret and lonesomeness. But as the transport, with
its tawny load of soldiers and of joyful officers, pulls out, the
dweller in Manila, long ago resigned to fate, takes up the grind again.

Sometimes, on Sunday morning, he will take the customs-house launch
out to one of the Manila-Hong Kong boats, to see a friend off for the
homeland and "God's country." Leaning over the taffrail, while the
crowd below is celebrating the departure by the opening of bottles,
he will fancy that he, too, is going--till the warning whistle sounds,
and it is time to go ashore. The best view of Manila, it is said,
is that obtained from the stern deck of an outgoing steamer, as the
red lighthouse and the pier fade gradually away. But even after he
has reached the "white man's country" some time he may "hear the East
a-calling," and come back again.





Chapter IV.

Around the Provinces.


A half century before the founding of Manila, Magellan had set up the
cross upon a small hill on the site of Butuan, on the north coast
of Mindanao, celebrating the first mass in the new land, and taking
possession of the island in the name of Spain. Three centuries have
passed since then, and there are still tribes on that island who
have never yielded to the influence of Christianity nor recognized
the authority of Spain or the United States. Magellan's flotilla
sailing north touched at Cebu, where the explorers made a treaty
with King Hamabar. The king invited them to attend a banquet, where,
on seeing that his visitors were off their guard, he slew a number
of them mercilessly, while the rest escaped. On the same spot three
hundred and fifty-odd years later, three American schoolteachers were
as treacherously slain by the descendants of this Malay king.

Not till the expedition of Legaspi and the Augustine monks visited
the shores of the Visayan islands were the natives subjugated, and the
finding of the _Santo Nino_ (Holy Child) brought this about. Since then
the monks and friars, playing on the superstition of the islanders,
have managed to control them and to mold them to their purposes. In
1568 a permanent establishment was made at Cebu by the bestowal of
munitions, troops, and arms, brought by the galleons of Don Juan de
Salcedo. The conquest of the northern provinces began soon after the
flotilla of Legaspi came to anchor in Manila Bay.

The idea that Manila or the island of Luzon comprises most of our
possessions in the East is one that I have found quite prevalent
throughout America. The broken blue line of the coast of Luzon
reaches away in a dim contour to the northward for two hundred miles,
until the chain of the Zambales Mountains breaks into the flying,
wave-lashed islands standing out against the trackless sea. Southern
Luzon, the country of Batangas, and the Camarines, extends a hundred
miles south of Manila Bay.

In the far north are the rich provinces of Cagayan, Ilocos Norte and
Ilocos Sur, Abra, Benguet, and Nueva Viscaya. The land at the sea level
produces hemp, tobacco, rice, and cocoanuts; the heavily-timbered
mountain <DW72>s contain rich woods, cedar, mahogany, molave, ebony,
and ipil. A wonderful river rushes through the mountain canyons, and
the famous valley of the Cagayan is formed--the garden of Eden of the
Philippines. The peaks of the Zambales are so high that frost will
sometimes gather at the tops, while in the upper forests even the flora
of the temperate zone is reproduced. Negritos, the primeval savages,
run wild in the great wilderness, while cannibals, head-hunters,
and other barbaric peoples live but a short distance from the shore.

The islands to the south of Luzon reach in a long chain toward Borneo,
a distance of six hundred miles. During a journey to the southern
islands a continuous procession of majestic mountains moves by like
a panorama--first the misty peaks of the Mindoro coast; and then
the wooded group of islands in the Romblon Archipelago, that rises
abruptly out of the blue sea. Hundreds of smaller islands, like
bouquets, dot the waters off Panay, while the bare ridges of Cebu of
the Plutonic peaks of <DW64>s loom up far beyond. Passing the triple
range of Mindanao, the scattered islands of the Jolo Archipelago,
the Tapul and the Tawi-Tawi groups mark the extreme southern limits
of the Philippines.

In nearly all these islands the interior is taken up by various tribes
of savages, sixty or seventy different tribes in all, speaking as many
different dialects. There are the Igorrotes of the north, who make
it their religion, when the fire-tree blooms, to go out on a still
hunt after human heads. When one of their tribe dies, the number of
fingers that he holds up as he breathes his last expresses the number
of heads which his survivors must secure. An Igorrote suitor, too, must
pay the price, if he would have his bride, in human heads. The head
of his best friend or of his deadliest enemy is equally acceptable;
and if his own pate fall in the attempt, he would not be alone among
those who have "lost their heads" because of a fair woman.

Although the island of Luzon was settled later than the southern
islands, civilization has been more widely disseminated in the north. A
railway line connects Manila with Dagupan and the other cities of
the distant provinces. Aparri, on the Rio Grande, near its mouth,
is the commercial port of Cagayan. The country around is rich in
live stock, and is partly under cultivation. During the rainy season,
however, the pontoon bridges over the Rio Grande are swept away; the
roads become impassable. The raging torrent of the river threatens
the inland navigation, while the monsoons on the China Sea make
transportation very difficult.

The provinces of North and South Ilocos bristle with dense forests,
where not only savages, but deer, wild hogs, and jungle-fowl abound,
and where the white man's foot has never been. The natives bring the
forest products, pitch, rattan, and the wild honey, to the coast towns,
where they can exchange their goods for rice. While in the mountainous
regions of the northern part, barbarians too timid to approach the
coast are found, most of the pagan natives are of a mixed type. The
primitive Negritos, living in these parts, as those also living on
the island of <DW64>s and in Mindanao, are of unknown origin--unless
they are allied with similar types of pigmies, such as the Sakais of
the Malay Peninsula, or the Mincopies of the Andaman Islands in the
Indian Ocean. Some anthropologists would even associate them with
the black dwarfs in the interior of Africa. These savages live a
nomadic life, and seldom come down near the villages. But the mixed
tribes, the Negrito-Malay, or the Malay-Japanese, are bolder and
more enterprising. The presence of the Japanese and Chinese pirates
in this country in the early days has been the cause of many of the
eccentric types whose origin, entirely independent from the origin of
the Negritos, was Malayan. Here the Ilocanes, or the natives of the
better class, the Christians of these provinces, although of Malay
origin, belong to a more cultured class of Malay ancestry. They are
amenable to Christian influences, and their manners are agreeable
and pleasing. They cultivate abundant quantities of sugar, cotton,
indigo, rice, and tobacco, and the women weave the famous _Ilocano_
blankets that are sold at such a premium in Manila. Vigan, the capital
of South Ilocos, has the finest public buildings and the best-kept
streets of any of the provincial cities.

Another tribe of people, the Zambales, are to be found toward the
center of Luzon. Few Igorrotes, Ilocanes, and Negritos live in the
province of Zambales or Pangasinan. Pampanga Province also has its
own tribe and a different dialect. Tagalog is spoken around Manila,
in Laguna Province, in Batangas, and the Camarines; Visayan is the
language of the southern islands.



A monotonous sameness is the characteristic of most of the small
Filipino towns. In seeing one you have seen all; you wonder what
good can come out of such a Nazareth, and there are very few of
the provincial capitals, indeed, that merit a description. Rambling
official buildings, made of white concrete and roofed with _nipa_
or with corrugated iron; a ragged plaza, with the church and convent,
and the long streets lined with native houses; pigs with heads like
coal-scuttles; chickens and yellow dogs and naked brats, scabby
and peanut-shaped,--such are the first and last impressions of the
Filipino town.

We reached Cebu during the rainy season, and it was a little city
of muddy streets and tiled roofs. As the transport came to anchor
in the harbor, Filipino boys came out in long canoes, and dived for
pennies till the last you saw of them was the white soles of their
bare feet. And in another boat two little girls were dancing, while
the boys went through the manual of arms. A number of tramp steamers,
barkentines, and the big Hong Kong boat were lying in the harbor,
while the coasting steamers of the Chinese merchants and the smaller
hemp-boats lined the docks. As this was our first port in the Visayan
group, the difference between the natives here and those of the Far
North was very noticeable. There, the volcanic, wiry Tagalog, or
the athletic Igorrote savage; here, the easy-going, happy Visayan,
carabao-like in his movements, with a large head, enormous mouth
and feet.

Along the water front a line of low white buildings ran,--the
wholesale houses of the English, Chinese, Spanish, and American
commercial firms. The street was full of carabao carts, yoked to their
uncomfortable cattle. Agents and merchants, dressed in white, were
hurrying to and fro with manifests. Around the corner was a long street
blocked with merchandise, and shaded with the awnings of the Chinese
stores. There was a little barber-shop in a _kiosko_, where an idle
native, crossing his legs and tilting back his chair, abandoned himself
to the spirit of a big guitar. The avenue that branched off here would
be thronged with shoppers during the busy hours. Here were the retail
stores of every description--"The Nineteenth-century Bazaar," the
stock of which was every bit as modern as its name--clothing-stores,
tailor-shops, restaurants, jewelry-stores, and curio bazaars.

Numerous plazas were surrounded by old Spanish buildings and
hotels. The public gardens--if the acre of dried palms and withered
grass may so be called--were situated near the water front, and had a
band stand for the use of the musicians on _fiesta_ days. The racetrack
was adjacent to the gardens, and the public buildings faced these
reservations. The magnificent old churches, with their picturesque
bell towers; the white convent walls, with niches for the statuettes
of saints; the colleges and convents,--give to the provincial capital
an air of dignity.

The boarding-house, kept by a crusty but good-hearted Englishman,
stood opposite the row of porches roofed with heavy tiles, that made
_Calle Colon_ a colonnade. Across the street was a window in the wall,
where the brown-eyed Lucretia used to sell ginger-ale and sarsaparilla
to the soldiers. With her waving pompadour, her olive cheeks, and
sultry eyes, Lucretia was the belle of all the town. There wasn't a
soldier in the whole command who wouldn't have laid down his life for
her. And in this land where nothing seemed to be worth while, Lucretia,
with her pretty manners and her gentle ways, had a good influence
upon the tawny musketeers who dropped in to play a game of dominos
or drink a glass of soda with her; and she treated all of them alike.

A monkey chattered on the balcony, sliding up and down the bamboo-pole,
or reaching for pieces of bananas which the boarders passed him
from the dinner-table. "Have you chowed yet?" asked a grating voice,
which, on a negative reply, ordered a place to be made ready for me
at the table. Barefooted _muchachos_ placed the thumb-marked dishes
on the dirty table-cloth. I might add that a napkin had been spread
to cover the spot where the tomato catsup had been spilled, and that
the chicken-soup, in which a slice of bread was soaked, slopped over
the untidy thumb that carried it. But I omitted this course, as the
red ants floating on the surface of the broth rendered the dish a
questionable delicacy. The boarders had adjourned to the parlor,
and were busy reading "Diamond Dick," "Nick Carter," and the other
five and ten cent favorites. A heavy rain had set in, as I drew my
chair up to the light and tried to lose myself in the adventures of
the boy detective.

But the mosquitoes of Cebu! The rainy season had produced them by
the wholesale, and full-blooded ones at that. These were the strange
bed-fellows that made misery that night, as they discovered openings
in the mosquito-bar that, I believe, they actually made themselves! The
parlor (where the bed was situated) was a very interesting room. There
was a rickety walnut cabinet containing an assortment of cobwebby
Venus's fingers, which remind you of the mantel that you fit over
the gas jet; seashells that had been washed up, appropriately branded
"Souvenir of Cebu;" tortoise-shell curios from Nagasaki, and an album
of pictures from Japan. The floor was polished every morning by the
house-boys, and the furniture arranged in the most formal manner,
_vis-a-vis_.

The _senorita_ Rosario, the sister-in-law of the proprietor, came in
to entertain me presently, dressed in a bodice of blue _pina_, with the
wide sleeves newly starched and ironed, and with her hair unbound. She
sat down opposite me in a rocking-chair, shook off her slippers on the
floor, and curling her toes around the rung, rocked violently back and
forth. She punctuated her remarks by frequent clucks, which, I suppose,
were meant to be coquettish. Her music-teacher was expected presently;
so while I wrote a letter on her _escritorio_, the _senorita_ smoked
a cigarette upon the balcony. The _maestro_ came at last; a little,
pock-marked fellow, dapper, and neatly dressed, his fingers stained
with nicotine from cigarettes. Together they took places at the
small piano, and I could see by their exchange of glances that the
music-lesson was an incidental feature of the game. They sang together
from a Spanish opera the song of Pepin, the great braggadocio, of whom
't is said, when he goes walking in the streets, "the girls assemble
just to see him pass."


                "Cuando me lanzo a calle
                Con el futsaque y el cla,
                Todas las ninas se asoman
                Solo por ver me pasar:
                Unas a otras se dicen
                Que chico mas resa lao!
                De la sal que va tirando
                Voy a coher un punao."


When the music-teacher had departed, the _senorita_ leaned out of
the balcony, watching the crowd of beggars in the street below. Of
all the beggars of the Orient, those of Cebu are the most clinging
and persistent and repulsive. Covered with filthy rags and scabs,
with emaciated bodies and pinched faces, they are allowed to come
into the city every week and beg for alms. Their whining, "_Da mi
dinero, senor, mucho pobre me_" ("Give me some money, sir, for I am
very poor"), sounds like a last wail from the lower world.

It was at Iloilo that we took a local excursion steamer across to
the _pueblo_ of Salai, in <DW64>s. It was a holiday excursion, and the
boat was packed with natives out for fun. There was a peddler with a
stock of lemon soda-water, sarsaparilla, sticks of boiled rice, cakes,
and cigarettes. A game of _monte_ was immediately started on the deck,
the Filipinos squatting anxiously around the dealer, wagering their
_suca ducos_ (pennies) or their silver pieces on the turn of certain
cards. It was a perfectly good-natured game, rendered absurd by the
concentric circles of bare feet surrounding it. There seemed to be
a personality about those feet; there were the sleek extremities
of some more prosperous councilman or _insurrecto_ general; there
were the horny feet of the old women, slim and bony, or a pair of
great toes quizzically turned in; and there were flat feet, speckled,
brown, or yellow, like a starfish cast up on the sand. They seemed to
watch the game with interest, and to note every move the dealer made,
smiling or frowning as they won or lost. There was a tramway at Salay,
drawn by a bull, and driven by a fellow whose chief object seemed to
be to linger with the _senorita_ at the terminus. The town was hotter
than the desert of Sahara, and as sandy; there was little prospect
oL relief save in the distant mountains rising to the clouds in the
blue distance.

Returning to our caravansary at Iloilo, we discovered that our beds
had been assigned to others; there was nothing left to do but take
possession of the first unoccupied beds that we saw. One of our party
evidently got into the "Spaniard's" bed, the customary resting-place
of the proprietor, for presently we were awakened by the anxious
cries of the _muchachos, "Senor, senor, el Espanol viene_!" (Sir,
the Spaniard comes!) But he was not to be put out by any Spaniard,
and expressed his sentiments by rolling over and emitting a loud
snore. The Spaniard, easily excited, on his entrance flew into an
awful rage, while the usurper calmly snored, and the _muchachos_
peeked in through the door at peril of their lives.

Nothing especially of interest is to be found at Iloilo,--only a
long avenue containing Spanish, native, and Chinese stores; a tiny
_plaza_, where the city band played and the people promenaded hand
in hand; a harbor flecked with white, triangular sails of native
_velas_; and the river, where the coasting boats and tugs are lying
at the docks. Neat cattle take the place of carabaos here to a great
extent. There is the usual stone fort that seems to belong to some
scene of a comic opera. America was represented here by a Young Men's
Christian Association, a clubhouse, and a _presidente_. The troops
then stationed in the town added a certain tone of liveliness.

It was a week of carol-singing in the streets, of comedies performed
by strolling bands of children, masses, and concerts in the _plaza_. On
Christmas afternoon we went out to the track to see the bicycle races,
which at that time were a fad among the Filipinos. The little band
played in the grand-stand, and the people cheered the racers as
they came laboriously around the turn. The meet was engineered by
some American, but, from a standpoint of close finishes, left much
to be desired. The market-place on Christmas eve was lighted by a
thousand lanterns, and the little people wandered among the booths,
smoking their cigarettes and eating peanuts. Until early morning
the incessant shuffling in the streets kept up, for every one had
gone to midnight mass. Throughout the town the strumming of guitars,
the voices of children, and the blare of the brass band was heard,
and the next morning Jack-pudding danced on the corner to the infinite
amusement of the crowd. As for our own celebration, that was held in
the back room of a local restaurant, the Christmas dinner consisting
of canned turkey and canned cranberry-sauce, canned vegetables,
and ice-cream made of condensed milk.





Chapter V.

On Summer Seas.


The foolish little steamer _Romulus_ never exactly knew when she was
going, whither away, or where. The cargo being under hatches, all
regardless of the advertised time of departure, whether the passengers
were notified or not, she would stand clumsily down stream and out
to sea. The captain, looking like a pirate in his Tam o'Shanter cap,
or the pink little mate with the suggestion of a mustache on his
upper lip, if they had been informed about sailing hour, were never
willing to divulge the secret. If you tried to argue the matter with
them or impress them with a sense of their responsibility; if you
attempted to explain the obvious advantages of starting within, say,
twenty-four hours of the stated time, they would turn wearily away,
irreprehensible, with a protesting gesture.

Not even excepting the Inland Sea, that dreamy waterway among the
grottoes, pines, and _torii_ of picturesque Japan, there is no sea
so beautiful as that around the Southern Philippines. The stately
mountains, that go sweeping by in changing shades of green or blue,
appeal directly to the imagination. Unpopulated islands--islands of
which some curious myths are told of wild white races far in the
interior; of spirits haunting mountain-side and vale; volcanoes,
in a lowering cloud of sulphurous smoke; narrows, and wave-lashed
promontories, where the ships can not cross in the night; great mounds
of foliage that tower in silence hardly a stone's throw from the ship,
like some wild feature of a dream,--such are the characteristics of
the archipelago.

The grandeur of the scenery, the tempered winds, the sense of being
alone in an untraveled wilderness, made up in part for the discomforts
of the _Romulus_. The tropical sunsets, staining the sky until the
whole west was a riot of color, fiery red and gold; the false dawn,
and the sunrise breaking the ramparts of dissolving cloud; the
moonlight on the waters, where the weird beams make a shimmering
path that leads away across the planet waste to _terra incognita_,
or to some dank sea-cave where the sirens sing,--this is a day and
a night upon the summer seas.

At night, as the black prow goes pushing through the phosphorescent
waters, porpoises of solid silver, puffing desperately, tumble about
the bows, or dive down underneath the rushing hull. The surging
waves are billows of white fire. In the electric moonlight the blue
mountains, more mysterious than ever, stand out in bold relief. What
restless tribes of savages are wandering now through the trackless
forests, sleeping in lofty trees, or in some scanty shelter amid the
tangled underbrush! The light that flickers in the distant gorge,
perchance illumines some religious orgy--some impassioned dance of
primitive and pagan men. What spirits are abroad to-night, invoked at
savage altars by the incantations of the savage priests--spirits of
trees and rivers emanating from the hidden shrines of an almighty
one! Or it may be that the light comes from an isolated leper
settlement, where the unhappy mortals spend in loneliness their
dreary lives.

On the first trip of the _Romulus_ I was assigned to a small, mildewed,
stuffy cabin, where the unsubstantial, watery roaches played at
hide-and-seek around the wash-stand and the floor. It was a splendid
night to sleep on deck; and so, protected from the stiff breeze by the
flapping canvas, on an army cot which the _muchacho_ had stretched out,
I went to sleep, my thoughts instinctively running into verse:


    "The wind was just as steady, and the vessel tumbled more,
    But the waves were not as boist'rous as they were the day
    before."


It was the rhythm of the sea, the good ship rising on the waves,
the cats'-paws flying into gusts of spray before the driving wind.

I was awakened at four bells by the disturbance of the sailors swabbing
down the deck--an exhibition performance, as the general condition
of the ship led me to think. Breakfast was served down in the forward
cabin, where, with deep-sea appetites, we eagerly attacked a tiny cup
of chocolate, very sweet and thick, a glass of coffee thinned with
condensed milk, crackers, and ladyfingers. That was all. Some of our
fellow-passengers had been there early, as the dirty table-cloth and
dishes testified. A Filipino woman at the further end was engaged in
dressing a baby, while the provincial treasurer, in his pink pajamas,
tried to shave before the dingy looking-glass. An Indian merchant,
a Visayan belle with dirty finger-nails and ankles, and a Filipino
justice of the peace still occupied the table. Reaching a vacant
place over the piles of rolled-up sleeping mats and camphorwood
boxes--the inevitable baggage of the Filipino--I swept off the crumbs
upon the floor, and, after much persuasion, finally secured a glass
of lukewarm coffee and some broken cakes. The heavy-eyed _muchacho_,
who, with such reluctance waited on the table, had the grimiest feet
that I had ever seen.

A second meal was served at ten o'clock, for which the tables were
spread on deck. The plates were stacked up like Chinese pagodas, and
counting them, you could determine accurately the number of courses
on the bill of fare. There were about a dozen courses of fresh meat
and chicken--or the same thing cooked in different styles. Garlic
and peppers were used liberally in the cooking. Heaps of boiled rice,
olives, and sausage that defied the teeth, wrapped up in tinfoil, "took
the taste out of your mouth." Bananas, mangoes, cheese, and guava-jelly
constituted the dessert. After the last plate had been removed, the
grizzled captain at the head of the table lighted a coarse cigarette,
which, in accordance with the Spanish custom, he then passed to the
mate, so that the mate could light his cigarette. This is a more polite
way than to make an offer of a match. Coffee and cognac was brought
on after a considerable interval. Although this process was repeated
course for course at eight o'clock, during the interim you found it
was best to bribe the steward and eat an extra meal of crackers.

Our next voyage in the _Romulus_ was unpropitious from the start. We
were detained five days in quarantine in Manila Bay. There was no
breeze, and the hot sun beat down upon the boat all day. To add
to our discomforts, there was nothing much to eat. The stock of
lady-fingers soon became exhausted, and the stock of crackers, too,
showed signs of running out. As an experiment I ordered eggs for
breakfast once--but only once. The cook had evidently tried to serve
them in disguise, believing that a large amount of cold grease would
in some way modify their taste. He did not seem to have the least
respect for old age. It was the time of cholera; the boat might have
become a pesthouse any moment. But the steward assured us that the
drinking water had been neither boiled nor filtered. There was no
ice, and no more bottled soda, the remaining bottles being spoken
for by the ship's officers. At the breakfast-table two calves and
a pig, that had been taken on for fresh meat, insisted upon eating
from the plates. The sleepy-eyed _muchacho_ was by this time grimier
than ever. Even the passengers did not have any opportunity to take
a bath. One glance at the ship's bathtub was sufficient.

It was a happy moment when we finally set out for the long rambling
voyage to the southern isles. The captain went barefooted as he paced
the bridge. A stop at one place in the Camarines gave us a chance
to go ashore and buy some bread and canned fruit from the military
commissary. How the captain and the mate scowled as we supplemented
our elaborate meals with these purchases! One of the passengers, a
miner, finally exasperated at the cabin-boy, made an attack upon the
luckless fellow, when the steward, who had been wanting an excuse to
exploit his authority, came up the hatchway bristling. In his Spanish
jargon he explained that he considered it as his prerogative to punish
and abuse the luckless boy, which he did very capably at times; that
he would tolerate no interference from the passengers. But the big
miner only looked him over like a cock-of-the-walk regarding a game
bantam. Being a Californian, the miner told the steward in English
(which that officer unfortunately did not understand) that if the
service did not presently improve, the steward and cabin-boy together
would go overboard.

Stopping at Dumaguete, Oriental <DW64>s, where we landed several
teachers, with their trunks and furniture, upon the hot sands,
most of us went ashore in surf-boats, paddled by the kind of men
that figure prominently in the school geographies. It was a chapter
from "Swiss Family Robinson,"--the white surf lashing the long
yellow beach; the rakish palm-trees bristling in the wind; a Stygian
volcano rising above a <DW72> of tropic foliage; the natives gathering
around, all open-mouthed with curiosity. At Camaguin, where the boat
stopped at the sultry little city of Mambajo, an accident befell our
miner. When we found him, he was sleeping peacefully under a _nipa_
shade, guarded by a municipal policeman, with the ring of Filipinos
clustering around. He had been drinking native "_bino_" (wine), and it
had been too much even for him, a discharged soldier and a Californian.

It was almost a pleasant change, the transfer to the tiny launch
_Victoria_, that smelled of engine oil and Filipinos, and was commanded
by my old friend Dumalagon. The _Victoria_ at that time had a most
unpleasant habit of lying to all night, and sailing with the early
dawn. When I had found an area of deck unoccupied by feet or Filipino
babies, Chinamen or ants, I spread an army blanket out and went to
sleep in spite of the incessant drizzle which the rotten canopy seemed
not to interrupt. I was awakened in the small hours by the rattle of
the winch. These little boats make more ado in getting under way than
any ocean steamer I have ever known. Becoming conscious of a cloud of
opium-smoke escaping from the cockpit, which was occupied by several
Chinamen, I shifted to windward, stepping over the sprawling forms
of sleepers till I found another place, the only objection to which
was the proximity of numerous brown feet and the hot engine-room. The
squalling of an infant ushered in the rosy-fingered dawn.

Most of the transportation of the southern islands is accomplished by
such boats as the _Victoria_. I can remember well the nights spent
on the launch _Da-ling-ding_, an impossible, absurd craft, that
rolled from side to side in the most gentle sea. She would start out
courageously to cross the bay along the strip of Moro coast in Northern
Mindanao; but the throbbing of her engines growing weaker and weaker,
she would presently turn back faint-hearted, unable to make headway, at
the mercy of a sudden storm, and with the possibility of being swept up
on a hostile shore among bloodthirsty and unreasonable Moros. Another
time, and we were caught in a typhoon off the north coast. We thought,
of course, our little ship was stanch, until we asked the captain his
opinion. "If the engines hold out," he replied, "we may come through
all right. The engineer says that the old machine will probably blow up
now any time, and that the Filipinos have quit working and begun their
prayers." Generally a Filipino is the first to give up in a crisis;
but I have seen some that managed their canoes in a rough sea with
as much skill and coolness as an expert yachtsman could have shown. I
have to thank Madrono for the way in which he handled the small boat
that put out in a sea like glass and ran into a squall fifteen miles
out. All through the morning we had poled along over the crust of
coral bottom, where, in the transparent water, indigo fishes swam,
where purple starfish sprawled among the coral--coral of many colors
and in many forms. But as the wind came up and lashed the choppy
sea to whitecaps, as the huge waves swept along and seemed about to
knock the little _banca_ "off her feet," Madrono, standing on the
bamboo outrigger--a framework lashed together with the native cane,
the breaking of which would have immediately upset the boat--kept
her bow pointed for the shore, although a counter storm threatened
to blow us out to the deep sea.

So, after knocking around in _bancas_, picnicking with natives on the
chicken-bone and boiled rice; after a wild cruise in the _Thomas_,
where the captain and the crew, as drunk as lords, let the old rotten
vessel drift, while threatening with a gun the man that dared to meddle
with the steering gear; after a dreary six months in a provincial
town,--it seemed like coming into a new world to step aboard the clean
white transport, with electric-lights and an upholstered smoking-room.

A tourist party, mostly army officers, their wives and daughters,
"doing" the archipelago, made up the passenger list of the
transport. The officers, now they had settled satisfactorily the
question of superiority and "rank," made an agreeable company. There
was the Miss Bo Peep, in pink and white, who wore a dozen different
military pins, and would not look at any one unless he happened to
be "in the service." Like many of the army girls, she had no use
for the civilians or volunteers. Her mamma told with pride how,
at their last "at home," nobody under the rank of a major had been
present. One of the young lieutenants down at Zamboanga, when he
found she had not worn his pin, "retired to cry." But then, of course,
Bo Peep was not responsible for young lieutenants' hearts. If he had
been a captain--well, that is another thing. There was the English
sugar-planter from the Tawi-Tawi group, who never lost sight of the
ranking officer, who dressed in flannels, changed his clothes three
times a day, and who expressed his only ideas to me by virtue of a
confidential wink.

For three whole days we were a part of the fresh winds, the tossing
waves, the moon and stars. And as the ship plowed through the sea at
night, the phosphorescent surge retreated like a line of silver fire.





Chapter VI.

Among the Pagan Tribes.


With Padre Cipriano I had started out on horseback from the little
trading station on Davao Bay. We were to strike along the east
coast, in the territory of the fierce Mandayas, and to penetrate some
distance into the interior in order to convert the pagans with the long
eyelashes who inhabited this unknown region. It was a clear day when
we set out on our missionary enterprise, and we could see the black
peak of Mount Apo, which, according to the legends of the wild Bagobos,
is the throne of the great King of Devils, and the gate to hell.

We struck a faint trail leading to the foot-hills where the barren
ridges overlooked the sparkling sea--a vast cerulian expanse without a
single fleck of a white sail. The trail led through the great fields
of buffalo-grass, out of which gigantic solitary trees shot up a
hundred feet into the air. There were no signs of life, only the
vultures in the topmost branches of the trees. Wild horses, taking
flight at our approach, stampeded for the forest. Nothing could
be seen in the tall grass. Even in our saddles it was higher than
our heads. The trail became more rugged as we entered the big belt
of forest on the foot-hills. A wild hog bolted for the jungle with
distressed grunts. It was a world of white vines falling from the lofty
branches of the trees. The animal life in some of the great trees was
wonderful. The branches were divided into zones, wherein each class
of bird or reptile had its habitat. Around the base were galleries of
white ants. Flying lizards from the gnarled trunk skated through the
air. Green reptiles crawled along the horizontal branches. Parrakeets,
a colony of saucy green and red balls, screamed and protested from the
lower zones. An agile monkey swung from one of the long sweeping vines,
and scolded at us from another tree. Bats, owls, and crows inhabited
the upper regions, while the buzzards perched like evil omens in the
topmost boughs.

Just when our throats were parched from lack of water, we discovered
a small mountain torrent gushing over the rocks and bowlders of the
rugged <DW72>. Leaning across one of the large bowlders, from a dark
pool where the sunlight never penetrated, we scooped up refreshing
hatfuls of the ice-cold water. Here was the world as God first found
it, when he said that it was good. It was impressive and mysterious. It
seemed to wrap us in a mystic spell. What wonder that the pagan tribes
that roamed through the interior had peopled it with gods and spirits
of the chase, and that the trees and rivers seemed to them the spirits
of the good or evil deities? The note of the wood-pigeon sounded on the
right. The padre smiled as he looked up. "That is a favorable omen,"
he declared. "In the religion of the river-dwellers, the Bagobos,
when the wood-dove calls, it is the voice of God. Hark! It is coming
from the right. It is a favorable sign, and we can go upon our journey
undisturbed. But had we heard it on the left, it would have been to us
a warning to turn back. Our journey then would have been unpropitious,
and we would have been afraid to go on farther."

"Does it not seem like a grand cathedral," said the padre, "this vast
forest? In the days when Northern Europe was a wilderness and savage
people hunted in the forests; in the days when the undaunted Norsemen
braved the stormy ocean in their daring craft,--here, in these woods,
the petty chiefs and head men held their courts of justice after the
traditions of their tribes, just as they do to-day. Here they have
set their traps--the arrows loosened from a bamboo spring--and while
they waited, they have left the offering of eggs and rice for the good
deity. Here they have hunted their blood enemies, lying in ambush,
or digging pitfalls where the sharpened stakes were planted. Tama,
the god of venery, has lured the deer into their traps; Tumanghob,
god of harvest, whom they have invited to their feasts, has made the
corn and the _camotes_ prosper; Mansilitan, the great spirit, has
descended from the mountain-tops and aided them against their enemies."

We knew that it was growing late by the deep shadows of the
woods. So, taking our bearings with a pocket compass, we turned
east in the direction of the coast. There was no trail to follow,
and we blundered on as best we could. We had now been in the saddle
for ten hours. The ponies stumbled frequently, for they were almost
spent. The moon rose, and the hoary mountain loomed up just ahead of
us. "We seem to be lost," said the padre; "that is a strange peak to
me." But nevertheless we kept on toward the east. Soon we had passed
beyond the forest, which appeared behind us a great dusky belt. The
numerous rocks and crags made progress difficult, almost impossible.

"Look!" said the padre, "do you see that light?" We tethered the
ponies at a distance, crept up stealthily behind the rocks, and
reconnoitered. And what we looked on was the strangest sight that ever
mortal eyes beheld. It was like living again in the Dark Ages--in the
days before the sages and the sun-myth. It was like turning back the
leaves of history--back to the legendary, prehistoric times.

A lofty grove encircled a chaotic mass of rock. The clearing
was illuminated by the flaring torches carried by a dusky band of
men. Weird shadows leaped and played in the dense foliage, where, high
above the ground, rude shelters had been made in the thick branches
of the trees. The form of a woman, flashing with silver trinkets when
the rays of light fell on her, was descending from a tree by means of
a long parasitic vine. Around the palm-leaf huts that occupied the
center of the amphitheater, an altar of bamboo had been erected. We
could see, in the dim light, rude images of idols standing in front
of every hut and near the altar.

As our eyes became accustomed to the gloom, we could make out the
forms of men and women, dressed in brilliant colors and with silver
bracelets on their arms. In silence we crept closer. The crowd
was visibly excited. It was evident that something of a solemn
and extraordinary nature was about to be performed. There were the
chief assassins, so the padre whispered to me, who were decorated
savagely, according to the number of victims each had slain. The
ordinary men wore open vests or jackets and loose pantaloons. The
women, evidently decked out with a complement of finery in honor of
the celebration, wore short aprons reaching to the knee. Some wore
gold collars around their necks and silver-embroidered slippers on
their feet. Their bare arms sparkled with the coils of silver bands
and bracelets that encircled them, while silver anklets jingled with
the movement of their feet. They had red tassels in their hair, and
earrings made of pieces of carved bone. A number of dancing-girls, as
they appeared to be, had strings of red and yellow beads or animals'
teeth fastened around their necks. Their breasts were covered with
short bodices that fell so as to leave a portion of the waist exposed.

The chief assassins were completely clad in scarlet, indicating
that the wearer had disposed of more than twenty enemies. The lesser
assassins wore yellow handkerchiefs around their heads, and some were
dignified with scarlet vests. A miserable naked slave was pinioned
where he had been thrown upon the ground near by. Although of the
inferior race of the Bilanes from Lake Buluan, his eyes flashed as
he regarded the assembled people scornfully. They were to offer up
a human sacrifice to Mansilitan, the all-powerful god.

The head men seemed to be engaged in a dispute. A wild hog, also lying
near the altar, was the object of their serious attention. After they
had chattered for a while, and having evidently decided on the pig, the
drums and tambourines struck up a doleful melody, and those assembled
joined in a solemn chant. The pig was carefully lifted to the altar,
and the chant grew more intensified. A number of dancing-girls,
describing mystic circles with their jeweled arms, were trembling
violently, bending rhythmically, gracefully from side to side. The
music seemed to hypnotize the people, who kept shuffling with their
feet monotonously on the ground. The leader of the dance then stuck
the living pig with a sharp dagger. As the red blood spurted out,
she caught a mouthful of it, and applying her mouth quickly to the
wound, she sucked the fluid till she reeled and fell away. Another
followed her example, and another, till the pig was drained.

It was not difficult to fancy a like orgy with the quivering slave
upon the altar in the place of the wild hog. The spirit of Mansilitan
then came down--the spirit was, of course, invisible--and talked with
the head men about their enemies, the crops, and game. The chiefs were
chewing cinnamon and betel till their mouths were red. The master of
ceremonies then brought out enormous quantities of _tuba_, and his
guests completed the religious ceremony with a wholesale drunk.

Under the cover of the darkness, Padre Cipriano and I slipped away. We
shuddered at what we had just seen, and were silent. Leading the ponies
a short distance into the brush, we slept upon the blankets which the
ponies had completely saturated with their perspiration. All night
we dreamed of human sacrifices and the warm blood spurting from the
victim's breast.... They had the padre now upon the altar, and the
chief had bidden me to take the knife and draw his blood. But the
great god--a creature with the horns of a bull carabao--descended,
crying that the enemy was now upon us and the crops had failed. From
our uneasy sleep the crowing of the jungle-fowl awakened us, and
for the first time we expressed ourselves in words. "Padre," I said,
"it's just like being in a book of Du Chaillu's or Rider Haggard's;"
and the padre smiled.

After the ponies, who were very stiff, were limbered up a bit, we
traveled on in the direction of the sea. We stopped beside a mountain
stream to bathe and eat a breakfast of canned sausages. That afternoon
we rode into a small Mandaya settlement where the head man showed
Padre Cipriano every courtesy at his command. They listened eagerly to
Padre Cipriano, who could speak their language well, as he explained
to them about another Mansilitan, greatest God of all. A number of
them even consented to be baptized; but I am very much afraid that the
conversion was at best a transient one. The head man ordered that his
runners bring into the village of Davao for the padre gifts of game,
wild hog, deer, and jungle-fowl, and, after the padre had presented
him with several strings of green and yellow beads--for the Mandayas
have no use for black beads as their neighbors, the Manobos have--we
took our departure, guided to the trail by a distinguished warrior.

During our sojourn in the settlement we picked up many curious
and interesting facts. Like most of the wild tribes of Mindanao,
that of the Mandayas is athletic and robust. The faces of the men
are somewhat girlish and effeminate, while the expressions of the
warriors are unique. Upon their countenances cunning, cruelty, and
diabolical resource are stamped indelibly. In front of every house
a wooden idol stands, while inside, on a little table, is a smaller
image overwhelmed by gifts of fruit and rice, which members of the
family continually leave upon the shrine. A tiny sack of rice hangs
from the idol's neck, and betel-nuts for him to chew are placed where
they are easily accessible. During the preparation of the evening meal,
one of the family will play upon a native instrument, dancing meanwhile
around the room, and lifting up his voice in supplication to the deity.

The petty ruler or head man is chosen by a natural process of
selection. He is invariably one who, by his prowess and intelligence,
commands the respect and the obedience of all. Assisted by a local
justice of the peace, a bailiff, and a secretary, he conducts affairs
according to the old traditions handed down almost from the beginning
of the world. The families live together, thus preserving clans,
while blood feuds with the neighboring clans or tribes lead to a
system of perpetual extermination, which will be continued till the
tribe becomes extinct. And if the enemy himself can not be killed,
the nearest relative or friend will satisfy the aggressor's hatred
just as well. Cannibalism has been practiced in this tribe with fearful
and disgusting rites. The human sacrifices that they make appease not
only the great spirit, but the lesser ones, the man and wife, or evil
spirits, and the father and son, good spirits. When they go to war,
the lighting men use lances, swords, and bows and arrows. On their
wooden shields, daubed over with red paint, arranged around the edges
like a fringe, are tufts of hair--the souvenirs of men whom they have
killed. Their coats of mail are made of carabao horn cut into small
plates, or of pieces of rattan.

The only use they have for money is to make it into decorations and
embellishments for their most valued weapons, anklets and rings and
collars, which they wear without discrimination. They are a very
imaginative and a superstitious people. From their infancy they
are familiar with the dwarfs, the giants, and the witches, which,
according to the tales of the old women, haunt the woods. A crocodile
that lives down in the center of the earth causes the earthquakes, and,
to put a stop to these, the crocodiles must be persuaded by religious
incantations to go back to bed. A solar eclipse threatens a great
calamity to them, and they are sure that if they do not frighten away
the serpent who is trying to devour the sun, their land will never
see the morning light again. To this end they unite in beating drums
and making a loud noise with sticks.

They bury their dead in coffins made of hollowed logs. A pot of rice
and the familiar weapons will be placed within the grave, so that the
soul will have protection and a food supply for the long journey. And,
like Jacob, the prospective bridegroom has to serve the parents of the
bride for five or seven years before the marriage ceremony can take
place. The marriage-ties are sacred even with this savage race. The
groom-to-be, making from time to time, gifts of wild hogs, rice,
and weapons to the parents of the bride-elect, is finally rewarded
with the bride, and with a dowry as well; perhaps a slave, a bucket
of _tuba_, or a silver-mounted bolo. The average value of a bride
is five or six slaves, which the bridegroom pays if he is able. At
the marriage ceremony the contracting parties generally present each
other with small cups of rice, to signify that they must now endeavor
mutually to support each other.

Among other tribes of the interior of Mindanao, in the river basins
of the Salug and the Agusan, along the east coast, and Davao Bay,
and on the mountain <DW72>s, are the Manobos, possibly of Indonesian
origin, kings of the wilderness, inhabiting the river valleys; the
intrepid Attas, from the <DW72>s of the volcano Apo; the Bagobos,
with their interesting faces and bright clothes, living to the east
of Apo; the fierce Dulaganes of the forests, whom the Moros fear;
Samales, from the island in Davao Bay, strong, bearded people, with
big hands and feet; Bilanes, from Lake Buluan, a wandering, nomadic
race; and the Monteses of the north, sun-worshipers and petty traders.

All of these tribes are probably of Indonesian origin, an independent
origin from that of the Visayans, the Tagalogs, the Negritos, or the
Moros, but of the same social level with the Malay-Chinese pagans of
the northern isles.

I used to see the Montese traders in the market-place of Cagayan
(Misamis), their mobile mouths swimming with betel-juice, with
rings and bracelets on their toes and arms, the girls with hair
banged saucily, adorned with bells and tassels, and with bodices
inadequately covering the breasts; and as they squatted down on
the woven mats, around the honey or the wax they had for sale, they
looked like gypsies from Roumania or Hungary. The men wore bright,
tight-fitting pantaloons and dirty turbans. They resemble the Moros
somewhat in appearance, and have either intermingled with this tribe
or else can trace their origin to Borneo. While they are not so wild
or so exclusive as their fellow-tribes, they quickly resent intrusion
into their towns or their society.

They carry on a slave trade with their neighbors, stealing or kidnaping
from the other tribes, and being stolen from in turn. The women of
some tribes brand their children, filling in the wound with a blue
dye, that serves as an identification if they happen to be snatched
away. The various religious ideas of these pagans are intangible and
indeterminate. The forest seems to be the abiding-place of gods. Some
tribes will offer feasts to these divinities, either leaving the
flesh and rice out in the woods to find that it has disappeared next
morning, or, in many cases, eating it themselves, provided that the
god, who has been earnestly invited, fails to come. The god of disease
is also recognized, and natives living on the coast have been known,
in the time of cholera, to fill canoes with rice and fruit in order
to appease this deity, and leave the boats to drift out with the tide.

Among the Bagobos, curious traditions and religious rites exist. Every
Bagobo thinks he has two souls or spirits; one a good one, and the
other altogether to the bad. To them the summit of Mount Apo is the
throne of the great Devil King, who watches over the crater with
his wife. The crater is the entry-way to hell, and no one can ascend
the mountain if he has not previously offered up a human sacrifice,
so that the Devil King may have a taste of human flesh and blood,
and being satiated, will desire no more. Cannibalism has existed in
these regions more as a religious orgy than a means of sustenance. A
dish was made consisting of the quivering vitals of the victim,
mixed with sweet potatoes, rice, or fruit.

Upon the death of any member of the tribe the house in which he lived
is burned. The body is placed within a hollow tree, and stands for
several days, while a barbaric feast is held around it. The Samales
bury their dead upon a coral island, placing them in grottoes, which
they visit annually with harvest offerings.





Chapter VII.

A Lost Tribe and the Servants of Mohammed.


Wandering, always wandering through the mountains and forests since
the years began,--destined to wander till the forests fall.

Throughout the archipelago, in the dense mountain woods, sleeping
in trees or on the ground, straying away in search of game, without
a fixed place of abode, live the Negritos, aborigines, the pigmy
vagrants of the Philippines. These little men, molesting no one,
yet considering the rest of mankind as their enemy, and wishing only
to be left alone, have hidden in the unexplored interior. Where
they have come from is a mystery. It might have been that, in the
ages past, the chain of islands from Luzon to Borneo was a part of
Asia, an extensive mountain system populated by the tiny men found
there to-day. If so, then they were driven to the highlands by the
cataclysm that in prehistoric ages might have broken up the mainland
into islands, leaving only the summits of the mountains visible.

Or otherwise, might not these wanderers, who have their prototypes
among the pigmies of dark Africa, or in the dwarfs inhabiting New
Guinea--might they not have set sail from Caffraria, New Guinea, or
the country of the Papuans, long years before the Christian era, like
the "Jumblies," in their frail canoes, perhaps escaping persecution,
driven by the winds and currents, to land at last on the unpeopled
shores of Filipinia?

In time came the Malayans of low culture, now the pagan tribes of the
interior, and a conflict--primitive men fighting with rude weapons,
clubs, and stones--ensued for the possession of the coast. In that
event the smaller men were driven back into the territory that they
occupy to-day. The races intermingled, and a medley of strange,
mongrel tribes resulted. They have wandered, scattering themselves
abroad about the islands. Influenced by various environment, each
tribe adopted different customs and built up from common roots the
different dialects. These tribes have always been, and always will
be, mere barbarians and savages. In the pure type of Negritos,
spindle legs, large turned-in feet, weak bodies, and large heads
are noticeable. Shifting eyes, flat noses, kinky hair, and teeth
irregularly set,--these are Negrito characteristics, though they
frequently occur in the _mestizo_ types. The Igorrotes of Luzon,
whose ancestors were possibly the aborigines and the worst element of
the invaders, are to-day the cannibals and the head-hunters of the
north. In Abra, province of Luzon, the Burics and their neighbors,
the Busaos, both of a Negrito-Malay origin, use poisoned darts, tattoo
their bodies, and adorn themselves with copper rings and caps of rattan
decorated with bright feathers. The Manguianes, of the mountains of
Mindoro, dress in rattan coils, supplemented with a scanty apron.

These Malayan races were, in their turn, driven back by later Malays,
who became the nucleus of the Tagalog, Bicol, Ilocano, and Visayan
races, taking possession of the coast and mouths of rivers, and
governing themselves, or being governed by hereditary rajas, just
as when, three centuries ago, Magellan and Legaspi found them. The
Moros, or Mohammedan invaders, were first heard from when, in 1597,
Spain first tried to organize them into a dependent government. These
treacherous pirates, the descendants of the fierce Dyacs of Borneo,
had begun still earlier to terrorize the southern coasts, raiding the
villages and carrying off the children into slavery. In 1599 a Moro
fleet descended on the coast of <DW64>s and Panay, and would, no doubt,
have occupied this territory permanently had not the arms of Spain
been there to interfere. Hereafter Spanish galleons were to oppose
the progress of these pirate fleets, while troops of infantry were to
defeat the savages on land. The Spaniards early in the seventeenth
century succeeded in establishing a foothold on the island of Jolo
and at Zamboanga. It was Father Malchior de Vera who designed the
fort at Zamboanga, which was destined to become the scene of many an
attack by Moro warriors, and to be the base of military operations
against the surrounding tribes. A Jesuit mission was established in the
sultan's territory after the defeat of the Mohammedans by Corcuera. In
the interior, around the shores of Lake Lanao, the fighting padre,
Friar Pedro de San Augustin, backing the cross with Spanish infantry,
carried the Christian war into the country of the infidels, continuing
the conflict that for many years had made a battleground of Spain. It
was in memory of their old enemies, the Moors, that when the Spaniards
met the infidels in eastern lands, they named them Moros (Moors).

The war between Spain and the Moros was relentless. Time and again the
pirates had been punished by the Spanish admirals, until, in 1725,
the sultan sent a Chinese envoy to Manila to negotiate a truce. A
treaty was ratified, but broken, and again the Sulu Moros learned
what Spanish hell was like. In spite of this continual warfare the
Mohammedans grew stronger, and in 1754 the ocean was infested with
the Moro _vintas_, till another friar, Father Ducos, in a sea-fight
off the coast of Northern Mindanao, sunk one hundred and fifty of
their boats and killed three thousand men. Bantilan, the usurper of
the Sulu throne, was one of the foremost of the mischief-makers who,
in 1767, sent a pirate fleet as far north as Manila Bay. Although the
Spaniards had repeatedly won victories in Jolo, Zamboanga, and Davao,
and by treaties had made all this country vassal to the crown of Spain,
up to the time of the evacuation of the Philippines, when, as a last
act, they had sent their own tiny gunboats to the bottom of Lanao,
they never had become the undisputed masters of the territory.

One of the pleasantest friends I had while I was in the Islands was
Herr Altman, an orchid collector, who had risked his life a hundred
times among the savages of the interior in the pursuance of the passion
of his life. "One afternoon," he said, "when we were in the forests
of Luzon, my native guides approached me with broad grins. I thought,
perhaps, they had discovered some new orchid; so I followed them. But
I was unprepared for what they were about to show me. Since then I have
had much experience among the wild tribes, but at this time everything
was new to me. They motioned silence as, with broadening grins, they
now approached what seemed to be a clearing in the woods. I could not
think why they should be amused; but they are very easily delighted,
just like children, and I thought that it would do no harm to humor
them. Then I was startled by the howling of a dog and a strange sound
coming through the woods.

Still following my guides, I brought up in a growth of underbrush on a
small precipice that overlooked an open space among the trees. Looking
in the direction in which they pointed, I beheld a group of tiny black
men dancing in a circle around what seemed to be a section of a fallen
tree. Off to the side, the women, slightly smaller than the men, were
cooking a wild hog on a spit, over a smoking fire. Their hair was thick
and woolly and uncombed. Their arms and ankles were adorned with copper
bracelets. Some of the men wore leather thongs that dangled from their
legs. There were a few rude shelters in the clearing, merely improvised
affairs of branches. As the men danced they sent up a song in a high,
piping voice, and several hungry dogs, who had been watching enviously
the roasting meat, howled sympathetically and in unison. It finally
occurred to me that we were the spectators of a funeral ceremony;
that the section of a tree was nothing less than the rough coffin of
the dead Negrito. We continued to watch them for a time, while, having
finished dancing, they began their feast. The only dishes that they
had were cocoanut-shells, out of which they drank immoderate amounts
of _tuba_. The funeral ceremony, as I understand it, lasts for several
days--as long as the supply of meat and _tuba_ lasts. The coffin,
which appeared to me a hollowed log, is but a section of a certain bark
sealed up at either end with wax. The burial is made under the house
in the case of those tribes living near the coast; or in a stockade,
which protects the body against desecration from the enemy."

It was with feelings such as one might entertain when looking at a
mermaid or an inhabitant of Mars, that I first saw a genuine Negrito
in a prison at Manila. The wretched pigmy had been brought in to the
city from his inaccessible retreat in the great forest; he was dazed
and frightened at the white men and the things they did. He was a
miserable little fellow, with distrustful eyes, and twisted legs,
and pigeon toes. He died after a few days of captivity, during which
time he had not spoken. A dumb obedience marked his relations with the
guard. The white man's civilization was as disagreeable and unnatural
to him as his nomadic life would be to us. A fish could just as well
live out of water as this pigmy in the white man's land.

A few of the Negritos near the coast, however, have been touched by
civilizing influences. They inhabit towns of small huts built on poles,
which they abandon on the death of any one within. The house wherein
a death occurs is generally burned. They plant a little corn and rice,
but often move away before the crop is harvested. They are too lazy to
raise anything; too weak to capture slaves. During the heavy rains,
when the great woods are saturated, they protect themselves against
the cold by wrapping blankets around their bodies. At night they
often share the tree with birds and monkeys, sheltered from rain and
dampness by the canopy of foliage. They have a head man for their
villages--sometimes a member of another tribe, who, on account of his
superior attainments, holds the respect of all. They hunt with bows
and arrows; weapons which, by means of constant use, they handle with
dexterity. At night their villages are located through the incessant
barking of the hungry dogs, which always follow them around. Sleeping
in huts, in order to prevent mosquitoes from annoying them, they
often build a fire beneath them, toasting themselves until their
flesh becomes a crust of scales.

In the south Camarines, and in <DW64>s, they will often come down to
the coast towns, trading the wax and sweet potatoes of the mountains
for sufficient rice to last them several days. They sometimes work a
day or two in the adjacent hemp or rice fields, receiving for their
labor a small measure of the rice. When they have eaten this, they
fast until their hunger drives them down to work again. Their marriage
relations are peculiar. While the father of the family has but one true
wife, a number of women are dependent on him, widows or relatives who
have attached themselves to him. The children receive their names from
rivers, animals, or trees. If they were taken out of their environment
when very young they might be educated, as experiments have shown that
the Negrito children have the same impulses of generosity, the same
attachment to their friends, the same joys, sorrows, and sensations,
that belong to children everywhere. Only their little souls are lost
forever in the wilderness.

Neither the pagan tribes nor the Negritos read or write. The Moros,
too, are very ignorant, only the priests and students being able
to read passages from the Koran and make the Arabic characters. The
latest Malay immigrants, who had been influenced by Indian culture,
introduced a style of writing that is very queer. Three vowels
were used,--a, e, and u. The consonants were represented by as many
signs that look a good deal like our shorthand. Although there were
three characters to represent the vowels when used alone, whenever a
consonant would be pronounced with "a," only the sign of the consonant
was used. In order to express a final consonant, or one without the
vowel, a tiny cross was made below the character. If "e" was wanted,
a dot would be placed over the letter that expressed the consonant,
or if the vowel was to be "u," the dot was placed below.

Some rainy day, when you have nothing else to do, you can invent
some characters to represent our consonants, and with the aid
of dots and crosses, write a letter to yourself, and see how you
would get along if you were forced to use that kind of alphabet at
school. The natives use the Spanish alphabet to-day, which is much
like our own. Their language, being full of particles, sounds very
funny when they talk. All you would understand would be perhaps, pag,
naga, naca, mag, tag, paga; and all this would probably convey but
little meaning to you. It is a curious fact that while the dialects of
all the tribes are different, many of the ordinary words are common,
being slightly changed in the transition. The language is of a Malayan
origin, but has a number of Sanskrit words as well as Arabic. From
studying these dialects, comparing the construction of the sentence
as expressed by different tribes, and by comparing the inflections
of homogeneous verbs and nouns, one might arrive at the conclusion
that these tribes and races, differing so strikingly among each other,
mutually antagonistic, all belong to one great family and have a common
origin. But that is a question for the anthropologists to settle; one
that will give even the professors all the trouble that they want,
and make them wrinkle up their learned foreheads, while among them
they arrive at widely-varying decisions, which will be as mutually
exclusive as the tribes themselves.



It was a rainy day in the dense woods along the Iligan-Marahui
road. The soft ground oozed beneath the feet, and a continual
dripping was kept up from the low-hanging, saturated foliage. The Moro
interpreter, in a red-striped suit and prominent gilt buttons, had come
into camp with the report that one of the dattos at Malumbung wanted
the military doctor to come up and treat his child, who was afflicted
with a fever. The datto had offered protection for the "medico," and,
as a fee, a bottle of pure gold. The guides and soldiers, who were
waiting in the forest, would conduct the doctor to Malumbung if he
cared to go.

"This sounds like a pretty good adventure," said the commanding
officer to me. "How would you like to go along?" The doctor had
accepted the offer of the Moros, and he now reiterated the commanding
officer's invitation. "It's going to be a rather long, stiff hike,"
he said. "We'll have to sleep to-night out in the woods, and there's
no telling whether the Moros mean good faith or not. Remember that,
in case the child should die while I am there, the Moros will believe
that I have killed it, and will probably make matters more or less
unpleasant for us both. I operated once upon a fellow over in Tagaloan
who died under the knife. As soon as the spectators saw that he was
hardly due to come to life again, they crowded around me with their
bolos drawn, and if a friend of mine among them had not interfered,
I would have followed my subject very speedily."

It was arranged that we take with us a small squad of regulars to
carry the provisions and go armed, "in case there should be any
game upon the way." As this arrangement seemed to satisfy the Moros,
though it did not please them much, we started, covering the first
half mile along the clayey road through driving rain, and turning
off into the Moro trail around the summit of the hill. The Moros led
the way with their peculiar lurching stride that covered a surprising
distance in a very short time. Soon we were in the heart of the vast
wilderness. We passed by colonies of monkeys, who severely reprimanded
us from their secure retreat among the tree-tops. One of the soldiers
killed a python with his Krag--a swollen creature, that could hardly
be distinguished from the overhanging vines--that measured twenty
feet from head to tail. The Moros silently unslipped their knives,
and dextrously removed the skin. We camped that night in shelter tents,
although the ground was soaked, and a cold breath penetrated the damp
woods. All night the jungle-fowl and monkeys kept up an incessant
obligato, and the forest seemed to re-echo with mysterious and far-off
sounds. At daylight we pushed on, and late in the afternoon arrived
at the small Moro settlement. The tiny _nipa_ houses, set up on bamboo
poles, were rather a poor substitute for shelter; but on reaching them
after our two days in the forest, it was like arriving in a civilized
community. The doctor went immediately to the datto's house, a large
one with a steep roof, where he dosed the infant with a little quinine.

There were about five hundred Moros in the village under the datto,
who ruled absolutely as by hereditary right. While he, of course,
was feudal to the nearest sultan, in his own community he was a
lord and prince. Most of the people were his slaves and fighting
men. His private warriors, or his bodyguard, were armed with krisses,
_campalans_, and spears, with shields of carabao hide, and coats of
mail of buffalo-horn, as defensive armor. The favorite weapons of
the datto were elaborately inlaid with the ivory cut from the tusks
of the wild boar. His dress was also distinctive, and when new must
have been very brilliant. It was fastened with pearl buttons, while
along the outside seams of his tight pantaloons a row of smaller
buttons ran. A dirty silk handkerchief wound around his head, the
corner overlapping on the side, made an appropriate and fitting
headgear. He had several wives, for whom he had paid in all a sum
amounting to a hundred sacks of rice and twenty cattle. He had lost
considerably on his speculations, having divorced three wives and
being unable to secure a rebate on the price that he had paid for them.

As soon as the doctor had completed his attentions to the patient, the
_pandita_ (priest) appeared, and asked him to account for the strange
happenings that had occurred in the community. The village was in a
state of panic, and unless a stop were put to the proceedings soon,
there was no telling what the end might be. It seemed that during
the night a number of children had been murdered secretly. Their
mutilated bodies had been left at morning at the gates of their
respective dwellings. These murders had been going on for several
days, and though the houses had been guarded by a man armed with a
_campilan_ at night, the children would be mysteriously missing in the
morning. It was evidently, said the priest, the work of devils. A big
hand had been seen to snatch one of the children from its parent's
arms; and under the houses of those afflicted could be seen a weird
fire glowing in the dead of night.

The people claimed the murderer was none else than the big man of the
woods, whose footprints, like the impressions of a cocoanut-shell, had
been discovered in the soft ground near the border of the forest. There
was a crazy prophet living in a tree, and he had seen the wife of
the big man, half black, half white, wandering near the territory of
the lake. The prophet had also seen a star fall from the sky, and
he had followed it to see where it had struck the earth. He found
there a huge stone, which, as he looked upon it, changed to a wild
hog. Then the wild hog had vanished, and a flock of birds had risen
from the ground. In place of the rock, a stone hand now appeared, and
breaking off a finger of it, the prophet had discovered that, when
burnt, its fumes had power to put the whole community to sleep. In
this way had the big man of the woods been able to defy the guards
and to assassinate the children at his will.

The doctor, thinking that these deeds had been performed by
somebody impelled by lust--the lust of seeing blood and quivering
flesh--determined to investigate. Suspicion pointed to the crazy
prophet, and the guards directed us to his impossible abode. The
prophet was accused directly of the crime, and, being convinced
that he was found out by the white man's magic, he confessed. The
datto sentenced him to be beheaded, and seemed disappointed when
we would not stay to see this operation. He even offered to turn
the victim loose among the crowd, and let them strike him down with
krisses. Had we desired, we could have had the places of honor in
the line, and used the datto's finest weapons. The people, he said,
were puzzled at our lack of interest, for the occasion would have
been a sort of festival for them. But seeing that we were obdurate,
the datto served our farewell meal--baked jungle-fowl and rice--and,
after offering to purchase our Krag-Jorgesens at an attractive price,
he bade us all good-bye.

On the way back, our guides surprised us by their climbing and
swimming. There was one place where the Agus River had been spanned by
jointed bamboo poles; while we crossed like funambulists, depending
for our balance on a slender rail, the Moros leaped into the rushing
torrent, near the rapids, swimming like rats against the stream,
and reaching the other side ahead of us. One of the guides went up
a tall macao-tree, pulling himself up by the long parasitic vines,
and bracing himself against the tree-trunk with his feet, to get an
orchid that was growing high among the foliage. Though we expressed
our admiration at these feats, the guides preserved their customary
proud demeanor, and refused to be moved by applause.

Their active life in the vast wilderness has given them athletic,
supple bodies, which they handle to a nicety when fighting. Although
the Moros build stone forts and mount them with old-fashioned cannon;
although their arsenals are fairly well supplied with Remingtons and
Mausers, their warriors generally prefer to fight with bolos. These
weapons never leave their side. They sleep with them, and they are
buried with them. Their heavy _campalans_ are fastened to their hands
by thongs, so that, in case the hand should slip, the warrior would
not fall without his knife. The Moros in a hand-to-hand fight are
extremely agile. Holding the shield on the left arm, they flourish the
bolo with their right, dodging, leaping, and jeering at the antagonist
in order to disconcert or frighten him.

While their religion and fanaticism render them almost foolhardy in a
battle, if a Moro sees that he is beaten and that escape is possible,
he will avail himself of opportunities to fight another day. If brought
to bay, however, he is desperate, and in his more religious moments
he will throw himself on a superior enemy, expecting a sure death,
but confident of riding the white horse to paradise if he succeeds
in spilling the blood of infidels.

Although distrustful, lazy, and malignant, the Moro is consistent in
his hatred for the unbeliever, and untiring on the war-path. Scorning
all manner of work, he leads an active forest life, killing the
wild pig, which religious scruples prevent his eating, and waging
war against the neighboring tribes. He is a born slave-catcher and a
pirate. He will drink sea-water when no other is available. He shows
a diabolical cunning in the manufacture of his weapons. Nothing can
be more terrible than the long, snaky blade of a Malay kriss. The
harpoons, with which he spears the hogs, come apart at a slight
pull. The point of the spear on catching in the flesh holds fast. The
handle, however, becoming detached, though held to the barbed point
by a thong, catches and holds the hog fast in the underbrush. The
head-ax is a long blade turned at just the proper angle to decapitate
the victim scientifically.

Ignorant and perfectly indifferent to the observations that their
creed prescribes, the Moros gather at the rude mosque to the beating
of a monstrous drum. Seated around upon straw mats, they chatter and
chew betel-nut while the _pandita_ reads a passage from a manuscript
copy of the Koran. These copies are guarded sacredly, and only the
young men who are studying for the priesthood are instructed from
them. The priests of the first class are able to read and write,
and it is better to have made the pilgrimage to Mecca. The birth of
Mohammed is celebrated by a feast at harvest-time. Another occasion
for a feast is given by the marriage ceremony. Bridegrooms are
encouraged to provide these banquets by the administration of a
beating if delinquent, or in case the food provided fails to meet
the expectations of the guests. On the completion of this function,
the bridegroom bathes his feet; then chewing _buya_, seated on a mat
beside the bride, his hand and hers are covered by a napkin while the
priest goes through the proper gestures and recites a verse from the
Koran. The wedding celebration then degenerates into a drunken dance.

The bodies of the dead are wrapped in a white shroud, and buried in a
crescent trench, together with enough meat, fruit, and water to sustain
the spirit on its trip to paradise. The priest, before departing,
eats a meal of buffalo-meat or other game above the grave. The grave
is then turned over to a guard of soldiers, who remain there for a
few days, or as long as they are paid.

Though the Americans have tried to deal in good faith with these
fanatics, little has been accomplished either in the way of civilizing
them or pacifying them. The Moro schools at Jolo and at Zamboanga
have been failures. Teachers of manual training have been introduced
to no avail. The Moro could be no more treacherous if his ancestors
had sprung from tigers' wombs. A Moro boy, employed for years by one
of my American acquaintances at Iligan, rewarded his master recently
by cutting his throat at night. As superstitious as he is fanatic and
uncivilized, the Moro is a failure as a member of the human race. Even
the children are the incarnation of the fiend. There was that boy
at Iligan who worked at the officer's club, and who hung over the
roulette-wheel like a perfect devil, crowing with demoniac glee when
he was lucky. These are our latest citizens--this batch of serpents'
eggs hatched out in human form; and those who have seen the Moro in
his native home will tell you that, whatever his latent possibilities
may be, he can not yet be dealt with as a man.





Chapter VIII.

In a Visayan Village.


The fountain on the corner, where the brown, barefooted girls with
bamboo water-tubes would gather at the noon hour and at supper-time,
was shaded in the heat of the day by a mimosa-tree. The _Calle de la
Paz y Buen Viaje_ (Street of Peace and a Good Journey), flanked by
sentinel-like bonga-trees and hedged in by a bamboo fence, stretches
away through the banana-groves toward the fantastic mountains. A
puffing carabao comes down the long street, dragging the heavy stalks
of newly-cut bamboo. The pig that has been rooting in the grass,
looks up, and, seeing what is coming, bolts with staccato grunts
unceremoniously through the bamboo fence.

In the little drygoods-store across the street, Felicidad, the
dusky-eyed proprietress, has gone to sleep while waiting for a
customer. She has discarded her _chinelas_ and her _pina_ yoke. Her
brown arms resting on the table pillow her unconscious head. Her
listless fingers clasp a half-smoked cigarette.

The stock of _La Aurora_ is a comprehensive one, including printed
cotton goods from China, red and green belts with nickel fastenings,
uncomfortable-looking Spanish shoes, a bottle of quinine sulphate
tablets, an assortment of perfumery and jewelry, rosaries and
crucifixes, towels and handkerchiefs, and dainty _pina_ fabrics. The
arrival of the _Americano_ is the signal for the neighbors and the
neighbors' children, having nothing in particular to do, to flock
around. The Filipino curiosity again!

On the next corner, where the wooden Atlas braces up the balcony,
the _Chino_ store is sheltered from the sun by curtains of alternate
blue and white. Here _Chino_ Santiago, in his cool pajamas, audits
the accounts with the assistance of the wooden counting frame, while
_Chino_ Jose, his partner, with his paintbrush stuck behind his ear, is
following the ledger with his long, curved finger-nail. Both _Chinos_,
being Catholics, have taken native wives, material considerations
having influenced the choice; but _Maestro_ Pepin says that,
nevertheless, they are unpopular because they work too hard and cause
the fluctuations in the prices. By pursuing a consistent system of
abstractions from the rice-bags, by an innocent adulteration of the
_tinto_ wine, these two _comerciantes_ have acquired considerable
wealth.

The bland proprietor will greet you with a smile, and offer you the
customary cigarette. And if the prices quoted are unsatisfactory,
they are at least elastic and are easily adjusted for a personal
friend. Along the shelf the opium-scented line of drygoods is
available, while portraits of the saints and _Neustra Senorita del
Rosario_, whose conical skirt conceals the little children of the
Church, hang from the wall. Suspended from the ceiling are innumerable
hanging lamps with green tin shades. A line of fancy handkerchiefs,
with Dewey's portrait and the Stars and Stripes embroidered in
the corners, is displayed on wires stretched overhead across the
store. Bolo blades, chocolate-boilers, rice-pots, water-jars, and crazy
looking-glasses are disposed around, while in the glass case almost
anything from a bone collar-button to a musical clock is likely to be
found. Santiago would be glad to have you open an account here and,
unlike the Filipino, he will never trouble you about your bill.

The market street is lined with _nipa_ booths, where _senoritas_ play
at keeping shop, presiding over the army of unattractive articles
exposed for sale. Upon a rack the cans of salmon are drawn up in a
battalion, a detachment of ex-whisky bottles filled with kerosene
or _tanduay_, bringing up the rear. Certain stock articles may be
invariably found at these _tiendas_,--boxes of matches, balls of
cotton thread, bananas, _buya_, eggs and cigarettes, and the inevitable
brimming glass of _tuba_, stained a dark-red color from the frequent
applications of the betel-chewing mouth.

Although the stream of commerce flows in a small way where the
almighty _'suca duco_ is the medium of exchange, gossip is circulated
freely; for without the telegraph or telephone, news travels fast in
Filipinia. The withered hag, her scanty raiment scarcely covering her
bony limbs, squatting upon the counter in the midst of _guinimos_,
bananas, and dried fish, and spitting a red pool of betel-juice,
will chatter the day long with the _senora_ in the booth across the
street. The purchaser should not feel delicate at seeing her bare
feet in contact with the spiced bread that he means to buy, nor at
the swarms of flies around the reeking mound of _guinimos_ scraped
up in dirty wooden bowls, and left in the direct rays of the sun.

Dogs, pigs, chickens, and children tumble in the dust. Dejected
Filipino ponies, tethered to the shacks, are waiting for their masters
to exhaust the _tuba_ market. Down the lane a panting carabao, with a
whole family clinging to its back, is slowly coming into town. Another,
covered with the dust of travel, laden with bananas, hemp, and _copra_
from a distant _barrio_, is being driven by a fellow in a _nipa_ hat,
straddling the heavy load. A mountain girl, bareheaded, carrying a
parasol, comes loping in to the _mercado_ on a skinny pony saddled
with a red, upholstered _silla_, with a rattan back and foot-rest,
cinched with twisted hemp.

At night the market-place is lighted up by tiny rush lights, burning
cocoanut-oil or _petrolia_. Here, on a pleasant evening, to the
lazy strumming of guitars, the village population promenades, young
men in white holding each other's hands, and blowing out a cloud of
cigarette smoke; _senoritas_, in their cheap red dresses, shuffling
hopelessly along the road. One of the local characters is entertaining
a street-corner audience with a droll song, while the town-crier,
with his escort of municipal police, announces by the beating of a
drum that a _bandilla_ from the _presidente_ is about to be pronounced.

Here you will find the Filipino in his natural and most playful mood,
as easily delighted as a child. A crowd was always gathered round
the _tuba_ depot at the head of the _mercado_, where the agile
climbers brought the beverage in wooden buckets from the tops of
_copra_-trees. A comical old fellow, Pedro Pocpotoc (a name derived
from chicken language), used to live here, and on moonlight nights,
planting his fat feet on the window-sill, like a droll caricature
of Nero, he would sing Visayan songs to the accompaniment of a cheap
violin. A talkative old baker lived a short way down the street with
his three daughters. They were always busy pounding rice in wooden
mortars with long poles, thus making rice-flour, which they baked
in clean banana-leaves and sweetened with brown sugar molded in the
shells of cocoanuts.

Sometimes a Moro boat would drop into the bay, and the strange-looking
savages in their tight-fitting, gaudy clothes would file through town
with spices, bark, and cloth for sale. From Bohol came the curious
thatched _bancas_, with their grass sails and bamboo outriggers, with
cargoes of pottery, woven hats, _bohoka_, and rattan. On the _fiesta_
days, Subanos from the mountains brought in strips of dried tobacco,
ready to be rolled up into long cigars, _camotes_, coffee-berries,
chocolate, and eggs, and squatted at the entrance to the cockpit in
an improvised _mercado_ with the people from the shore, who offered
clams and _guinimos_ for sale.

And once a month the town would be awakened by the siren whistle
of the little hemp-boat from Cebu. This whistle was the signal
for the small boys to extract the reluctant carabao from the cool,
sticky wallow, and yoke him to the creaking bamboo cart. Then from
the storehouses the fragrant _picos_ of hemp would be piled on,
and the longsuffering beast of burden, aided and abetted by a rope
run through his nose, would haul the load down to the beach. While
naked laborers were toiling with the cargo, carrying it upon their
shoulders through the surf, the Spanish captain and the mate, with
rakishly-tilted Tam o'Shanter caps, would light their cigarettes,
stroll over to Ramon's warehouse where the hemp was being weighed,
and, seated on sour-smelling sacks of _copra_, chat with old Ramon,
partaking later of a dinner of _balenciona_, chicken and red-peppers,
cheese and guava.

Much of the village life centers around the river. Here in the early
morning come the girls and women wrapped in robes of red and yellow
stripes, and with their hair unbound. In family parties the whole
village takes a morning bath, the young men poising their athletic
bodies on an overhanging bank and plunging down into the cool depths
below, the children splashing in the shallow water, and the women
breast-deep in the stream, washing their long hair.

Here also, during the morning hours, the women take their
washing. Tying the _chemise_ below the arms, they squat down near the
shore and beat the wet mass with a wooden paddle on a rock. Meanwhile
the children build extensive palaces of pebbles on the bank; the
carabaos, up to their noses in the river, dream in the refreshing
shade of overhanging trees. The air is vocal with the liquid notes
of birds, and fragrant with the heavy scent of flowers. A leaf-green
lizard creeps down on a horizontal trunk. The broad leaves of _abaca_
rustle in the breeze; the graceful stalks of bamboo crackle like
tin tubes. Around the bend the water ripples at the ford. At evening
you will see the tired men from the mountains, bending under heavy
loads of hemp, wade through the shallows to the cavern shelter of the
banyan-tree. Through the dense mango-grove comes the faint sound of
bells. The _puk-puk_ bird hoots from the jungle, and the black crows
settle in the lofty trees.

The covered bridge that spans the river near the mouth is a great
thoroughfare. Neither the arch nor pier is used in its construction;
it is anchored to the shore by cables. It is not a very rigid bridge,
and sways considerably when one is crossing it. Even the surefooted
ponies step a little gingerly over the loose beams that form the
floor. A curious procession is continually passing,--families moving
their worldly goods on carabaos, the dogs and children following;
_hombres_ on ponies, grasping the stirrups with their toes; a
padre with his gown caught up above his knees, riding away to some
confession; mountain people traveling in single file, and girls with
trays of merchandise upon their heads.

Down where the _nipa_ jungle thickens, fishing _bancas_ are drawn
up on the shore; and near by in a cocoanut-grove the old boatmaker
lives. The hull of the outlandish boat that he is carving is a solid
log. When finished, with its black paint, _nipa_ gunwale, bamboo
outriggers, and rat-lines made of parasitic vines, it will put out
from port with a big gamecock as a mascot, rowed with clumsy paddles
to the rhythm of a drum, its helpless grass sails flopping while the
sailors whistle for the wind. These boats, although they can not tack,
have one advantage--they can never sink. They carry bamboo poles for
poling over coral bottoms. In a fair breeze they attain considerable
speed; but there is danger in a heavy sea of swamping. When drawn up
on shore they look like big mosquitoes, as the body in proportion to
the rigging seems quite insignificant.

The little fishing village is composed of leaning shacks blown out
of plumb by heavy winds. Along the beach on bamboo racks the nets are
hanging out to dry. At night the little fleet puts out for Punta Gorda,
where a ruined watch-tower--a protection against Moro pirates--stands
half hidden among creeping vines. The nets are floated upon husks
of cocoanut, and set in the wild light of burning rushes. While the
men are working in the tossing sea, or venturing almost beyond sight
of land, the women, lighting torches, wade out to the coral reef and
seine for smaller fish among the rocks. Early the following morning,
while the sea is gray, the fishermen will toss their catch upon the
sand. The devil-fish are the most popular at the impromptu market,
where the prices vary according to the run of luck.

The town was laid out by the Spaniards in the days when Padre Pedro
was the autocrat and representative of Spanish law. The ruins of
the former mission and the public gardens are now overgrown with
grass. Sea-breezes sweep the rambling convent with its double walls,
tiled courtyard, and its Spanish well. The new church, never to be
finished, but with pompous front, illustrates the relaxing power
of Rome. Goats, carabaos, and ponies graze on the neglected plaza
shaded with widespreading camphor-trees. The two school buildings
bearing the forgotten Spanish arms are on the road to ruin and decay;
no signs of life in the disreputable _municipio_; the _presidente_
probably is deep in his _siesta_, and the solitary guard of the
_carcel_ is busily engaged in conversation with the single prisoner.

The only remains of Spanish grandeur in the village are the two
ramshackle coaches that are used for hearses at state funerals. Most
of the larger houses are, however, in repair, although the canvas
ceilings and the board partitions seem to be in need of paint. These
houses occupy the center of the town. They are of frame construction,
painted blue and white. The floors are made of rosewood and mahogany;
the windows fitted with translucent shell. Storehouses occupy the
first floor, while the living rooms are reached by a broad flight
of stairs. A bridge connects the dining-room with the kitchen,
where the greasy cook, often a Moro slave, works at a smoky fire of
cocoanut-husks on an earth bottom, situated in an annex to the rear.

A walk through the main street leads past a row of native houses, built
on poles and shaded by banana-trees. You are continually stepping over
mats spread out and covered with pounded corn, while pigs and chickens
are shooed off by the excitation of a piece of _nipa_, fastened to a
string and operated from an upper window of the house. A small _tienda_
opens from each house, with frequently no more than a few betel-nuts
on sale. The front is decorated with the faded strips of cloth or
paper lamps left over from the last _fiesta_, while the skeleton of
a lamented monkey fixed above the door acts as a charm to keep away
bad luck. A parrakeet swings in the window on a bamboo perch, and
in another window hangs an orchid growing from the dried husk of a
cocoanut. Under the house the loom is situated, where the women weave
fine cloth from _pina_ and banana fibers--and the wooden mortar used
for pounding rice. After the harvest season it is one of the Visayan
customs to inaugurate rice-pounding bees. Relays of young men, stripped
for work, surround the mortar, and, to the accompaniment of guitars,
deliver blows in quick succession and with gradually increasing speed,
according to the measure of the music.

In the cool shade of the _ylang-ylang_ tree a native barber is
intent upon his customer. The customer sits on his haunches while
the operation is performed. When it is finished, all the hair above
the ears and neck will be shaved close, while that in front will be
as long as ever. The beard will not need shaving, as the Filipino
chin at best is hardly more aculeated than a strawberry. The hair,
however, even of the smallest boys grows for some distance down the
cheeks. The Filipino, when he does shave, takes it very seriously,
and attacks the bristles individually rather than collectively.

You will not remain long in a Filipino town without the chance of
witnessing a native funeral. A service of the first class costs
about three hundred _pesos_; but for twenty _pesos_ Padre Pedro will
conduct a funeral of less magnificence. The padre, going to the house
of mourning where the band, the singers, and the candle-bearers are
assembled, engineers the pageant to the church. The dim interior
will be illuminated by flickering candles burned in memory of the
departed soul. Before the altar solemn mass is held, intensified by
the deep tolling of a bell. Led by three acolytes in red and white,
with silver crosses, the procession moves on to the cemetery on
the outskirts of the town. The padre sheltered by a white umbrella,
reads the Latin prayers aloud. A small boy swings the smoking censer,
and the singers undertake a melancholy dirge. The withered body, with
the hands crossed on the breast, clothed all in black, is borne aloft
upon a bamboo litter, mounted with a black box painted with the skull
and bones, and decked with candles. Women in black veils with candles
follow, mumbling prayers, the words of which they do not understand.

The cemetery is surrounded by a coral wall, commanded by a gate that
bears a Latin epigram. The graves, as indicated by the mounds of
dirt, are never very deep, and while a few are guarded by a wooden
cross, forlornly decorated by a withered bunch of flowers, most of
the graves receive no care at all. There may be one or two vaults
overgrown with grass and in a bad state of repair. Around the big
cross in the center is a ghastly heap of human bones and grinning
skulls--grinning because somebody else now occupies their former
grisly beds, the rent on which has long ago expired.

To the Visayan mind, death is a matter of bad luck. It is advisable
to hinder it with _anting-antings_ and medallions; but when it comes,
the Filipino fatalist will take it philosophically. To the boys and
girls a family death is the sensation of the year. It means to them
nine days of celebration, when old women gather at the house, and,
beating on the floor with hands and feet, put up a hopeless wail,
while dogs without howl dismally and sympathetically. And at the
end of the nine days, the soul then being out of purgatory, they
will have a feast. A pig and a goat will be killed, not to speak of
chickens--and the meat will be served up with calabash and rice; and
visitors will come and look on while the people eat at the first table;
and the second table and the third are finished, and the viands still
hold out. But these are placed upon the table down below, where _hoi
polloi_ and the lame, blind, and halt sit down and eat. And back of
all this superficiality lies the great superstitious dread by means
of which the Church of Rome holds such authority.

I got to know the little village very well--to join the people in their
foolish celebrations and their wedding feasts. I was among them when
the town was swept by cholera; when, in their ignorance, they built
a dozen little shrines--just _nipa_ shelters for the Holy Virgin,
decorated with red cloth and  grass--and held processions
carrying the wooden saints and burning candles.

Then the locusts came, and settled on the rice-fields--a great cloud
of them, with whirring wings. They rattled on the _nipa_ roofs like
rain. The children took tin pans and drums and gave the enemy a noisy
welcome. But the rains fell in the night, and the next morning all
the ground was strewn with locusts trying heavily to fly. The ancient
drum of the town-crier ushered in the day of work, and those who took
this opportunity to pay their taxes gathered at the _municipio_--about
a hundred ugly-looking men. They were equipped with working bolos,
with their blades as sharp as scythes for cutting grass, and, looking
at them, you were forcibly reminded of another day, another army
with a similar accouterment. Even the _presidente_ went barefooted
as he gave directions for the work. Some were dispatched for _nipa_
and bamboo, while others mowed the grass around the church. Another
squad hauled heavy timbers, singing as they pulled in unison.

On Sunday mornings a young carabao was killed. The meat hacked off with
little reference to anatomy was hung up in the public stall among the
swarms of flies. Old women came and handled every piece, and haggled
a good deal about the price. Each finally selected one, and swinging
it from a short piece of cane, carried it home in triumph. Morning
mass was held at the big _simbahan_, where the doleful music of the
band suggested lost souls wailing on the borders of Cocytus or the
Stygian creek. Young _caballeros_ dressed in white, the _concijales_
with their silver-headed canes and baggy trousers, and the "_taos_"
in diaphanous and flimsy shirts that they had not yet learned to tuck
inside, stood by to watch the _senoritas_ on their way to church. The
girls walked rather stiffly in their tight shoes; but as soon as mass
was over, shoes and stockings came off, and the villagers relaxed
into the bliss of informality.

I learned, when I last went to _La Aurora_, that Felicidad was going
to be married; that the banns had been announced last Sunday in
the church. The groom to be, Benito,--or Bonito as we called him on
account of his good looks,--had recently returned from college in Cebu,
bringing a string of fighting cocks, a _fonografo_, and a piebald
racing pony. "When he sent me the white ribbon," said Felicidad,
"I was surprised, but mamma said that I was old enough to marry him--I
was fourteen--and that the matter had been all arranged. And so I wore
the ribbon in my hair, and also wrote my name _Felicidad_ beneath his
on the card that he had sent. And after that, when we went walking,
the _duena_ was unnecessary."

She confessed naively to a serenade under her balcony, of which I
seem to have retained a hazy memory. And so the usual pig and goat
were roasted, and the neighbors' boys came in to help. The bride, with
orange-blossoms in her hair, the daintiest kid slippers on her feet,
and dressed in a white mist of _pina_, rode away in the new pony cart,
the only one in town. The groom was dressed in baggy trousers, with
a pink shirt and an azure tie. Most of the presents came from _Chino_
Santiago's store; but the best one was a beautiful piano from Cebu.

After the service in the church, a feast was held upstairs in the
bride's house. Ramon, the justice of the peace, the padre, _Maestro_
Pepin, all the _concijales_, and the _presidente_ were invited, and
the groom owned up that he had spent his last cent on the refreshments
that were passed around. It is the custom in the poorer families for
the prospective groom to bond himself out for a certain length of
time to the bride's father, or even to purchase her with articles of
merchandise. A combination of commercial interests was the result,
however, of the marriage of Bonito and Felicidad.





Chapter IX.

The "Brownies" of the Philippines.


How would you like it, not to have a Fourth of July celebration,
or a Christmas stocking, or a turkey on Thanksgiving-day? The
little children of the Philippines would be afraid of one of our
firecrackers--they would think it was another kind of "boom-boom"
that killed men. A life-sized turkey in the Philippines would
be a curiosity, the chickens and the horses and the people are
so small. The little boys and girls do not wear stockings, even
around Christmas-time, and Santa Claus would look in vain for any
chimneys over there. The candy, if the ants did not get at it first,
would melt and run down to the toes and heels of Christmas stockings
long before the little claimants were awake. Of course, they do not
have plum-puddings, pumpkin-pies, and apples. All the season round,
bananas take the place of apples, cherries, strawberries, and peaches;
and boiled rice is the only kind of pumpkin-pie they have.

The fathers and mothers of the little Brownie boys and girls are very
ignorant. Most of them can not even write their names, and if you
asked them when the family birthdays came they would have to go and
ask the padre. Once, when I was living at the convent, a girl-mother,
who had walked in from a town ten miles away, came up to register
the birth of a new baby in the padre's book. She stood before the
priest embarrassed, digging her brown toes into a big crack in the
floor. "At what time was the baby born?" was asked. "I do not know,"
she answered, "but it was about the time the chickens were awake."

It is a lucky baby that can get goat's milk to drink. Their mothers,
living for the most part on dried fish and rice, are never strong
enough to give them a good start in life. It is a common sight to see
the tiny litter decorated with bright bits of paper and a half-dozen
lighted candles, with its little, waxen image of a child, waiting
without the church door till the padre comes to say the funeral
services.

In that far-distant country but a small number of children ever
have worn pretty clothes--only a tiny shirt; and they are perfectly
contented, as the weather never gets uncomfortably cold. Their mothers
or their older sisters carry them by placing them astride the hip,
where they must cling tight with their little, fat, bare legs. They
are soon old enough to run around and play; not on the grass among
the trees, but in the dust out in the street. Their houses, built of
_nipa_ and bamboo, do not set back on a green lawn, but stand as near
to the hot, dusty street as possible. To get inside the houses, which
are built on posts, the babies have to scramble up a bamboo ladder,
where they might fall off and break their necks. At this age they have
learned to stuff themselves with rice until their little bodies look
as though they were about to burst. A stick of sugar-cane will taste
as good to them as our best peppermint or lemon candy. All the boys
learn to ride as soon as they learn how to walk. Saddles and bridles
are unnecessary, as they ride bareback, and guide the wiry Filipino
ponies with a halter made of rope. The carabao is a great friend
of Filipino boys and girls. He lets them pull themselves up by his
tail, and ride him into town--as many as can make room on his back,
allowing them to guide him by a rope run through his nose.

I do not think that many of the children can remember ever having
learned to swim. The mothers, when they take their washing to the
river, do not leave the little ones behind; and you can see their
glistening brown bodies almost any morning at the riverside among the
_nipa_, the young mothers beating clothes upon a rock, the carabaos
up to their noses in the water, chewing their cuds and dreaming happy
dreams. The boys can swim and dive like water-rats, and often remain
in the river all day long.

The girls, when about five years old look very bright. Their hair is
trimmed only in front (a good deal like a pony's), and their laughing
eyes are very brown and mischievous. Most of them only wear a single
ornament for a dress--a "Mother Hubbard" of cheap cotton print which
they can buy for two _pesetas_ at the _Chino_ store. The boys all
wear long trousers, and, at church or school, white linen coats,
with military collars, which they call "_Americanas_," The girls
do not wear hats. They save their "Dutchy" little bonnets, with the
red and yellow paper flowers, for the _fiesta_ days. They wear white
veils on Sundays when they go to mass. The boys' hats often have long
brims like those that we wear on the farm. They also have felt Tam
o'Shanter caps, which they affect with quite a rakish tilt.

Playthings are scarce in Filipinia. The boys and girls would be
delighted with a cheap toy cart or drum. The dolls are made of cotton
cloth, with painted cheeks, and beads for eyes, dressed up in scraps of
 _pina_ cloth in imitation of fine _senoritas_. Kite-time and
the peg-top season come as in America. The Filipino kites are built
like butterflies or birds, and sometimes carry a long beak which is
of use in case of war. Kite-fighting is a favorite amusement in the
islands, where the native boys are expert in the art of making and
manipulating kites. Among the other games they play is one that an
American would recognize as "tip-cat," and another which would be more
difficult to recognize as football. This is played with a light ball
or woven framework of rattan. The ball is batted from one player to
another by the heel. The national pet is neither dog nor cat; it is
a chicken and the grown-up people think almost as much of this unique
pet as the children do.

Music comes natural to the Filipinos. Their instruments are violins,
guitars, and flutes. The boys make flutes of young bamboo-stalks
which are very accurate, and give out a peculiar mellow tone.

_Fiesta_-days and Sundays are the great events in Filipinia. On Sunday
morning the young girls, in their white veils and clean dresses, go
to mass, and, making the sign of the cross before the church, kneel
down upon the bare tiles while the service is performed. The church
to them is the magnificent abode of saints and angels. The wax images
and altar paintings are the only things they have in art except the
cheap prints of the saints and Virgin, which they hang conspicuously
in their homes. _Pascua_, or Christmas week, is a great holiday, but
it is very different from the Christmas that we know. The children
going to the convent school are taught to sing the Spanish Christmas
carols, and on Christmas eve they go outdoors and sing them on the
streets in the bright starlight. Their voices, although untrained,
are very delicate and sweet. The native music, which they often sing,
like all the music of the southern isles, is very melancholy, often
rising to a hopeless wail. On the last day of school the padre will
distribute raisins, nuts, and figs, which are the only Christmas
presents that the boys and girls receive. At the parochial schools
they are taught to do their studying aloud, and always to commit the
text to memory. If memory should fail them in a crisis, they would
be extremely liable to have their ears pulled by the priest, or to be
made to kneel upon the floor with outstretched arms, thus making the
recitation somewhat of a tragedy; but there are also prizes for the
meritorious. One book includes the whole curriculum--religion, table
manners, grammar, "numbers," and geography--arranged in catechisms of
convenient length. The boys are separated from the girls in school
and church, and I have very seldom seen them play together in their
homes. During the long vacation they must spend most of their time at
work out in the rice-fields under the hot sun. So they would rather
go to school than have vacation.

With the new schools and the American schoolteachers a great
opportunity has come to the young people of the Philippines. New
books with beautiful illustrations have been introduced, new songs,
and a new way of studying. It would amuse you if you were to hear
them read. "I do not see the pretty bird" they would pronounce,
"Ee doa noat say day freety brud." The roll-call also sounds a
good deal different from that in our own schools, where we have our
Williams, Johns, and Henrys; but the Filipino names are very pretty
(mostly names of Spanish saints), Juan, Mariano, Maximo, Benito, and
Torribio for boys; Carnation, Bernarda, and Adela for the girls. The
boys especially are very bright, and they are learning rapidly,
not only grammar and arithmetic, but how to play baseball and tag
and other games that make the child-life of America so pleasant.





Chapter X.

Christmas in Filipinia.


While you are in a land of starlight, frost, and sleighbells, here the
cool wind brushes through the palms and the blue sea sparkles in the
sun. "In every Christian kind of place" it is the time of Christmas
bells and Christmas masses. Even at the Aloran convent--about the
last outpost of civilization (only a little way beyond live the wild
mountain folk--sun-worshipers and the Mohammedans) the padre has
prepared a treat of nuts and raisins for the boys and girls--somewhat
of a Christmas cheer even so far across the sea. They have been
practicing their Christmas songs, Ave Maria and the "Oratorio," which
they will sing around the streets on Christmas eve. The schoolboys have
received their presents--dictionaries, sugared crackers, and perfumed
soap--and now that their vacation has begun, their little brown heads
can be seen bobbing up and down in the blue sea. Their Christmas-tree
will be the royal palm; and _nipa_ boughs their mistletoe.

Last Christmas in the provinces I spent in Iloilo at a hostel kept
by a barefooted Spanish landlady, slovenly in a loose morning-gown
and with disheveled hair, who stored the eggs in her own bedroom and
presided over the untidy staff of house-boys. As she usually slept
late, we breakfasted without eggs, being limited to chocolate and
cakes. The only option was a glass of lukewarm coffee thinned to
rather sickening proportions with condensed milk. Dinner, however,
was a more elaborate affair, consisting of a dozen courses, which
began with soup and ended with bananas or the customary cheese and
guava. The several meat and chicken courses, the "_balenciona_"--boiled
rice mixed with chicken giblets and red peppers--and the bread, baked
hard and eaten without butter, was washed down with a generous glass
of _tinto_ wine. A pile of rather moist plates stood in front of you,
and as you finished one course an untidy thumb removed the topmost
plate, thus gradually diminishing the pile.

The dining-room was very interesting. A pretentious mirror in a
tarnished gilt frame was the _piece de resistance_. The faded chromos
of the royal family, the Saints, and the Enfanta were relieved by the
brilliant lithographs presenting brewers' advertisements. A majestic
chandelier, considerably fly-specked, but elaborately ornamented
with glass prisms, dropped from the frescoed ceiling, and a cabinet
containing miscellaneous seashells, family photographs, and starfish
occupied one corner of the room.

There was a Christmas eve reception at the home of the "Dramatic
Club," where the refreshments of cigars and anisette and bock beer
were distributed with liberal hand. The Filipino always does things
lavishly. The evening was devoted to band concerts--the municipal
band in the pavilion rendering the Mexican waltzes, "Over the Waves,"
"The Dove," and other favorites, while the "upper ten" paraded in
the moonlight under the mimosa-trees--serenades under the Spanish
balconies, and carol-singing to the strumming of guitars. The houses
were illumined with square tissue paper lanterns of soft colors. The
public market was a fairyland of light. The girls at the tobacco booths
offered a special cigarette tied with blue ribbon as a souvenir of the
December holidays. A mass at midnight was conducted in the venerable
church. As the big bronze bells up in the belfry tolled the hour the
auditorium was filled with worshipers--women in flapping slippers and
black veils; girls smelling of cheap perfumery and cocoanut-oil, in
their stiff gauze dresses with the butterfly sleeves; barefooted boys
and young men redolent of cigarettes and musk. A burst of music from
the organ in the loft commenced the services, which were concluded
with the passing of the Host and a selection by the band. The priest
on this occasion wore his gold-embroidered chasuble; the acolytes,
red surplices and lace.

The streets next morning--Christmas-day--were thronged with
merry-makers. Strangers from the mountain tribes, wild, hungry-looking
creatures, had strayed into town, not only for the excitement of the
cockpit, but to do their trading and receive their share of alms,
which are distributed by all good Catholics at this season of the year.

Here on the corner was a great wag in an ass's head, accomplishing a
clumsy dance for the amusement of the crowd. Around the cockpit chaos
was the order of the day. The eager fighting-cocks, in expectation
of the combat, straining at their tethers, published to the world
their lusty challenges. The "talent," with delicious thrills, were
hefting favorite champions, and hastening' to register their wagers
with the bank.

The cock-fights lasted the entire week; at the end of that time the
erratic "wheel of fortune" had involved in ruin many an enthusiast
who had unfortunately played too heavily the losing bird.

A strolling troop of actors came to visit us that night. They carried
their own scenery and wardrobe with them, and the children who were
to present the comedy were dressed already for the first act. As they
filed in, followed by a mob of ragamuffins who had seen the show a
dozen times or more without apparent diminution of enjoyment, the
stage manager arranged the scenery and green-room, which consisted
of a folding screen. The orchestra, with bamboo flutes, guitars,
and mandolins, took places on a bench, where they began the overture,
beating the measure with bare feet and with as much delight as though
they were about to witness the performance for the first time. The
proprietor informed us that the entertainment was to be a comedy of
old Toledo. It was somewhat of a Cyrano de Bergerac affair; one of
the principals, concealed behind the "leading man," using his own
arms for gestures, sang his representative love for the senorita
in the Spanish dancer's costume. The castanet dance was repeatedly
encored, especially by those familiar with the program, who desired
that we appreciate it to its full extent. The actors in this dance
were dressed as Spanish buccaneers are popularly supposed to dress,
in purple breeches buttoned at the knee, red sashes, and gold lace....

Last night at our own church three paper lanterns, shaped like stars
and representing the "three wise men," at the climax of the mass were
worked on wires so that they floated overhead along the auditorium,
and finally came to rest above the altar, which had been transformed
into a manger, the more realistic on account of the pigs, ducks,
and chickens manufactured out of paper that had been disposed around.

To-day three men in red are traveling from house to house with candles
followed by an attendant with a bell, ringing away the evil spirits
for a year. The councilmen in snowy blouses and blue pantaloons, with
their official canes, are making their official calls, and Padre Pedro
in his pony cart has been around to visit his parishioners. The band,
equipped with brand new uniforms and instruments, is playing underneath
the convent balcony. Their duties during the festivities are strenuous;
for they must serenade the residence of every magnate in the town,
receiving contributions of _pesetas_, cigarettes, and gin.

This afternoon we made our round of calls, for every family keeps
open house. A number of matinee balls were in session, where the
natives danced "clack-clack" around the floor to the monotonous drone
of home-made instruments. Our friends all wished us a "_Ma-ayon
Pascua_" or "_Feliz Pascua_," for which "Merry Christmas" they
expected some remembrance of the day. Our efforts were rewarded
by innumerable gifts of cigarettes and many offers of _tanduay_
and gin. At one place we experimented with a piece of "_bud-bud_,"
which is (as its name implies) a sweet-meat made of rice paste mixed
with sugar. The hams with sugar frosting, and the cakes flavored with
native limes, and cut in the shape of the "Ensanguined Heart," were
more acceptable. At one house we received a cake made in the image of
a lamb, with sugar ringlets representing fleece. At our departure,
"many thanks, sir, for the visit," and a final attempt to get rid
of another cigarette. It is in bad taste to refuse. A Filipino host
would feel offended at your not accepting what he offered. He would
feel as though discrimination were implied.

At night after the cock-fight one droll fellow brought around
a miniature marionette theater, of which he was the proud
proprietor. While his assistant blew a bamboo flute behind the scenes,
the puppets danced fandangoes and played football in a very lifelike
manner. Seated on an empty cracker-box in front, surrounded by the
ragged picaninnies, sat Dolores, with her sparkling eyes, lips parted,
and her black hair hanging loose,--oblivious to everything except
the marionettes.

The star attraction was preceded by applause. The number was
announced by those familiar with the exhibition as a "Moro combat,"
and as the assistant struck a harrowing obligato on an old oil-can,
the Moros appeared with fighting _campalons_ and barbarous-looking
shields. The crowd expressed its approbation in wild howls. The first
two rounds were rather tame. "Afraid! Afraid!" exclaimed the crowd,
but presently the combatants began to warm up to their work and to
make frantic lunges at each other at the vital spot. This was the
time of breathless and instinctive pressing forward from the back
rows. Somebody cried out, "_Cebu!_" or "Down in front!" and then again,
"_Patai!_" which means "dead." One of the warriors at this cue flopped
supine on the stage, and the suppressed excitement broke. The victor,
not content with mere manslaughter, plied his sword so energetically
as quickly to reduce his victim to a state of hash. At this point
his Satanic majesty, the curtain manager, saw fit to intervene, and
with a long spear he successfully probed the limp remains, completing
the assassination. I had not known until then what a young barbarian
Dolores was.

The last attraction of our Christmas week was a genuine Mystery play,
the Virgin Mary being represented by a girl in soiled white stockings
and a confirmation dress. The Christ Child was a Spanish doll in a
glass case. There were the three wise men--one in a long beard and a
pink mask, and the others in gold braid and knickerbockers--more like
dandies than philosophers. "Joseph" was splendid, with a shepherd's
crook and a sombrero. Adoration before the manger was the theme that
was developed in a series of ballets danced by the children to a
tambourine and castanet accompaniment. At the conclusion of the play,
the little actors in their starry costumes, Joseph and the Virgin
(carrying the Babe), the three philosophers, and the musicians and
the army of admiring followers, filed out into the moonlight, and
as the sweet music of the "Shepherds' Song" diminished gradually,
they disappeared within a shadowy grove of palms.




A Christmas Feast.


When Senor Pedro gave his Christmas feast, he went about it in
the orthodox way. That is, he began at midnight Christmas eve. The
Christmas pig we were to have had, however, disappointed us--and
thereby hangs a tale.

Came Senor Pedro early in the morning of the twenty-fourth, and "In
the mountains," Senor Pedro said, "runs a fat pig." _Usa ca babui
uga dacu!_ A regular feast of a pig running at large near the macao
woods on the <DW72> beyond Mercario's hemp-fields!

Nothing would do but that I buckle on my Colt's--a weapon that I
had done much destruction with among the lesser anthropoids in the
vicinity. Then we set out radiantly for the hills, with Senor Pedro
leading and a municipal policeman with us to take home the pig. We soon
arrived at the pig's stamping grounds. We had not long to wait. There
was a snapping of the underbrush, and "Mr. Babui" appeared upon the
scene. His great plank side and sagging belly was as fair a mark as
any sportsman could have wished. His greedy little eyes were fixed
upon the ground where he was rooting for his Christmas dinner.

Bang! The bullet from the army Colt's sped true. Our pig, flat on
his back, was squealing desperately, and his feet were pawing the air
as last as though he had been run by clockwork and had been suddenly
released from contact with the ground. Then the municipal policeman
went to pick him up. But lo, a miracle! Our Christmas pig, inspired by
supersusine terror on the approach of the dire representative of law,
regained his legs, and before we could recover from our astonishment,
had scudded away with an expiring squeak like that emitted from a
musical balloon on its collapse. We never found the pig. He was just
mean enough to die in privacy.

But there was to be some compensation. What, though our Christmas
dinner had escaped? I managed to bring down a monkey that for some
time had been chattering and scolding at us from a tree, and with this
substitute--a delicacy rare to native palates--marched triumphantly
back to the town.

Exactly at midnight the _senores_ took their seats around the
board. The orchestra was stationed in an elevated alcove in the next
room. On the benches sat the women, from the dainty Juliana in her
pink cotton hosiery and white kid slippers to the old witch Paola,
the town scold. We knives or forks. Heaping platefuls of rice were
served with the stewed meat--cut in small pieces that "just fit the
hand," and cooked with vegetables. At my request the monkey had been
roasted whole. "All la same bata" (baby) cried my host, and sure,
I never felt more like a cannibal in all my life. I shuddered later
when, the ladies at the table, Juliana gnawed the thigh-bone of the
little beast with relish.

Senor Pedro kept the orchestra supplied with gin, with the result
that what they lacked in accuracy they made up for in enthusiasm. In
the dim room, lighted only by the smoky "kinkes," we could see the
hungry eyes of those awaiting the third table--the retainers and the
poor relations. On the boards below was spread a banquet of rice and
_tuba_ for the multitude.

The party broke up with a dance, and as the pointers of the Southern
Cross faded from the pale sky, the happy merrymakers filed off to their
beds. They had so little in this far-off corner of the world, and yet
they were content. Had not the stars looked down upon them through the
tropic night? Had not the blue sea broken in phosphorescent ridges
at their feet? And didn't they have the Holy Virgin on the walls to
smile a blessing on their little scene of revelry? O, it was Christmas
over all the world! And on this day at least the white man and the
"little brown brother" could shake hands over mutual interests.





Chapter XI.

In a Visayan Home.


The shutters of the house across the street were closed. Under the
balcony, near where the road was strewn with scarlet blossoms from
the fire-tree, carpenters were hammering and sawing busily. Shaped
by the antiquated bandsaw and the bolos, a rude coffin gradually
assumed its grim proportions. A group of schoolboys, drawn by
curiosity, looked on indifferently while keeping up a desultory game
of tag. Upstairs, the women, dressed in the black veils of mourning,
shuffling noiselessly around, were burning candles at the "Queen of
Heaven's" shrine. They murmured prayers mechanically--not without a
certain reverence and awe--to usher the departing soul into the land
beyond. A smoky wall-lamp, glimmering near the door, illuminated the
black crucifix above the bed. In the dim candle-light vague shadows
danced on the white walls.

The priest had heard the last confession of Jose Pilar. Not that
Jose had been one of the padre's friends. In fact, he was suspected
during the past year of having been a secret agent of Aglipay, the
self-consecrated Bishop of Manila, and the target of the accusation
and invective that the Church of Rome is so proficient in. The recent
rulings of the order had abolished the confession fee; but the long
road was uncertain and the dangers great. The padre rubbed his hands
as he went out. He had received a "voluntary" contribution for his
services, with the assurance that a series of masses would be ordered
by the widow of Jose Pilar. Through the stiff palms, the cold sea,
gray as steel, washed the far-distant shores of lonely islands,
and the red glow of the setting sun had died away.

The padre thought about the plump goats and the chickens in the new
stockade. The simple people brought their chickens to the convent,
denying themselves all but the fish and rice. The mothers weaned
their puny brats on rice; they stuffed them with it till their swollen
paunches made a grotesque contrast with their skinny legs. Childbirth
is one of the minor incidents of Filipinia. Where is the house that
doesn't swarm with babies, like the celebrated residence of the old
woman in the shoe? When one of these sparrows falls, the little song
that dies is never missed.

How many times had Father Cipriano climbed the rickety ladder to the
_nipa_ dwellings, entering the closed room where the patient lay
upon the floor! A gaping crowd of yokels stood around, while the
old woman faithfully kneaded the abdomen. The native medicaster,
having placed the green leaves on the patient's temples, would be
brewing a concoction of emollient simples. The open shirt disclosed
upon the patient's breast the amulet which had been blessed by Padre
Cipriano, and was stamped with a small figure of a saint. The holy
father smiled as he reflected how they spent their last cent for the
funeral ceremonies, while the doctor's fee would be about a dozen
eggs. And even now that death had come to one not quite so ignorant
and simple as the rest, the funeral celebrations would be but the more
elaborate. Not every one who could afford a coffin in Malingasag! And
as the padre crossed the _plaza_ he lighted a cigarette.

It was with feelings of annoyance that he saw before the side door
of the church a tiny litter cheaply decorated with bright paper and
red cloth. The yellow candles threw a fitful light over the little
image on the bier. It was the image of a child, a thing of wax,
clothed in a white dress, with a tinsel crown upon its head. One
of the sacristans was drumming a tattoo upon the bells. The padre
motioned him to discontinue. He would have his gin-and-water first,
and then devotions, lasting twenty minutes. After devotions he could
easily dispose of the small child. So the two humble women waited in
patience at the door, and the cheap candles sputtered and went out
before the good priest could find time to hurry through the unimportant
funeral services that meant to him only a dollar or two at best in
the depreciated silver currency. Already night was overshadowing the
palm-groves as the pathetic little group filed out and trudged across
the rice-pads toward the cemetery.

The Filipinos regard the American doctors with suspicion. When a
snakebite can be cured by a burnt piece of carabao horn, or when the
leaves or bits of paper stuck upon the temple will relieve the fever
or the dysentery, what is the use of drugs and medicines and things
that people do not understand? Once, out of the kindness of his heart,
an army doctor that I knew, prescribed a valuable ointment for a child
afflicted by a running sore. The child was in a terrible condition,
as the sore had eaten away the flesh and bone, leaving a large hole
under the lower lip through which the roots of the teeth were all
exposed. The parents had not washed the child for weeks. They actually
believed that bathing was injurious when one was sick. The doctor,
giving them directions how to use the medicine, asked them, as an
experiment, what fee he might expect. He knew well that if the priest
had asked this question, they would eagerly have offered everything
they had. So he was not surprised when they replied that they were very
poor, and that they did not think the service was worth anything. The
doctor turned them away good naturedly, but they returned the next
day with the medicine, reporting that undoubtedly it was no good,
because, forsooth, the child had cried when they applied it! As a
peace-offering they brought a dozen miserable bananas.

Slinging a tablet around his neck, a "valuable remedy against the
pest," the Filipino thinks that he is reasonably secure against
disease, and that if he becomes afflicted, it is the result of some
transgression against heaven. I happened to receive a startling proof,
however, of its efficacy when the padre's house-boy, rather a bright
young fellow, made me a present of his "remedy" and died the next
day of cholera. Still I have seen the "_anting-anting_," which is
supposed to render the wearer bullet-proof, pierced with the balls of
the Krag-Jorgensen and stained with blood. Although the Visayans show
considerable sympathy toward one when he is sick, the native dentist
cutting out the tooth with a dull knife, we would consider almost too
barbarous to practice in America. The Igorrotes have a way of driving
out the fever with a slow fire; but between this Spartan method and
Visayan ignorance the choice is difficult. No wonder that the people
drop off with surprising suddenness. Your laundryman or baker fails to
come around some morning, and you ask one of your neighbors where he
is. The neighbor, shifting his wad of _buya_ to the other cheek, will
gradually wake up and answer something ending in "_ambut_." "_Ambut_"
is a convenient word for the Visayan, as it means "don't know," and
even if he is informed, the Filipino often is too lazy or indifferent
to explain. You finally discover some one more accommodating who
replies: "Why, haven't you heard? He died the other day."

Sulkiness, one of the characteristics of the girls and boys, develops
into surliness in men and billingsgate in women. And I have no doubt
that little Diega, the sulkiest and prettiest of the Visayan beauties,
in a few years will be gambling at the cock-fights, smoking cigars,
and losing her money every Sunday afternoon at Mariana's _monte_
game. Vulgarity with them goes down as wit, and the Visayan women make
a fine art of profanity. It is always the woman in a family quarrel
who is most in evidence. And even the delicate Adela when the infant
Richard fell downstairs the other day, cried, "Mother of God!" which
she considered to be more appropriate than "_Jesus_, _Marie_, _Josep_!"

On entering one of the common houses, you would be astonished at the
pitiable lack of furnishings. The floor is made of slats of split
bamboo, tied down with strips of cane. The walls are simply the dried
_nipa_ branches, fastened down with bamboo laths. The only pictures on
the walls are the cheap prints of saints, the "Lady of the Rosary," or
illustrations clipped together with the reading matter from some stray
American magazine. The picture of a certain popular shoe manufacturer
is sometimes given the place of honor near the crucifix. If any attempt
at decoration has been made, the lack of taste of the Visayans is at
once apparent. For the ancient fly-specked chromo of the "Prospect
of Madrid" is as artistic in their eyes as though the advertisement
of a certain cracker factory did not adorn the margin. The undressed
pillars that support the house, run through the floor. The _nipa_
shutters that protect the windows are propped open, making heavy
awnings, and permitting a free circulation of the breeze. There are
no ceilings in these houses, and the entire framework of the roof is
visible. A cheap red curtain, trimmed with lace, is draped before the
entrance to the sleeping-room. While in the better frame-constructed
residences an old Spanish tester bed with a cane bottom may be seen in
this apartment, here only the straw mats and the cotton bolsters are to
be found. A basket hanging from a bamboo spring serves as a cradle for
the baby, but it is a pretty lucky baby that indulges in this luxury,
as most of the children, spreading the mats upon the floor at night,
pillow their heads upon the bolsters, ten in a row, and go to sleep. A
marble-topped table and a few chairs, formally arranged as though in
preparation for a conclave, are the features of the larger homes; but
generally the furniture consists of a long bench, a wooden table, and
a camphorwood box, which contains the family treasures, and the key to
which the woman of the house wears in her belt--a symbol of authority.

On climbing the outside stairway to the living-rooms you find your
passage blocked by a small fence. In trying to step over this you
nearly crush a naked baby, and a yellow dog snaps venomously at
your heels. You enter the main room, where the pony-saddle and the
hemp-scales may be stored. The Filipinos are great visitors, and you
will find a ring of old men squatting upon the benches like so many
hens, chewing the betel-nut and nursing their enormous feet. Some
fellow in the corner, with a chin like a sea-urchin, strums a tune
monotonously on an old guitar. Your host arises, offers you a glass of
gin and a cigar or cigarette, and asks you to "_lincoot dinhi_." So,
at his invitation, you sit down, and are expected to begin the
conversation. Such conversation is enlightening and runs somewhat
like this:

"Yes, thank you, I am very well; Yes, we are all well. Everything is
well.... The beer of the Americans is very good.... Whisky is very
strong.... The Filipino whisky is not good for anything.... It is very
dull here. It is not our custom to have pretty girls.... What is your
salary? All the Americans are very rich. We are all very poor.... The
horses in America are very large. Why?... If the people want me,
I will be elected mayor. But let them decide.... After a while will
you not let me have some medicine? The wife has beri-beri very bad."

The family arises with the chickens. For the Filipino boy no
chores are waiting to be done. The ponies and the dogs are never
fed. Nobody seems to care much for the animals. With the exception
of the fighting-cock, chickens, dogs, pigs, and carabaos are left to
forage for themselves. The pigs and dogs are public scavengers, and
the poor curs that howl the night long, till you wish that they were
only allowed to bay the moon in daytime, stalk the barren shores or
rice-pads in the hope of preying upon carrion. A Filipino dog, though
pinched and starved, has not the courage even to catch a young kid
by the ear, and much less to say "boo" to a goose. It is surprising
how the ponies, feeding upon the coarse grass, ever become as wiry
as they do. Evidently, to the Filipino, animals do not have feelings;
for they often ride their ponies furiously, though the creature's back
may be a running sore. In using wooden saddles they forget to place a
pad beneath them, and the saddle thus becomes an instrument of torture.

After the morning bath in the cool river, a cup of chocolate or a
little bowl of rice will serve for breakfast. Then the women attend
morning mass and kneel for half an hour on the hard tiles. It is still
early in the day, and the fantastic mountains, with their wonderful
lights and shadows, are just throwing off the veil of mist. Now,
in the clear light, the huge, swelling bosom of the hills, the
densely-timbered <DW72>s beyond, stand out distinctly, like a picture
in a stereoscope. The heavy forests, crowded with gigantic trees,
seem like a mound of bushes thickly bunched. Off to the left rises
a barren ridge, that might have been the spine of some old reptile
of the mezozoic age; and in the center a Plutonic ampitheater--the
council-chamber of the gods--is swept by shadows from the passing
clouds, or glorified for a brief moment by a flood of light.

The boys are then sent out to catch one of the ponies for their father,
who is going to inspect his hemp plantation on the foot-hills. His
progress will at first be rather slow; for he is a great chatterbox,
and if he finds some crony along the road, he will dismount and drink
a glass of _tuba_ with him, or dicker with him over an exchange of
fighting cocks. The birds are then brought out, and the two men squat
down, with the birds in hand, and set them pecking at each other to
display their fine points. But the string of _hombres_, with their
bolos slung about their waists, making for the mountains, reminds the
planter that he must be getting on. His fields are let out to these
fellows, who will pay him a proportion of the hemp which they can
strip. Although the process of preparing hemp is primitive and slow,
the green stalk being stripped by an iron comb, the laboring man
can prepare enough in one day to supply his family with "_sow sow_"
for an entire week. If he would work with any regularity, especially
in the wild hemp-fields, he would soon be "independent," and could
buy the hemp from others, which could be sold at a profit to the
occasional hemp-boats that come into port. The only capital required
is one or two bull-carts and carabaos, a storehouse, and sufficient
rice or money to secure his first invoice of hemp. The men who carry
it in from the mountains, either on their own backs or on carabaos,
sell it for cash or its equivalent in rice at the first store.

On Saturdays, the boys go to the mountains to buy eggs. Their first
stop is the _hacienda_ on the outskirts of the town--a large, cool
_nipa_ house, with broad verandas, situated in a grove of palms. Around
the veranda are the nests of woven baskets where the chickens are
encouraged to lay eggs. Sucking a juicy mango, they proceed upon their
journey through a field of sugar-cane. They stop perhaps at the rude
mill where the brown sugar is prepared and molded in the shells of
cocoanuts. They quench their thirst here with a stick of sugar-cane,
and, peeling the sweet stalk with their teeth, they disappear beyond
the hill. Now they have reached a wonderful country, where the monkeys
and the parrots chatter in the trees. They can set traps for little
parrots with a net of fine thread fastened to the branches. Only
a little further on is a small mountain _barrio_, where naked,
lazy men lie in the sun all day, and the women weave bright-
blankets on their looms. Returning with their handkerchiefs tied
full of eggs, the boys reach home about sundown. The thought of
being late to supper never worries them; the Filipino is notoriously
unpunctual at meals. The boys will cook their own rice, and spread
out the sleeping-mat wherever the sunset finds them. One shelter is
as good as another, and they just as often sleep away from home as
in their own beds. Their parents never worry about the children, for
they know that, like Bo-peep's sheep, they will come back some time,
and it doesn't make much difference when.

Early in April the rice-fields are flooded by the irrigation ditches
that the river or the mountain streams have filled with water. A plow
made of the notch of a tree is used to break the soil. A carabao
is used for this work, as it is impossible to mire him even in the
deepest mud. The boys and girls, together with the men and women,
wearing enormous sun-hats--in the crown of which there is a place for
cigarettes and matches--and with bared legs, work in the steaming
fields throughout the planting season. As the rice grows taller,
the crows are frightened away by strings of flags manipulated from
a station in the center of the paddy. Scarecrows are built whenever
there are any clothes to spare; but as the Filipino even utilizes
rags, the scarecrow often has to go in shocking _negligee_. After the
harvest season, when the entire village reaps the rice with bolos,
the dry field is given over to the ponies, and the carabaos, and the
white storks, who never desert their burly friend, the carabao, but
often are seen perching on his back. The work of husking and pounding
the crop then occupies the village.

If you should be invited in to dinner by a Filipino family, you would
expect to eat boiled rice and chicken. They would place a cuspidor on
one side of your chair to catch the chicken bones, which you would
spit out from your mouth. The food would be cooked in dishes placed
on stones over an open fire. The cook and the _muchachos_ never wash
their hands. They wash the dishes only by pouring some cold water on
them and letting them dry gradually. The cook will rinse the glasses
with his hand. How would you like to eat a chicken boiled with its
pin-feathers on, or find a colony of red ants in your soup? The
poorer families seldom go through the formality of serving meals. As
soon as the rice and _guinimos_ are cooked, the children and their
parents squat around the bowl and help themselves, holding a lump of
salt in one hand, and using the other for a fork or spoon. The women
do what little marketing needs to be done, and though the Filipino
acts in most things lavishly, the women can drive close bargains,
and will scold like ale-wives if they find the measure short even by
so much as a single _guinimo_.

The _guinimo_ is probably the smallest creature with a vertebra known
to the world of science--a small fish--and it strikes one as amusing
when the people count them out so jealously. But all their marketing
is done on retail lines. Potatoes, eggs, and fruit sell for so much
apiece. A single fish will be chopped up so as to go around among the
customers, while the measures used in selling rice and salt are so
small that you can not take them seriously. The transaction reminds
you of your childhood days when you were playing "keep store" with
a nickel's worth of candy on the ironing-board.

At Easter-time, or during the celebration of the "Santa Cruz,"
an enterprising family will get up a singing bee. Perhaps a wheezy
organ will be brought to light, and the musician then officiates
behind the instrument. His bare feet work the pedals vigorously,
and his body sways in rhythm with the strains. As the performance
is continuous, arriving or departing guests do not disturb the
ceremony. There seems to be a special song for this occasion, the
words of which must be repeated over and over as the music falls
and rises in a dismal wail. Refreshments of Holland gin and _tuba_
keep the party going until long after midnight.

As you walk down the long dusty street at evening, you will be half
suffocated by the smoke and the rank odor of the burning cocoanut-husks
over which the supper is being cooked. Then you remember how the
broiling beefsteak used to smell "back home," and even dream about
grandmother's kitchen on a baking day. And as you pass by the poor
_nipa_ shacks, you hear the murmur of the evening prayer pronounced
by those within. It is a prayer from those who have but little and
desire no more.





Chapter XII.

Leaves from a Note-book.



I.

Skim Organizes the Constabulary.


The soldiers had gone, bag and baggage, dog, parrot, and monkey,
blanket-roll and cook. I stood by the deserted convent under
the lime-tree, watching the little transport disappear beyond
the promontory. The house that formerly had been headquarters
seemed abandoned. There was the list of calls still pasted on the
door. Reveille, guard-mount, mess-call, taps,--the village would
seem strange without these bugle-notes. The sturdy sentry who had
paced his beat was gone. When would I ever see again my old friend
the ex-circus clown, and hear him tinkle the "potato-bug" and sing
"Ma Filipino Babe?" Walking along the lonely shore, now lashed by
breakers, I looked out on the blue wilderness beyond. It was with
feelings such as Robinson Crusoe must have had that I went back then
to the empty house.

Ramon, convinced that something would break loose, now that the troops
were gone, had left for Cagayan. His wife, Maria, slept at night
with a big bolo underneath her pillow. There was a "bad" town only a
few miles away--a village settled by Tagalog convicts, who had been
conspicuous in the revolt a few years previous. The people feared
these neighbors, the assassins, and they double-barred their doors
at night. I was awakened as the clock struck twelve by unfamiliar
noises,--nothing but the lizard croaking in the bonga-tree. Again,
at one, I started up. It was the rats, and from the rattling sound
above I judged that the house-snake was pursuing them. At early
morning came the chorus of the chanticleers. Through the transparent
Japanese blinds I could see the huge green mountains shouldering the
overhanging clouds. Ah! the mysterious, silent mountains, with their
wonderful, deep shadows! The work of man seemed insignificant beside
them, and Balingasag the lonesomest place in all the world.

One morning the sharp whistle of the launch aroused the
town. Proceeding to the shore, I saw a boat put out from the
_Victoria_, sculled by a native deck-hand. As the sun had not
yet risen, all the sea was gray, and sea and sky blended into one
vast planetary sphere. Two natives carrying the ample form of the
constabulary captain staggered through the surf. Behind them came the
captain's life-long partner and lieutenant, a slight man, with cold,
steely eyes, dressed in gray crash uniform, with riding leggings. They
had been through one campaign together as rough riders; for the captain
had once been "sheriff of Gallup County," in the great Southwest.

The house no longer seemed deserted with this company, and as they
had brought supplies for two months--which included bread!--we made
an early attack upon these commissaries. Since the troops had left
I had been existing on canned salmon and sardines. Now there were
cheese, guava, artichokes, mushrooms, ham, bacon, blackberry-jam,
and fruits. The captain, natural detective that he was, caught one of
the _muchachos_ stealing a bottle of cherries, which he had thrown out
the window during the unpacking, with the purpose of securing it next
day. On being accused, he made a vigorous protest of his innocence,
but after a few minutes he returned triumphantly with the intelligence
that he had "found" that which was lost.

A heavy rain and the tail-end of a monsoon kept my two guests
prisoners for a week. The _presidente_ of the town had issued
a _bandilla_ that all able-bodied men were wanted to enlist in
the constabulary. Accordingly came awkward natives to the house,
where the interpreter examined them; for all the Spanish that the
genial captain knew--and he had lived already two years in the
Philippines--was "bueno," "malo," "saca este," and "sabe that?" The
candidates were measured, and, if not found wanting, were turned
over to the native tailor to be fitted with new uniforms. Some of
the applicants confessed that they had once been Insurrectos; but
so much the better,--they knew how to fight. They said that they
were not afraid of Moros--though I think that they would rather
have encountered tigers--and when finally dressed, a few days later,
they appeared upon the streets self-conscious, objects of adoration
in the eyes of all the local belles.

The time came when the mists dissolved upon the mountains, and
the little clouds scudded along overhead as though to get in from
the rain. The sun had struggled out for a few minutes, and the wind
abated. But the sea had not forgotten recent injuries, and all night we
could hear the booming of the surf. The launch, drowned in a nebula
of spray, dashed by, and sought an anchorage in safer waters. So
it was decided that we go to Cagayan in a big _banca_. But it was a
most unwieldly craft to launch. We got the arms and ammunition safe
aboard, and then, assisted by the sturdy corporals and miscellaneous
natives, we pushed out. A rushing comber swept the boat and nearly
swamped it. But we bore up till about a hundred yards from shore,
when a gigantic breaker bearing down upon the _banca_--which had
been deflected so as to present a broadside--filled her completely,
and she went down in the swirling spume. Up to our necks in surf,
we labored for an hour, together with the population of the fishing
village, finally to save the wretched boat and most of the constabulary
ordnance.

But, alas for the lieutenant! He had lost one of his riding-leggings,
and for half a day he paced the shore in search of it. He offered
rewards to any native who should rescue it. Lacking a saving sense
of humor, he bemoaned his fate, and when he did give up the search,
he discontinued it reluctantly. And two years afterwards, when I
next met him, he inquired if I had seen his legging washed up on the
beach. "Some native must be sporting around in it," he said. "It set
me back five dollars, Mex."



It was a sleepy day at Cagayan. The tropical river flowed in silence
through the jungle like a serpent. In _Capitan_ A-Bey's house opposite,
a _senorita_ droned the _Stepanie Gavotte_ on the piano. _Capitan_
A-Bey's pigs rooted industriously in the compound. The teacher who
had hiked in from El Salvador, unconscious that his canvas leggings
were transposed, was engaged in a deep game of solitaire.

Upon the settee in the new constabulary residence, his long legs
doubled up ridiculously, still in khaki breeches and blue flannel
army shirt, lay "Skim," with a week's growth of beard upon his face,
sleeping after a night-ride over country roads. After an hour or two
of rest he would again be in the saddle for two days.

Late in the afternoon we started on constabulary ponies for
Balingasag--a ride of thirty miles through quagmires, over swollen
streams and mountain trails. Our ponies were the unaccepted present
from a quack who thus had tried to buy his way out of the calaboose,
where he was "doing time" for trying to pass himself off as a prophet.

The first few miles of the journey led through the cloistered archways
of bamboo. We crossed the Kauffman River, swimming the horses down
stream. Then the muddy roads began. The constant rains had long
ago reduced them to a state of paste, and although some attempt had
been made to stiffen them with a filling of dried cocoanut-husks,
the sucking sound made by the ponies' hoofs was but a prelude to
our final floundering in the mud. There was a narrow ridge on one
side near a thorny hedge, and, balancing ourselves on this, we
made slow progress, meanwhile tearing our clothes to shreds. Skim
had considerable difficulty with his long legs, for he could have
touched the ground on either side, but he could use them to advantage,
when it came to wading through the slosh ourselves, and dragging the
tired ponies after us. At night we "came to anchor" in a village,
where we purchased a canned dinner in a Spanish store. The natives
gathered around us as we sat, all splashed with mud, on wicker chairs
in front of the provincial _almacen_. Skim talked with the Spaniard,
alternating every word with "_estie_," while the Don kept swallowing
his eyes and gesturing appropriately. Skim was convinced that his
Castilian was fine art.

We slept in a deserted schoolhouse, lizards and mosquitoes being our
bed-fellows. Skim, the rough cowboy that he was, pillowed his head
upon the horse's flank, and kept his boots on. At the break of day,
restless as ever, he was off again. Crossing the Jimenez River in a
native ferry while the horses swam, we passed through tiny villages
that had not seen a white man for a year. Our journey now lay through
the woods, and Skim, dismounting, stalked along the narrow trail
as though he had been shod in seven-league boots. I heard a pistol
shot ring out, and, coming up, found Skim in mortal combat with an
ape. Then one more plunge into a river, and another stream spanned
by a bamboo pole, which we negotiated like funambulists, dragging
the steeds below us by their halters,--then Balingasag.

In town the big _vaquero_ was a schoolboy on a holiday. He was a
perfect panther for prowling around the streets at night, and in
the market-place, where we now missed the scattering of khaki, he
became acquainted with the natives, and drank _tuba_ with them. He
came back with reports about the resources of the town. There was an
Indian merchant stranded at Ramon's, who had a lot of watches for
sale cheap. He purchased some lace curtains at the _Chino_ store,
and yellow _pina_ cloth for a mosquito bar, and with this stuff he had
transformed his bed into a perfect bower. It was almost a contradiction
that this wild fellow, who was more accustomed to his boots and spurs
at night than to pajamas, should have taken so much pains to make his
sleeping-quarters dainty. Streamers of baby-ribbon fell in graceful
lines about the curtains, while the gauze mosquito-bar was decorated
with the medals he had won for bravery.

A photograph of his divorced wife occupied the place of honor near
the looking-glass. In reminiscent moods Skim used to tell how Chita,
of old Mexico, had left him after stabbing him three times with the
jeweled knife that he had given her. "I didn't interfere with her,"
he said, "but told her, when she pricked me with the little knife,
it was my heart that she was jabbing at." Skim also told me of
his expedition into "Dead Man's Gulch," "Death Valley," and the
suddenly-abandoned mining-camps among the hills of California. And
he had met the daughter of a millionaire in Frisco, and had seen her
home. "And when I saw the big shack looming up there in the woods,"
he said, "I thought sure that I'd struck the wrong farmhouse."

Skim rented a small place surrounded by a hedge of bonga palms, and
here he entertained the village royally. He was a favorite among the
girls, and lavished gifts upon them, mostly the latest illustrated
magazines that belonged to me. He ruled his awkward soldiers with
an iron hand, and they were more afraid of him that of the Evil
One. Of course, they could not understand his Spanish, and would
often answer, "_Si, senor_" when they had not the least idea of what
the orders were. Then they would come to grief for disobedience,
or receive Skim's favorite reprimand of "Blooming idiot! _No sabe_
your own language?" When his cook displeased him, he (the cook) would
generally come bumping down the stairs. The voice of Skim was as the
roaring lion in a storm. Desertions were many in those strenuous days;
for the constabulary guards were not the heroes of the hour.

Always insisting on strict discipline, Skim, on the day we made our
trial hike, marshaled his forces in a rigid line, and, after roll-call,
marched them off in order to the hills. The soldiers took about three
steps to his one, and, trying to keep up with him through the dense
hemp-fields, they broke ranks and ran. We followed a mountain stream
to its headwaters, scrambling over bowlders, wading waist-deep in the
ice-cold stream, and by the time we broke the underbrush and pushed up
hill, big Skim had literally hiked the soldiers off their feet. They
were unspeakably relieved when we sat down at noon in the cool shade,
upon the brink of a deep, crystal pool, and ate our luncheon. Skim,
insisting that the canned quail--which retained its gamy flavor--was
beyond redemption, turned it over to the soldiers to their great
delight.

In spite of his severity, Skim had a soft heart, and when all dressed
in white and gold, he would go up to visit Senor Roa and his daughters;
while the girls would play duets on the piano, Skim, with a little
chocolate baby under either arm, would sing in an insinuating voice
one of his good old cowboy songs, regardless of the fact that he was
not in tune with his accompaniment. He always appeared on Sundays
cleanly shaven and immaculate in white, and when the girls went
by his house to church, their dusky arms glowing among the gauze,
appealed to him and made him sad.

No one could ever contradict Skim, though he couldn't even write
his own name legibly. His monthly reports were actually works of
art. "Seenyor Inspekter of constabulery," he would write, "i hav the
honner to indite the following report. i hav bin having trubel with the
moros. They was too boats of them and they had a canon in the bow. i
faired three shots and too of them fell down but they al paddeled aeway
so fast i coodnt catch them." And again: "On wensday the first instant
i went on a hike of seven miles. i captured three ladrones four bolos,
one old gun and too durks." Then after practicing his signature for
half an hour on margins of books or any kind of paper he could find,
he used to sign his document with a tremendous flourish.



I rather miss the rock thrown at my blinds at 4 o'clock A. M. A little
catlike sergeant, a _mestizo_, is in charge of the constabulary,
and the men are glad. No longer does the huge six-footer, with his
army Colt's, stalk through the village streets. The other day I got a
note from Skim: "i dont think i ain't never going to come back there
eny moar," he wrote above the most successful signature that I had
ever seen. A few months later Skim was badly crippled in a fight with
robbers. He was sent to Manila to the civil hospital. On his discharge
he was promoted, and he now wears three bars on his shoulder-straps. He
has been shot three times since then, and he has written, "If i dont
get kilt no more, i dont think that i wont come back."

To-day the constabulary is well organized. They have distinguished
themselves time and again in battle-line. They have put down the
lingering sparks of the rebellion. They look smart in their brand-new
uniforms and russet boots. But it was only a year or two ago that
Skim had crowded their uncivilized feet into the clumsy army shoe, and
knocked them around like puppets in a Noah's ark. Skim, if you ever get
hold of these few pages written in your honor, here's my compliments
and my best wishes for another bar upon your shoulder-straps, and--yes,
here's hoping that you "won't get killed no more."




II.

Last Days at Oroquieta.


I had been visiting the teachers at El Salvador, who occupied a Spanish
convent, with a broad veranda looking out upon the blue sea and a grove
of palms. It was a country of bare hills, which reminded one somewhat
of Colorado. _Nipa_ jungles bristled at the mouths of rivers, and the
valleys were verdant with dense mango copses. We made our first stop
on the way from Cagayan on Sunday morning at a village situated in
a prairie, where a drove of native ponies had been tethered near the
_nipa_ church. The roads were alive with people who had been attending
services or who were on the way to the next cock-fight. Falling in
with a loquacious native, who supplied us with a store of mangoes,
we rode on, and reached Tag-nipa or El Salvador late in the afternoon.

One of the teachers, "Teddy," might have actually stepped from out the
pages of Kate Greenaway. He had a large, broad forehead, and a long,
straight nose. He conducted a school of miserable little girls, and in
the evening, like a village preacher, he would make his pastoral calls
with a "Hello, girlie!" for each child he met. When he was pleased at
anything, he used to clap his hands, exclaiming, "Goodie!" "Teddy"
envied me "my baccalaureate enthusiasm," and, encouraged evidently
by this quality, he would read Chaucer in a sing-song voice, or,
when this recreation failed, would make up limericks to a guitar
accompaniment. His partner was the one who wore the transposed
leggings, and who walked as though continually following a plow.

Leaving for Oroquieta, in a Moro sailboat stocked with Chinese pigs and
commissaries that belonged to one called "Jac-cook" by the natives,
or "The Great White Father"--a New Zealander who could have posed as
an Apollo or a Hercules--the sailors whistled for wind, and finally
succeeded in obtaining it. The moon rose early over the dark waters,
and the boat, behaving admirably, rode the huge waves like a cockle. We
had nearly gone to pieces on a coral reef that night if "Jac-cook,"
suddenly aroused by the unusual sound of breakers, had not lowered
sail in time to save the ship from running on the sharp rock half a
mile from land. The sailors, perfectly incompetent, and panic-stricken
at the course the boat was taking, blundered frightfully as the New
Zealander assumed command.

No doubt the best mess in the town at that time was the one conducted
by the members of the hospital detachment. "Shorty," who did the
cooking, was a local druggist in his way; that is, he sold the natives
talcum powder, which they bought at quinine rates. The acting steward,
whom all the Filipinos called "Francisco," though his name was Louis,
was a butcher, and a doctor too. Catching the Spaniard's goat out
late at night, he knocked it in the head. The carcass was then taken
into the dissecting-room, where it was skinned and dressed for the
fresh-meat supply. He had acquired a local reputation as a _medico_,
to the disgust of the real army doctor, who, for a long time, could
not imagine why his medicines had disappeared so fast. Then there was
"Red," who had the art of laziness down fine, and who could usually
be found playing _monte_ with the natives. With the money he had won
at _monte_ games and chicken-fights, he intended to set up a drugstore
in America.

In a downpour of rain I left one morning for Aloran, down the coast
and up the winding river. Prisoners furnished by the _presidente_
manned the _banca_. They were guarded by a barefooted municipal
policeman, who, on falling presently to sleep, would probably have
lost his Mauser overboard had not one of the convicts rescued it and
courteously returned it to him. It was a wet and lonesome pull up the
Aloran River, walled in on both sides by _nipa_ jungles, and forever
winding in and out. After an hour or so, while I was wondering what
we were coming to, we met a raft poled down the stream with "Red"
and a young Austrian constabulary officer aboard.

Finding a little teacup of a house, I moved in, and, before an
interested throng of natives, started to unpack my trunks and boxes
with a sense of genuine relief; for I had had four months of traveling
and living out of steamer-trunks. But I returned to Oroquieta all in
good time for the doctor's birthday and the annual Oroquieta ball. I
found the doctor wandering about Aloran late one afternoon; for he had
been attending a sick Chinaman. We started back together through the
night, and, in the darkness, voices greeted us, or snarled a "_Buenas
noches_" at us as we passed. Bridges that carabaos had fallen through
were crossed successfully, and we arrived at Oroquieta during the
band concert.

The foreign colony at Oroquieta was more interesting than the
_personae dramatis_ of the "Canterbury Tales." Where to begin I do not
know. But, anyway, there was my old friend the constabulary captain,
"Foxy Grandpa," as we called him then, because when he was not engaged
in telling how he had arrested somebody in Arizona, he was playing
practical jokes or doing tricks with cards and handkerchiefs. And
then there was the "Arizona Babe," a blonde of the Southwestern type,
affianced to the commissary sergeant. The wife oL the commanding
officer, a veritable O'Dowd, and little Flora, daughter of O'Dowd,
who rode around town in a pony cart, were leaders of society for
the subpost.

Then you could take a stool in front of Paradies's general store,
and almost at any time engage the local teacher in an argument. You
would expect, of course, that he would wander from his topic till you
found yourself discussing something entirely foreign to the subject,
but so long as he was talking, everything was satisfactory. There were
the two Greek traders who had "poisoned the wells" out Lobuc way,--so
people said. And I must not forget "Jac-cook," whose grandfather,
according to his own report, had been a cannibal, a king of cannibals,
and eaten a roast baby every morning for his breakfast. Jack was a
soldier of fortune if there ever was one. He could give you a recipe
for making _poi_ from ripe bananas and the milk of cocoanuts, or for
distilling whisky from fermented oranges,--both of which formulas I
have unfortunately lost. He recommended an exclusive diet of raw fish,
and in his youth he had had many a hard battle with the shark and
octopus. His one regret was that there were no sharks in the Oroquieta
Bay, that, diving under, he could rip with a sharp knife. "To catch
the devil-fish," he used to say, "you whirl them rapidly around
your arm until they get all tangled up and supine-like." And once,
like Ursus, in "Quo Vadis," he had taken a young bull by the horns
and broken its neck.

All members of good standing in the colony received their invitations
to the birthday party. Old Vivan, the ex-horse-doctor of the
_Insurrectos_, went out early in the morning to cut palms. The floor
was waxed and the walls banked with green. The first to arrive was
"Fresno Bill," the Cottobato trader, in a borrowed white suit and a
pair of soiled shoes. Then came the bronzed Norwegian captain of the
_Delapaon_, hearty and hale from twenty years of deep-sea sailing
from the Java coast to Heligoland. Came Paradies, the little German
trader, in his finest blacks, and chose a seat off in one corner
of the room. Then "Foxy Grandpa" and the "Arizona Babe" arrived,
and the old maid from Zamboanga, who, when expression failed her,
would usurp the conversation with a "blab, blab, blab!" And as the
serpent made for old Laocooen, so she now made for "Fresno Bill."

Half an hour more and the party was in full swing. Native musicians,
stationed on the landing, furnished the music, and Vivan, the
Filipino Chesterfield, with sweeping bows to every one, was serving
the refreshments. Padre Pastor, in his black gown, with his face all
wreathed in smiles, was trying to explain to the schoolteacher's
wife that "stars were the forget-me-nots of heaven." The young
commissary sergeant had secured an alcove for the "Arizona babe,"
and "Foxy grandpa," taking a nip of something when his good wife's
back was turned, was telling his best anecdote of the southwest,
"Ichabod Crane," the big-boned Kansan--who had got the better of
us all that afternoon in argument--swinging his arms, and with his
head thrown back, was trying to herd the people into an old-fashioned
reel. Grabbing the little daughter of the regiment together with the
French constabulary officer--they loved each other like two cats--he
shouted, "Salamander, there! Why don't you salamander?" Entering
into the fun more than the rest, the genial army doctor "kept the
ball a-rolling."

For the doctor was a southerner, as many of the army people are. In his
dual function of physician-soldier, he could boast that he had killed
more men, had more deaths to his credit, than his fellow officers. He
was undoubtedly the best leech in the world. When off duty he assumed
a Japanese kimono, which became him like the robes of Nero. Placing his
sandaled feet upon the window-sill, he used to read the _Army and Navy
Journal_ by the hour. Although he had a taste for other literature,
his studies were considerably hampered by a tendency to fall asleep
after the first few paragraphs. He spent about four weeks on "Majorie
Daw." When he was happy--and he generally was happy--he would sing
that favorite song of his, "O, Ca'line." It went:


                "O, Ca'line! O, Ca'line!
                Can't you dance da pea-vine?
                O, my Jemima, O-hi-o."


But he could never explain satisfactorily what the "pea-vine"
was. His "Ring around and shake a leg, ma lady," was a triumph in
the lyric line.

We used to walk to Lobuc every afternoon to purchase eggs. The
doctor's "_Duna ba icao itlong dinhi?_" always amused the natives,
who, when they had any eggs, took pleasure in producing them. It was
with difficulty that I taught him to say "_itlog_" (egg) instead of
"eclogue," which he had been using heretofore. He made one error,
though, which never could be rectified,--he always called a Chinaman
a "hen chick," much to the disgust of the offended Oriental, whose
denomination was expressed in the Visayan by the word "_inchic_."



I pause before attempting a description of the Oroquieta ball, and,
like the poets, pray to some kind muse to guide my pen. To-night
I feel again the same thrill that I felt the night of the grand
Oroquieta ball. The memories of Oroquieta music seem as though they
might express themselves in words:


                "The stars so brightly shine,
                But ah, those stars of thine!
                  Are none like yours, _Bonita_,
                Beyond the ocean brine."


And then I seem to see the big captain--"Foxy grandpa"--beating the
bass drum like that extraordinary man that Mark Twain tells about,
"who hadn't a tooth in his whole head." I can remember how Don Julian,
the crusty Spaniard, animated with the spirit of old Capulet, stood on
the chair and shouted, "_Viva los Americanos!_"--and the palm-grove,
like a room of many pillars, lighted by Chinese lanterns.

It was a time of magic moonlight, when the sea broke on the sands in
phosphorescent lines in front of the _kiosko_. Far out on the horizon
lights of fishing-boats would glimmer, and the dusky shores of Siquijor
or the volcanic isle of Camaguin loomed in the distance. Here there
were little cities as completely isolated though they were parts
of another planet, where the "other" people worked and played, and
promenaded to the strumming of guitars. And in the background rose
the triple range of mountains, cold, mysterious, and blue in the
transfiguring moonlight.

The little army girl, like some fair goddess of the night, monopolized
the masculine attention at the ball. When she appeared upon the floor,
all others, as by mutual consent, retired, and left the field to her
alone. The "Pearls of Lobuc," who refused to come until a carriage was
sent after them, appeared in delicate gauze dresses, creamy stockings,
and white slippers. And "The Princess of the Philippines," Diega, with
her saucy pompadour, forgot that it was time to drop your hand at the
conclusion of the dance. Our noble Ichabod was there in a tight-fitting
suit of black and narrow trousers, fervently discussing with the
French constabulary man whether a frock was a Prince Albert. Paradies
capered mincingly to the quick music of the waltz, and the old maid,
unable to restrain herself, kept begging the doctor--who did not
know how to dance--only to try a two-step with her, please. And
the poor doctor, in his agony, had sweated out another clean white
uniform. I had almost forgotten Maraquita and the _zapatillas_
with the pearl rosettes. She was a little queen in pink-and-white,
and ere the night was over she had given me her "_sing sing_" (ring)
and fan, and told me that I could "ask papa" if I wanted to. The next
day she was just as pretty in light-blue and green, and with her hair
unbound. She poked her toes into a pair of gold-embroidered sandals,
and seemed very much embarrassed at my presence. This was explained
when, later in the day, her uncle asked me for Miss Maraquita's ring.

Although the cook and the _muchachos_ ate the greater part of the
refreshments, and a heart or two was broken incidentally, the Oroquieta
ball passed into history as being the most brilliant function of its
kind that ever had been witnessed at the post.

The winter passed with an occasional plunge in the cool river,
and the surf-bath every morning before breakfast. In the evening we
would ride to Lobuc, racing the ponies back to town in a white cloud
of dust. Dinner was always served for any number, for we frequently
had visitors,--field officers on hunting leave, commercial drummers
from Cebu, the circuit judge, the captain of the _Delapaon_. The
doctor had been threatening for some time, now, to give Vivan a
necessary whipping, which he did one morning to that Chesterfield's
astonishment. Calling the servant "_Usted_," or "Your honor," he
applied the strap, and old Vivan was shaking so with laughter that
he hardly felt the blows. But after that, he tumbled over himself
with eagerness to fill our orders. We had found the coolest places in
the town,--the beach at Lobuc, under a wide-spreading tree, and the
thatched bridge where the wind swept up and down the river, where
the women beat their washing on the rounded stones, and carabaos
dreamed in the shade of the bamboo. The cable used to steady the
bridge connected with the shore, the doctor explained to the old maid,
was the Manila cable over which the messages were sent.

The clamor of bells one morning reminded us that the _fiesta_ week was
on, and old Vivan came running in excitedly with the intelligence that
seven _bancas_ were already anchored at the river's mouth, and there
were twenty more in sight. Then he went breathlessly around the town to
circulate the news. We rode about in Flora's pony cart, and sometimes
went to visit "Foxy Grandpa," wife, and "Arizona Babe." "Old Tom,"
the convict on parole for murder, waited on the table, serving the
pies that Mrs. G. had taught the cook to make, and the canned peaches
with evaporated cream. Then, on adjourning to the parlor, with its
pillars and white walls, the "Babe" would play "Old Kentucky Home"
on the piano till the china shepherdesses danced with the vibrations,
and the genial captain, growing reminiscent, would recall the story
of the man he had arrested in old Mexico, or even condescend to do a
new trick with a handkerchief. There was a curious picture from Japan
in a gilt frame that had the place of honor over the piano. It was
painted on a plaque of china, robin's-egg blue, inlaid with bits of
pearl,--which represented boats or something on the Inland Sea, while
figures of men and small boys, enthusiastically waving Japanese flags,
all cut out of paper, had been pasted on. There was an arched bridge
over the blue water, and a sampan sculled by a boatman in a brown
_kimono_. There was a house with paper windows and a thatched roof.



... _Chino_ Jose died, and was given a military funeral. The bier was
covered with the Stars and Stripes. A company of native scouts was
detailed as an escort, and the local band led the procession to the
church. Old "Ichabod," with a long face, and in a dress suit, with a
purple four-in-hand tie, followed among the candle-bearers with long
strides. The tapers burning in the nave resembled a small bonfire,
and exhaustive masses finally resulted, so I judge, in getting the
old heathen's spirit out of purgatory. Good old _Chino_ Jose! He had
left his widow fifty thousand "Mex," of which the priest received
his share; also the doctor, for the hypodermic injections of the past
three months.

Then came the wedding of Bazon, whose bride, for her rebellious love,
had recently been driven from her mother's home. Bazon, touched by
this act of loyalty, cut his engagement with another girl and made
the preparations for the wedding feast. I met the little Maraquita at
Bazon's reception, and conversed with her through an interpreter. "The
_senorita_ says," so the interpreter informed me, "she appreciates your
conversation very much, and thinks you play the piano very well. She
has a new piano in her house that came from Paris. In a little while
the _senorita_ will depart for Spain, where she intends to study in
a convent for a year." Ah, Maraquita! She had had an _Insurrecto_
general for a suitor, and had turned him down. And she had jilted
Joe, the French constabulary officer, and had rejected a neighboring
merchant's offer for her hand of fifty carabaos. I have to-day a
small reminder of her dainty needlework--a family of Visayan dolls
which she had dressed according to the native mode.

One day the undertaker's boat dropped in with a detachment of the
burial corps aboard. The bodies of the soldiers that had slept for so
long in the convent garden were removed, and taken in brass caskets
back across the sea....

We started out one morning on constabulary ponies, brilliantly
caparisoned in scarlet blankets and new saddles. "Ichabod," the
Kansas _maestro_, had proposed to guide us to Misamis over the
mountain trail. It was not long, however, before one spoke of
trails in the past tense. The last place that was on the map--a
town of questionable loyalty, that we had gladly left late in the
afternoon--now seemed, as we remembered it, in contrast with the
wilderness, a small metropolis. The Kansan still insisted that he was
not lost. "Do you know where we are?" I asked. "Wa-al," he replied,
"those mountains ought to be 'way over on the other side of us,
and the flat side of the moon ought to be turned the other way." We
wandered for ten hours through prairies of tall buffalo-grass, at
last discovering a trail that led down to the sea. The ponies were as
stiff as though they had been made of wood instead of flesh and blood.

We had Thanksgiving dinner at the doctor's. Old Tom did the cooking,
and Vivan, all smiles, waited upon the guests. Stuffed chicken and
roast sucking pig, and a young kid that the _muchachos_ had tortured
to death that morning, sawing its throat with a dull knife, were
the main courses. Padre Pastor, who had held a special mass that
morning for Americans, "returned thanks," rolling his eyes, and
saying something about the flowers not being plentiful or fragrant,
but the stars, exceptional in brilliance, compensating for the floral
scantiness. The doctor sang "O, Ca'line," and the captain did tricks
with the napkins. Everybody voted this Thanksgiving a success.

The weary days that followed at Aloran were relieved late in December
by a visit from the doctor, and a new constabulary officer named
Johnson, [1] who had ridden out on muddy roads, through swimming
rice-pads, across swollen rivers. When the store of commissaries was
exhausted, we rode back, and Johnson came to grief by falling through
an open bridge into a rice-swamp, so that all that we could see of
him was a square inch of his poor horse's nose. We pulled him out,
and named the place "Johnson's Despair."

Our Christmas Eve was an eventful one. The transport _Trenton_ went to
pieces on our coral reef. We were expecting company, and when the boat
pulled in, we went down to the beach to tell them where the landing
was. "We thought that you were trying to tell us we were on a rock,"
the little cavalry lieutenant, who had been at work all night upon the
pumps, said, when we saw him in the morning. It was like a shipwreck
in a comic opera, so easily the vessel grounded; and at noon the next
day we were invited out on shipboard for a farewell luncheon. The
boat was listed dangerously to port, and, as the waves rolled in,
kept bumping heavily upon the coral floor. The hull under the engines
was staved in, and, as the tide increased, the vessel twisted as
though flexible. Broken amidships, finally, she twisted like some
tortured creature of the deep. The masts and smokestacks branched
off at divergent angles, giving the ship a rather drunken aspect. At
high tide the masts and deck-house were swept off; the bow went, and
the boat collapsed and bent. By evening nothing was left except the
bowsprit rocking defiantly among the breakers, a broken skeleton, the
keel and ribs, and the big boiler tumbling and squirting in the surf.

There were three shipwrecked mariners to care for,--the bluff captain,
one of nature's noblemen, who had spent his life before the mast and
on the bridge, and who had been tossed upon many a strange and hostile
coast. He had a deep scar on his head, received when he was shanghaied
twenty years before. He told strange stories of barbaric women dressed
in sea-shells; of the Pitcairn islanders, who formerly wore clothes
of papyrus, but now dressed in the latest English fashion, trading
the native fruits and melons for the merchandise of passing ships.

Then there was Mac, the chief, a stunted, sandy little man, covered
with freckles, and tattooed with various marine designs. He loved
his engine better than himself, and in his sorrow at its break-up,
he was driven to the bottle, and when last seen--after asking "ever'
one" to take a drink--was wandering off, his arms around two Filipino
sailors. Coming to life a few days later, "Mac ain't sayin' much,"
he said, "but Mac, 'e knows." Yielding to our persuasion, he wrote
down a song "what 'e 'ad learned once at a sailors' boardin' 'ouse
in Frisco." It was called "The Lodger," and he rendered it thus,
in a deep-sea voice:


    "The other night I chanced to meet a charmer of a girl,
      An', nothin' else to do, I saw 'er 'ome;
    We 'ad a little bottle of the very finest brand,
      An' drank each other's 'ealth in crystal foam.
    I lent the dear a sover'ign; she thanked me for the same
      An' laid 'er golden 'ead upon me breast;
    But soon I finds myself thrown out the passage like shot,--
      A six-foot man confronts me, an' 'e says:

    Chorus--

    I'm sorry to disturb you, but the lodger 'as come," etc.


The feature of the song, however, was Mac's leer, which, in a public
hall, would have brought down the house, and which I feel unable
to describe.

The mate, aroused by the example of the chief, rendered a "Tops'l
halliard shanty," "Blow, Bullies, Blow." It was almost as though a
character had stepped from _Pinafore_, when the athletic, gallant
little mate, giving a hitch to his trousers, thus began: "Strike up
a light there, Bullies; who's the last man sober?"

        Song.

        "O, a Yankee ship came down the river--
            Blow, Bullies, blow!
        Her sails were silk and her yards were silver--
            Blow, my Bully boys, blow!
        Now, who do you think was the cap'n of 'er?
            Blow, Bullies, blow!
        Old Black Ben, the down-east bucko--
            Blow, my Bully boys, How!"


"'Ere is a shanty what the packeteers sings when, with 'full an'
plenty,' we are 'omeward bound. It is a 'windlass shanty,' an' we
sings it to the music of the winch. The order comes 'hup anchors,'
and the A one packeteer starts hup:


        "'We're hom'ard bound; we're bound away;
          Good-bye, fare y' well.
        We're home'ard bound; we leave to-day;
          Hooray, my boys! we're home'ard bound.
        We're home'ard bound from Liverpool town;
          Hooray, my boys, hooray!
        A bully ship and a bully crew;
          Good-bye, fare y' well.
        A bucko mate an' a skipper too;
          Hooray, my boys, we're home'ard bound!'"


For the old maid this was the time the ages had been waiting for. What
anxious nights she spent upon her pillow or before the looking-glass;
what former triumphs she reviewed; and what plans for the conquest
she had made, shall still remain unwritten history. When she was
ready to appear, we used to hear her nervous call, "Doctor! Can
I come over?" Poor old maid! She couldn't even wait till she was
asked. How patiently she stirred the hot tomato soy the captain made;
O yes! She could be useful and domestic. How tenderly she leaned upon
the arm of the captain's chair, caressing the scar upon his head
"where he was shanghaied!" Then, like Othello, he would entertain
her with his story about the ladies in the sea-shell clothes, or of
the time when he had "weathered the Horn" in a "sou'wester." She was
flurried and excited all the week. The climax came after the captain
left for Iligan. The old maid learned somehow that he was going to
Manila on a transport which would pass by Oroquieta but a few miles
out. Sending a telegram to the chief quartermaster whom she called a
"dear," she said that if the ship would stop to let her on, she could
go out to meet it in a _banca_. Though the schoolmaster and his wife
had also requested transportation on the same boat, the old maid,
evidently thinking that "three made a crowd," wired to her friend
the quartermaster not to take them on.

We met the old maid almost in hysterics on the road to Lobuc. "O, for
the love of God!" she cried, "get me a boat, and get my trunk down
to the shore. I have about ten minutes left to catch that ship." It
was old Ichabod who rowed her out in the canoe--the old maid, with
the sun now broken out behind the clouds, her striped parasol, and a
small steamer trunk. It was a mad race for old Ichabod, and they were
pretty well drenched when the old maid climbed aboard the transport,
breathless but triumphant. I have since learned that Dido won her
wandering AEneas in Manila, and that the captain finally has found his
"bucko mate."

It was old Ichabod's delight to teach a class of sorry-looking
_senoritas_, with their dusty toes stuck into carpet slippers, and
their hair combed back severely on their heads. The afternoons he
spent in visiting his flock; we could descry him from afar, chin in
the air, arms swinging, hiking along with five-foot strides. If he
could "doctor up" the natives he was satisfied. He knew them all by
name down to the smallest girl, and he applied his healing lotions
with the greatest sense of duty, much to the amusement of the regular
M.D. But Ichabod was qualified, for he had once confided to me that
at one time he had learned the names of all the bones in the left hand!

The colony showed signs of breaking up. The native scouts had gone,
leaving their weeping "_hindais_" on the shore. "Major O'Dowd,"
his wife, and Flora had also departed to a station _sin Americanos_
up in the interior. At this, the doctor, for the first time in his
life, broke into song, after the style and meter of immortal Omar:


        "Hiram, indeed is gone; his little Rose
        Vamosed to Lintogoup with all her clothes;
          But still the Pearls are with us down the line,
        And many a _hindai_ to the _tubig_ goes."


"Tubig," he said, "did not mean 'water.' It was more poetical,
expressing the idea of fountain, watering-place, or spa."

It was my last day at Aloran. In the morning I ascended a near
elevation, and looked down upon the sleepy valley spread below. There
was the river winding in and out; there was the convent, like
a doll-house in a field of green. Vivan had gone on with the
trunks and boxes packed upon a carabao. The ponies were waiting
in the compound. Valedictories were quickly said; but there was
little Peter with his silken cheeks, the brightest little fellow
I have ever known. It seemed a shame to leave him there in darkest
Mindanao. Turning the horses into the Aloran River at the ford we
struck the high road near the _barrio_ of Feliz. Galloping on, past
"Columbine" bridge, "Skeleton" bridge, "Johnson's Despair," and Fenis,
we arrived at Oroquieta in good time.

But what a change from the old place as we had known it! Hiram,
indeed was gone. The doctor had set out for pastures new. The "Arizona
Babe" and "Foxy Grandpa" had departed for fresh fields. Like one who,
falling asleep in a theater, awakes to find the curtain down and the
spectators gone, so I now looked about the vacant town. The actors
had departed, and "the play was played out."





Chapter XIII.

In Camp and Barracks with the Officers and Soldiers of the Philippines.


Bugle-calls, loud, strident bugle-calls, leaping in unison from the
brass throats of bugles; tawny soldiers lining up for guard-mount
before the officer of the day, as spick and span as a toy soldier;
troopers in blue shirts, with their mess-kits in their hands, running
across the street for rations; men in khaki everywhere, raising a
racket on pay-day, fraternizing with the Filipinos when off duty; poker
games in the barracks, with the army cot and blanket for a table; taps,
and the measured tread of sentries, and anon a startled challenge,
"Halt! Who's there?"--such were the days in Cagayan in 1901.

The blue sea, stretching out into the hazy distance, sparkled around
the little _nipa_-covered dock where commissary stores and sacks
of rice were piled. The native women, squatting on the ground, were
selling mangoes and bananas to the boys. "Cagayan Mag," who vended
the hot bottled beer for "jawbone," digging her toes into the dust,
was entertaining the surrounding crowd with her coarse witticisms. The
corporal of the guard, reclining in an easy steamer-chair, under
his tent extension, was perusing the news columns from the States,
by this time three months old. A sunburnt soldier, with his Krag upon
his shoulder, paced the dock, wearily doing the last hour of his guard.

"Do you-all like hawg-jowl and black-eyed peas?" drawled "Tennessee
Bill," shifting his bony form to a more comfortable position on
the rice-sack.

"Reckon I ort ter; I wuz bo'n in Geo'gy," said his comrade, as he
rolled a rice-straw paper cigarette.

After an interval of several minutes the same conversation was
repeated. Suddenly a sharp toot sent the echoes scudding back and
forth among the hills. A moment later the small transport, with the
usual blur of khaki in her bows, came swinging around the promontory.

"Pshaw! I thought it wuz the pay boat comin'" grumbled Bill.

Then, as the _Trenton_ pulled up to the dock, signs of activity began
to animate that place. The guard, with leveled bayonet, began to shoo
the "Gugus" off the landing. Down the hot road, invested in a cloud
of dust, an ambulance was coming, drawn by a team of army mules and
bringing the lieutenant quartermaster and his sergeants.

"Why, hello!" said Bill; "if here ain't little Wantz a-comin'. Got
his discharge an' gone married a _babay_."

The soldiers crowded around the ex-hospital corps man, who, still in
his khaki suit, was standing on the shore with a sad-looking Filipino
girl in tow. Her feet were bare and dusty, and she wore a turkey-red
skirt caught up on one side, and a gauze _camisa_ with a _pina_ yoke,
and the stiff, flaring sleeves. Her head was bare, and her black hair
was combed uncompromisingly back on her head. Her worldly goods were
done up in a straw mat and a soiled bandana handkerchief, and were
deposited before her on the ground.

"This is the gal," said Wantz; "old Justice de Laguna's daughter,
and the same what uster sell beer to the Twenty-eighth over at
Tagaloan. She ain't no beauty, but she's a good steady trotter; ain't
you, Dell?" The girl looked stupid and embarrassed, and did not reply.

A "rooky," who had joined the company, stood on the dock
disconsolately. His blanket roll and locker had been put off the
boat. This was his first appearance in the provinces. He was a stranger
in a strange land, a fish out of water, and a raw recruit.

The men were set to work immediately landing the commissary
stores. They stripped their shoes and socks off, rolled up their
trousers to the knee, and waded through the shallow water, carrying
the bales and boxes on their shoulders to the shore.

The road up to the town was lined with _nipa_ houses, shaded with
banana-trees and bonga palms. This was the road that was almost
impassable during the rainy season. As the ambulance rolled heavily
along, scores of half-naked babies, shaped like peanuts, shouted after
you a "Hello, baby!" and the pigs, with snouts like coal-scuttles,
scattered on either side the thoroughfare. This was the famous "Bolo
alley," down which, only a few months before, the _Insurrecto_ army
had come shouting, "_A la! a la!_" firing as they ran.

You passed the market-place, an open hall filled with the native
stalls, where soldiers loafed around, chatting with the Visayan
girls--for a freemasonry exists between the Filipino and the
soldier--dickering with one for a few dhobie cigarettes, sold
"jawbone," to be paid for when the pay-boat comes.

The troops were quartered in old Spanish buildings, where the
sliding windows of the upper floors disclosed the lanes of white
mosquito-bar. Back in the courtyard, where the cook was busily
preparing mess, a mangy and round-shouldered monkey from the bamboo
fence was looking on approvingly. The cook was not in a good humor. All
that the mess had had for three weeks was the regulation beans and
bacon, without a taste of fresh meat or fresh vegetables.

Things were as bad, however, at the officers' mess, where the rule was
that the first complaint should sentence its author to conduct the mess
himself until relieved in a like manner. As might be imagined, such a
system naturally discouraged an improvement of affairs. Exasperated,
finally, beyond his limit, Lieutenant Breck came out with--"If this
isn't the rottenest apology of an old mess"--saving himself by quickly
adding, "But I like it; O, I like it; nobody can tell how much I like
this mess!"

There was an officer's club in a frame building near the
headquarters. Here, in the afternoon, the clan would gather for a
round of "whisky poker" for the drinks. There was a strapping young
Kentuckian whose ancestors had all been army men. "The profession of
arms," said he, "is the noblest profession in the world. And that is
the profession that we follow." It was a rather sad sight, though,
a few weeks later, after his wife, a little Southern girl, had gone
back to the "States," to see this giant soldier playing cards and
drinking whisky with the teamsters, bar-keeps, and camp-followers,
threatening to shoot the man who tried to interfere, and finally
being taken down in irons for a court-martial.

The only one of all his friends who did not fall away from him was one,
a little, catlike cavalry lieutenant, booted and spurred, and always
dressed in khaki riding-breeches, never saying much, but generally
considered the most popular young officer in all the service. And
there was one other faithful one, but not an officer. The "striker,"
who had followed him in many a hard hike, and had learned to admire
his courage and to consider him infallible, tried for the sake of
the young Southern girl, to keep his master from the wretched drink.

The post of Cagayan that winter was a busy one. On Sunday mornings
the stern-visaged officers would go the round of all the barracks on
inspection duty. There was still a remnant of the _Insurrecto_ army
operating in the hills, and an attack upon the town was threatened
nightly. Once a month, when pay-day came around, a reign of terror,
which began with early afternoon, lasted until almost a company
of miscellaneous marauders could have been recruited from the
guard-house. A dozen saloons and poker games were running the night
long, and in those days little money was deposited in the paymaster's
bank.

A number of detachments had been left in different towns around
the bay in charge of second lieutenants or first sergeants. Here,
while the discipline was more relaxed, the pandemonium of pay-day was
avoided. But the two best poker-players in the company corraling all
the money, either would proceed to narrow the financial distribution
further, or would shake hands and agree to make deposits on the
next disbursing-day. Some of the men on their discharge would have
a thousand dollars, or enough to set them up in business in the States.

These "outfits" differ greatly in their character. Some are composed
of sociable, kind-hearted fellows, while others may contain a large
percentage of professional "bad men" and rowdies. Each company
will have its own traditions and a reputation which is guarded
jealously. There was the "fighting Twenty-eighth," the regiment
invincible. The soldiers grow attached to their outfit. On their
discharge, which they have eagerly looked forward to, after a day
or two of Frisco, when the money has been spent to the last dollar
of the "finals," more than one chop-fallen soldier, looking up the
first recruiting sergeant, will "take on" again.

The "company fund" is a great institution, and an "outfit" with a
good fund is considered prosperous. This money goes for extras at
the table, for baseball equipments, or for company mascots. The
sergeant-major usually has charge of this disbursement, and the
soldiers, though they grumble at his orders, can not help respecting
him. The sergeant-major has been seasoned in the service. He is a ripe
old fellow, and a warrior to the core. The company cook is also an
important personage. It was the old cook at Balingasag--I think that
he had served for twenty years--who fed me in the convent courtyard
on _camotes_, egg-plant, and a chicken which he had stolen from a
native. According to his theory, a soldier was a licensed robber,
and the chicken should be classed as forage--not as plunder. He
was a favorite among the officers, who used to get him started on
his favorite grievance,--the condemnation by a board of survey of a
certain army mule. "I liked that mule," he used to say. "He was the
best mule that the service ever had."

The nightly "argument," or "chewing the rag," is a favorite pastime
in an isolated camp. Sitting around upon the army cots or chests,
the soldiers will discuss some unimportant topic until "taps" sounds.

I will admit that "Company M" was a disreputable lot. They never
dressed up; frequently they went without their footgear; and they
drank much _tuba_ with the natives. They took delight in teaching
the small boys profanity, and they would shock the Filipinos by
omitting bathing-suits when in the surf. They used to frighten the
poor "<DW65>s" half to death by trying to break through their houses
on a dark night. Yet I believe that every Filipino was the soldier's
friend, and I am sure I noticed not a few heart-broken _senoritas_
gathered at the shore when they departed. For my own part, I have
always found the soldier generous, respectful, and polite.

There was a great wag in the company, who, in some former walk of
life, had figured as a circus clown. He also claimed to have been
upon the stage in vaudeville. He had enlisted in the regimental band,
but, through some change, had come to be bugler of M Company. He
owned a mandolin, called the "potato bug"--a name suggested by the
inlaid bowl. He had brought back to life a cracked guitar, which
he had strung with copper wire obtained by "jawbone" at the _Chino_
store. It was an inspiration when he sang to the guitar accompaniment,
"Ma Filipino Babe," or in a rich and melancholy voice, with the
professional innuendo, "just to jolly the game along," a song entitled
"Little Rosewood Casket."

It is a sorry company that doesn't number in its roll a poet. Company
M had a good poet. Local customs and the local atmosphere appealed
to him, and he has thus recorded his impression of the Philippines:


        "There once was a Philippine _hombre_;
        Ate _guinimos_, rice, and _legombre_;
          His pants they were wide,
          And his shirt hung outside;
        But this, you must know, is _costombre_.

        He lived in a _nipa balay_
        That served as a stable and sty.
          He slept on a mat
          With the dog and the cat,
        And the rest of the family near by.

        He once owned a _bueno manoc_,
        With a haughty and valorous look,
          Who lost him amain
          And _mil pesos tambien_,
        And now he plays _monte_ for luck.


This poem was received so favorably that the following effort of the
realistic school escaped:


          "In this land of dhobie dreams,
          Happy, smiling Philippines,
        Where the bolo man is hiking all day long,
          Where the natives steal and lie,
          And _Americanos_ die,
        The soldier sings his evening song.

          Social wants are small and few;
          All the ladies smoke and chew,
        And do other things they ought to know are wrong.
          _Presidentes_ cut no ice,
          For they live on fish and rice,
        And the soldier sings his evening song."


There is another stanza, but the song about the "Brown Tagalog Girl"
demands attention:


        "I've a _babay_, in a _balay,_
        Down in the province of Rizal.
        She's nice and neat, dainty and sweet;
        She's ma little brown Tagalog gal."


The army officers and their families still form the aristocracy of the
Philippines. While army life is not all like Camp Wallace and the gay
Luneta, in the larger posts throughout the provinces, both the officers
and soldiers are housed very comfortably. The clubhouse down at
Zamboanga has a pavilion running out over the water, where the ladies
sit at night, or where refreshments are served after the concert by the
band. Although their ways are not the ways of the civilian; although
to them the possibilities of Jones's promotion from the bottom of the
list seems of a paramount importance, you will not find anywhere so
loyal and hospitable a class of people as the army officers. Whatever
little jealousies they entertain among themselves are overshadowed by
the fact that "he" or "she" is of the "service." And the soldiers,
rough as they are, and slovenly compared to the red-coated soldiers
of Great Britain, or the gray-coated troopers of the German army,
are beyond doubt the finest fighting men in all the world.





Chapter XIV.

Padre Pedro, Recoleto Priest.--The Routine of a Friar in the
Philippines.


It might have been the dawn of the first day in Eden. I was awakened
by the music of the birds and sunlight streaming through the
convent window. Heavily the broad leaves of _abaca_ drooped with the
morning dew. Only the roofs of a few _nipa_ houses could be seen. The
_tolo_-trees, like Japanese pagodas, stretched their horizontal arms
against the sky. The mountains were as fresh and green as though a
storm had swept them and cleared off again. They now seemed magnified
in the transparent air.

All in the silence of the morning I went down to where the tropical
river glided between primeval banks and under the thick-plated
overhanging foliage. The water was as placid as a sheet of glass. A
spirit of mystery seemed brooding near. As yet the sun's rays had not
penetrated through the canopy of leaves. A lonely fisherman sat on
the bank above, lost in his dreams. Down by the ford a native woman
came to draw water in a bamboo tube. I half expected her to place a
lighted taper on a tiny float, and send it spinning down the stream,
as is the custom of the maidens on the sacred river Ganges. In the
silence of the morning, in the heart of nature, thousands of miles
away from telegraphs and railroads, where the brilliant-feathered
birds dipped lightly into the unruffled stream, the place seemed like
a sanctuary, a holy of holies, pure, immaculate, and undefiled.

The padre had arisen at six. At his command the sacristans ascended
the bell-tower and proceeded to arouse the town. The padre moved
about his dark, bare room. Rare Latin books were scattered around
the floor. His richly embroidered vestments hung on a long line. The
room was cluttered with the lumber of old crucifixes, broken images of
saints, and gilded floats, considerably battered, with the candlesticks
awry. The floor and the walls were bare. There was a large box of
provisions in the corner, filled with imported sausages done up
in tinfoil, bottles of sugar, tightly sealed to keep the ants from
getting in, small cakes of Spanish chocolate, bottles of of olives
and of rich communion wine. Donning his white robe, he went out to
the ante-room, where, on the table spread with a white napkin, stood
a cup of chocolate and a package of _La Hebra_ cigarettes.

There was a scamper of bare feet as the whole force of dirty
house-boys, sacristans, and cooks rushed in to kneel and kiss the
padre's hand and to receive his blessing. When he had finished
the thick chocolate, one of the boys brought in a glass of water,
fresh and sparkling from a near-by mountain stream. Then Padre Pedro
lighted his cigarette, and read in private for a little while before
the morning mass began. Along the narrow pathway (for there were no
streets) a string of women in black veils was slowly coming to the
church. Stopping before the door, they bowed and made the sign of the
cross. Then they went in and knelt down on the hard tiles. The padre's
full voice, rising and falling with the chant, flooded the gloomy
interior, where pencils of sunlight slanted through the apertures of
the unfinished wall, and fell upon the drowsy wilderness outside.

Returning from the mass, the padre refreshed himself with a small glass
of gin-and-water, as his custom was; nor could the appeal of any one
persuade him to take more than a single glass or to take that at an
earlier or later hour. The ancient _maestra_ had arrived--a wrinkled
old body in a black dress and black carpet-slippers--and she knelt
down to touch the padre's outstretched hand with her thin, withered
lips. The little children, who were waiting for their classes to be
called, all followed her example, and before long, the monotonous
drone of the recitations left no doubt that school had actually
begun. Benches had filled up, and the dusky feet were swinging under
them as the small backs bent over knotty problems on the slates.

The padre, passing among the pupils, made the necessary erasures and
corrections, and occasionally gave unasked to some recalcitrant a
smart snap on the head. The morning session ended by the pupils lining
up in a half circle around the battered figure of a saint--the altar
decorated with red paper flowers, or  grasses in a number of
empty beer-bottles--and, while the padre played the wheezy harmonium,
singing their repertoire of sacred songs. Then, as the children
departed with the "_Buenos dias, senor_," visitors, who had been
waiting on the stairway with their presents of eggs, chickens, and
bananas, were received.

"Thees man," the padre explained to me, as a grotesque old fellow
humbled himself before us, "leeves in one house near from ze shore. He
has presented me with some goud rope to tie my horses with (_buen
piece, hombre_), and he says that there are no more fishes in ze sea."

"See, they have brought so many breads and fruits! They know well that
eet ees my fast-day, and that my custom ees to eat no meat. I can eat
fish or cheecken, but not fish _and_ cheecken; eet ees difficult here
to find enough food to sustain ze life on days of fast."

"Thees girl," he said, "loves me too much. She is my orphan, she and
her two brothers. I have bought one house for them near from ze church,
and, for the girl, one sewing-machine. Their mother had been stealed
[robbed] of everything, and she had died a month ago. Ze cheeldren
now have nobody but me."

She was a bright young girl, well-dressed and plump, although, when
Padre Pedro had received her, she was wasted by the fever, and near
starved to death. But this was only one of his many charities. He used
to loan out money to the people, knowing well that they would never be
able to return it. He had cured the sick, and had distributed quinine
among families that could not have secured it otherwise. He went to
visit his parishioners, although they had no means of entertaining
him. Most of them even had no chairs for him to sit on when he came,
and they would stand around in such embarrassed silence that the
padre could not have derived much pleasure from their company.

At the padre's "_aver, bata!_" after the last visitor has gone, the
house-boys run in with the noon meal. The padre had a good cook, who
understood the art of fixing the provisions in the Spanish style. I was
surprised at the resources of the parish; for a meal of ten or fifteen
courses was the usual thing. A phalanx of barefooted waiters stood in
line to take the plates when we had finished the respective courses,
broth, mutton stew, and chicken, and bananas for dessert. The padre,
I am sorry to say, ate with his knife, and was inclined to gobble. Two
yellow dogs and a lean cat stood by to gulp the morsels that were
thrown them from the table. When the dinner was completed, a large
tumbler of water and a toothpick were brought on. After a smoke the
padre took his customary nap, retiring to the low, cane-bottomed bed,
where he intrenched himself behind mosquito-bars.

The convent was a rambling building, with adobe walls. It was raised
up on pillars as long as telegraph poles, and the ground floor was
divided into various apartments. There was the "_calaboos_," where
Padre Pedro's chickens were encouraged to "put" eggs. There were
the stables for the padre's ponies, and a large bamboo stockade
for pigs and chickens. The little friar took a lively interest in
this corral, and he would feed his stock with his own hand from the
convent window. "Ze leetle goat," he said, "eet ees my mind to send
to Father Cipriano for a geeft." The sucking pig was being saved for
Easter-time, when it should be well roasted on a spit, with a banana
in its mouth. There were just sixty-seven chickens, and the padre
used to count them every day and notice their peculiarities.

During the afternoon the padre's time was taken up by various
religious duties, and the school was left in charge of the old
_maestra_. There would be a funeral service at the church, or a
baptism, or confession. Some days he would be called away to other
_barrios_ to hear a last confession; but the distance or the weather
never daunted him, and he would tuck his gown well up, and, followed by
a sacristan, ride merrily away. On his return a cup of pasty chocolate
would await him. Padre Pedro used to make a certain egg-fizz which
was a refreshing drink of a long afternoon. The eggs were lashed
into a froth by means of a bamboo brush twisted or rolled between the
palms. The beauty of this beverage was that you could drain the cup,
and, like the miracle of loaves and fishes, stir the batter up again,
and have another drink of the same quality. "When Padre Cipriano comes
here," said the friar, "eet ees very gay. Ah! Cipriano, he can make
the foam come up three times. He knows well how to make thees drink."

When he would take his ebony cane and go out walking about sunset,
followed by his yellow dog, the village people, young and old,
would tumble over each other in their eagerness to kiss the father's
hand. He would mischievously tweak the noses of the little ones,
or pat the tiny girls upon the head. The friend of the lowly, he
had somehow incensed the upper ten. But he had shown his nerve one
Sunday morning when he had talked down one of these braggadocios who
had leveled a revolver at him in the church.

The little padre was as brave as he was "game." He was a fearless
rider, and there were few afternoons when we were not astride the
ponies, leaping the streams and ditches in the rice-pads, swimming the
fords, and racing along the beach, and it was always the little priest
that set the pace. One evening he received a message from the father
superior of that vicinity, old Padre Jose, living ten or fifteen miles
up the road in an unpacified community. The notice was imperative,
and only said to "come immediately, and as soon as possible."

Padre Jose was eighty years old, and he had been in Mindanao nearly all
his life. He spoke Visayan better than the natives, and he understood
the Filipinos just as though each one of them had been his child. He
had been all around the island and among the pagan tribes who saw
their spirits in the trees and streams. He had been back to Spain
just once, and he had frozen his fingers over there. As I remember
him, he was a dear, grandmotherly old fellow, in a long black gown,
who bustled around so for us (we had stopped there on a certain
expedition), cooking the eggs himself, and cutting the tough bologna,
holding the glass of _moscatel_ so lovingly up to the light before
he offered it, that I almost expected him to bring forth crullers,
tea, and elderberry pie. His convent was at that time occupied by
the municipal authorities; and so he lived in a small _nipa_ house
with his two dogs, his Latin library, and the sacristans who at night
slept scattered about the floor. The local conditions were unsettled at
this time. The garrison at Surigao had been attacked by the so-called
ladrones. Night messages were flying to and fro. Padre Jose's summons
seemed a harbinger of trouble. But, in spite of the fact that Padre
Pedro had been sick for several days, he obeyed the command of his
superior like any soldier, and at midnight saddled the ponies, tucked
a revolver under his gown, and started at a gallop down the road. When
he arrived at Father Jose's house, nothing serious was found to be
the matter. Only the dear old soul was lonesome and had wanted company.

Often at evening we would sit on the veranda till the evening star
appeared--"the star that the shepherds know well; the precurser of the
moon"--and then the angelus would ring, and Padre Pedro would stand
up and doff his cap, and, after a moment spent in silent prayer,
"That is good-night,'" he used to say, and then we would go in
for dinner. Dinner was served at eight o'clock, and was as formal
an affair as the noon meal. The evening would be spent at study,
for the padre was a scholar of no mean ability. He had translated
some of Stockton's stories into the Visayan language. Speaking of
Stockton, Padre Pedro said that he "knew well the spirit of your
countrymen." His work was frequently disturbed by the _muchachos_
running in with sums that they had finished on their slates; but the
padre never showed the least impatience at these interruptions.

Sometimes the "musickers" would come, and, crowding around the little
organ, practice the chants for some _fiesta_ day. The principal
"musicker" was a grotesque old fellow, with enormous feet, and glasses
rimmed with tortoise-shell. He looked so wise when he was poring
over the manuscript in the dim candle-light that he reminded one
of an intelligent gorilla. One of his assistants, meanwhile, would
be making artificial flowers, which were to decorate the battered
floats to be used in the festival procession on the morrow, carried
aloft upon the shoulders of the men, sparkling with lighted tapers,
while the bells up in the tower would jangle furiously. Or there would
be a conference with his secretary in regard to the town records,
which that functionary kept in the big book.

One night the padre was called out to attend one who, as was explained
to me, was bitten by a "fool" dog. On entering the poorly-lighted
shack, we found, surrounded by a gaping crowd, the victim foaming at
the mouth. He had indeed been bitten by a "fool" dog, and he died a few
hours afterwards, as we could do but little to relieve his suffering.

We spent the remainder of the evening looking over the long mass for
Easter Sunday. And the padre said naively, "Will it not be necessary
that I take one beer when I have reached this place, and then I can
continue with the mass?" He looked back fondly to the days when he had
sung his part in the antiphony in the magnificent cathedral at Manila.

The town was always at the friar's service. And no wonder! Had he
not sent all the way to Manila for a Christmas box of goodies for the
schoolboys,--figs, and raisins, and preserves? I caught him gloating
over them one evening--when he gave his famous supper of roast kid
and frosted cake for his American guests from the army post--and
he had offered us a taste of these almost forgotten luxuries. How
he anticipated the delight he had in store for all the boys! Then
in the time of cholera, when the disease invaded even the convent,
although a young man, Padre Pedro never left his post.

The only time I ever knew him to complain was when the people came in
hundreds to confession. The confession-box was too hot, and the breath
of the penitents offensive. "Eet ees a work of charity," he said;
"they pay me nothing--nothing." The priest was only human when he
feigned the toothache in order to secure a transfer to Cebu. The little
station in the wilderness was too monotonous. He packed his effects
in secret, fearing that the people would discover his intention and
detain him. The father superior had granted him a leave of absence. His
suspicions had not been aroused. When he had reached Cebu the _freile_
would be under different authority, and it was even possible that
he be stationed in Manila or returned to Spain. He had not seen his
parents for ten years, but his education had prepared him for a life
of sacrifice. For the first time he felt neglected and forgotten. On
arriving at the trading port, he learned that his parishioners had
found him out. They sent a delegation to entreat him to remain. The
little padre's heart was touched. "They love me too much," he said,
"and they have nobody but me."

My friend the padre might have been an exception to the general
rule. He was a "Friar in the Philippines," a member of a much-maligned
religious order. Still I have met a number of their priests and
bishops, and have found them charming and delightful men. They are such
hospitable entertainers that they have been frequently imposed upon
by traveling Americans, who take the convents for hotels, regardless
of the public sentiment. It was the friars of San Augustin who,
in 1565, subdued and pacified the Cebuanos when the arms of Spain
availed but little. It was the _Freile_ Pedro de San Augustin, the
"fighting padre," who, in 1639, defeated the lake Moros. And, in
1754, a Spanish freile, Father Ducos, commanding the fleet of Iligan,
defeated the armada of the Moro pirates, killing about a thousand of
these buccaneers.

Of course there have been friars good and bad. But "Father Peter,"
though he might have had good cause to dislike the Americans,
had always expressed the greatest admiration for them. They were
"political" (diplomatic) men. His mastering the English language was
a compliment to us such as few Spaniards have seen fit to pay. He
might have been narrow in religious matters, but, above all, he
was conscientious. While he could bathe his hands or face in the
Aloran River, he could not go in. His education was a Spartan one,
and narrowing in its influences. All the society that he had ever had
was that of a hundred students with the same ideals and inclinations
as his own. The reputation of the friars in the Philippines has
been depreciated by the conduct of the native priests. There was
a padre named Pastor, an arrant coward, and wholly ignorant and
superstitious. Sly old fox, he used to bet his last cent on the
cock-fights, hiding up in the back window of Don Julian's. Once, on a
drunken spree, he let a layman wear his gown and rosary. The natives,
showing more respect for the sacred vestments than the priest had
shown, went out to kiss the hand of him who wore the robe. The work
of the friars can be more appreciated by comparing the civilization
of the Christian natives with the state of the barbarians and
pagans. Whatever its defects may be, instead of the head-hunters and
the idol-worshipers, the Filipino who has come within the influence
of Spanish priests, though often lavish and improvident, is neat,
polite, and sociable. But the friars can do better still. If they
would use their influence to abolish the cock-fights Sunday afternoon,
and try to co-operate more with the civil government in the matter
of public education, they would find that there is plenty of work
to be done yet. But some of the accusations against the friars are
unfair. Extortion is a favorite charge against them; but it must be
kept in mind that there are no pew-rents or voluntary contributions,
and that Spain has now withdrawn the financial support that she once
gave. The Church must be maintained through fees derived from weddings,
funerals, and christenings. And if the Filipino, in his passion for
display and splendor, orders a too expensive funeral, he has only
himself, and not the priest, to blame. Indeed, the friars can derive
but little benefit from a rich treasury, because, when absent from
their parishes, they are allowed to have no money of their own. All
of the funds remaining after the expenses of the Church are paid
must be sent to the general treasury. The padre in his convent has
the use of the Church money for his personal needs and charities, but
nevertheless he is expected to make large returns each year. Perhaps,
then, after all, the friars--Padre Pedro, anyway--are not so black
as they are painted.





Chapter XV.

General Rufino in the Moro Country.



Introduction.


The story of Rufino's expedition to the Moro country in the summer
of 1901 reads like a chapter from _Anabasis_. It has to do with
_Capitan_ Isidro's curious experiences as a hostage in the home of
Datto Amay Bancurong, at Lake Lanao. It deals with the last chapter
in the history of two American deserters, Morgan and Miller, of the
Fortieth United States volunteers, who, under General Rufino, served
as officers--soldiers of fortune in a lost campaign--and who, as a
last tribute of the treachery and faithlessness of those they served,
received their death-blows at the hands of Filipinos who had caught
them off their guard.

The information published by Rufino shortly after his surrender has
been valuable to the officers of our own army who are now exploring
the mysterious interior of Mindanao. _Capitan_ Isidro's intimacy
with the Moros during the long period of his captivity should render
his interpretation of the character, the life, and customs of this
savage tribe authoritative. General Rufino, being one of the last
_Insurrectos_ to surrender, has not been as yet rewarded by the
Government. This fact will be of consequence in case of any further
outbreak on the northern coast of Mindanao. General Rufino lingers
still about the scene of his exploit, and may be met with almost any
time in Oroquieta, or, still better, in the sullen and revengeful
village of Palilan, near the border of the Moro territory.



Rufino's Narrative.


We left Mount Liberdad on June 1, 1901, with eighteen officers, and
privates to the number of four hundred and forty-two. Our destination
was the town of Uato, on the shore of Lake Lanao, where, in obedience
to our instructions from the Filipino _junta_ at Hong Kong, we
were to arrange a conference with the leading dattos in regard to
an alliance of the Filipino and the Moro forces to conduct a joint
campaign against the American army of invasion.

Among our officers were two deserters from I company of the Fortieth
United States volunteers, Morgan and Miller, who were mere adventurers,
and who desired to clear the country and embark for Africa. Morgan was
supposed to have been wanted for some criminal offense in the United
States. He claimed to have deserted as a consequence of punishments
received by him which he considered to be undeserved. His comrade
Miller followed him; but I have heard that Morgan took it hard because
his friend had followed such a questionable lead. An understanding
had been previously arranged between our officers and Morgan, so that
when the latter left the lines at Oroquieta we received him and his
comrade at Aloran, six miles north.

Our first stop was to be at Lintogout, a station on the river by
the same name, that flows into the long estuary that divides our
country from the Moro territory. As you can see, our march was very
rough. The mountain chain, of which Mount Liberdad, Mount Rico,
and Mount Esperenza are the most important peaks, is very wild
and hazardous. A few miles from the coast the country breaks into
ravines and hills. There are no villages; no depots for supplies. The
trails are almost imperceptible, and can be followed only by the
most experienced _Montesco_ guides. Back in the mountains there are
many natural strongholds, which are practically inaccessible. The
mountain wall, with its Plutonic canyons and precipitous descents,
wrapped in a chilly fog, continually towered above us on the west.

To add to our embarrassments, we were harassed by a detachment of
United States troops that had been pursuing us. Their plan was to close
in upon us in two sections, from the front and rear. Near Lintogout
we came to an engagement with Lieutenant Patterson's command. My army
was by this time seriously crippled. We had lost one hundred and forty
men the previous day by desertion. The deserting men, however, did not
take their arms. Lieutenant Patterson's command must have been quite
exhausted, for they camped at night on a plateau along the precipice,
where an attack by us would have been inadvisable. The troops were
new and untried; the experience for them was something they had not
anticipated. Yet they kept at it stubbornly, slinging their carbines
on their backs, and climbing up hand over hand in places where they
had lost the trail. Their guides were evidently somewhat of a puzzle
to them, as the Montese idea of distance is indefinite. "When I have
finished this cigar we will be there," they say; and "_poco distancia_"
with them means often many miles.

We were not inconvenienced much by the engagement. Our American
lieutenants superintended the construction of intrenchments, back
of which we lay, and fired a volley at the enemy. At their advance
our army scattered, and a number of our soldiers, taking inexcusable
advantage of the opportunity, deserted. On the next day we set out,
reduced in numbers to two hundred and fifty-two. None of our men were
killed or wounded in the fight.

We then proceeded overland to Lake Lanao, the journey occupying sixteen
days, during which time the army had no rice, but had to exist entirely
on the native fruits. Our tardiness in reaching Lake Lanao was caused
by two attacks by Moros, June 15th. In order to avoid this enemy
we made a detour, coming dangerously near the coast at Tucuran. At
Tucuran three men deserted. Thence our march led inland to Bacayan,
following the south shore of the lake. Before we reached Bacayan
we were met (June 29th and 30th) by Dattos Casiang and Pindalonan,
with their combined forces. Our side lost two killed, three wounded
(who were taken captive); and the Moros, thirteen killed, three
wounded. Arriving at Bacayan July 1st, we waited there twelve days.

Then we set out along the south shore to Uato on the lake, which
place we reached without engagement on the nineteenth of July. We
stopped at Uato ten days, there borrowing $500 "Mex" from Datto
Bancurong. We were obliged to leave Captain Isidro Rillas with the
datto for security. The very money that we now were borrowing the
Moros had received from us for their protection during our campaign,
and for their promising not to molest us all the time that we were
in their territory. Having loaned us money, they now sold us rice,
in which negotiation, just as in the former one, they took advantage
of our helplessness. The deal, however, was a necessary one, because
the army had been for a long time without funds or rations. Leaving
Uato we proceeded to Liangan, on the north coast, opposite Tudela
(on the Jolo Sea). We left the Moro country on the recommendation of
the two American deserters, who had been dissatisfied for some time
at the turn affairs were taking.

We were attacked the first day out of Uato by the combined forces
of three powerful dattos, who had previously borrowed rifles from us
on the pretext of desiring to kill game. The engagement lasted until
sunset. Of the Moros, ten were killed and many wounded. Night coming
on, the enemy withdrew for re-enforcements. They returned the next
day several thousand strong, and would have utterly annihilated us
(for we were worn by fever and starvation) had it not been for Datto
Bandia's advice, which finally discouraged the attack.

We reached Liangan July 31st with two hundred and thirty-nine
men. Here we purchased rifles from the Moros, crossed the bay at
night, and reached Tudela August 5th. Procrastination on the part of
the conferring dattos made a failure of the expedition. We had spent
about $10,000 gold for rations, good will, and protection.

Morgan and Miller, when the army was disbanded, lived around Langaran
for a while. One day while they were bathing in the sea, they were
cut-down by natives--I do not know why. Morgan was killed while arguing
with his assailants. "We have done a lot for you," he said; but those
were his last words. Miller, attempting to escape by running through
the shallow water, was pursued by _bancas_ and dispatched. The bodies
were found later in a marsh.



Capitan Isidro Rillas's Narrative.


I was to have been educated for the Church; but after studying for
some time in Cebu preparatory to a course at Rome, I set aside the
wishes of my parents, who desired that I become a Jesuit, and took
unto myself a wife.

You wonder, probably, why we Visayans, who are very peaceable,
should have assumed a hostile attitude toward the Americans. Of
course, we do not really like the game of war. But what positions
would we hold among our own communities if we were to be easily
imposed upon? You would have thought it a queer army that assembled
at Mount Liberdad in 1901,--barefooted _hombres, ignorantes_ from the
rice-pads and the hemp-fields, armed with cutlasses and bolos--for
we had no more than fifty guns--undisciplined and without military
knowledge. But the appearance of your army in the war of Independence
caused amusement to the British soldiers--for awhile? The Government
generously recognized a number of the leaders of the insurrection,
and in doing so has not done wrong. Our leaders are to-day, among our
people, what your patriots are in your own land. And even you have no
respect for those who hid themselves among the women during the affair
at Oroquieta. Left alone, we could soon organize our government, our
schools, and army. But, of course, conditions render this impossible,
and so we think American protection is the best.

You ask for some account of my experiences with the Moros during
our excursion to their territory. Our army was at first about five
hundred strong, but nearly half the men deserted on the way. We had
not counted on so much hostility among the Moros, although they are
ancient enemies of ours, and until very recently have raided our coast
villages and carried off our people into slavery. But when we wanted
slaves, we purchased them--young Moros--from their parents at Misamis.

Though our mission was an altogether friendly one, our hosts did not
let any opportunity go by of taking an unfair advantage of us. General
Rufino was obliged to leave me as a hostage at Uato at the home of
Datto Bancurong.

If we could have effected an alliance with the Moros, it would no
doubt have been a formidable one. The Moros are well armed and expert
fighting men. Most of our weapons have been purchased from them, as
they had formerly acquired a stock of stolen Spanish guns. Those living
in the Lake Lanao vicinity must have about two thousand Remington
and Mauser guns, besides a number of old-fashioned cannon, which
are mounted in their forts. They manufacture their own ammunition,
which is necessarily of an indifferent quality.

We told the Moros that they would all have to work if the Americans
should come. We knew that they were all slaveholders and ladrones;
we knew that while they kept their slaves they would not need to work;
and so we thought our argument ought to appeal to them.

When I was left with Datto Bancurong, security for the five hundred
_pesos_ that Rufino had been forced to borrow, I was treated with
considerable hospitality. At one time when I had the fever, he
secured some chickens for me,--they were very scarce. The datto had
three wives, but one of them was rather old. I did not notice any
ornaments of gold upon them. They wore silver rings and bracelets,
which the native jewelers had made. The women are industrious,
and consequently do most of the work. They are quite skillful with
the loom, and manufacture from the native fabric, _ampic_ (sashes)
which their husbands wear. But for themselves they buy a cheaper
fabric from the _Chinos_, which they dye in brilliant colors and make
into blankets. You would probably mistake the men for women at first
sight because of their peculiar cast of features. They are dressed
much better and more picturesquely than the women, wearing bright
silk turbans, sashes with gay fringe, and blouses often fancifully
 and secured by brass or mother-of-pearl buttons.

The Moro tribes, because they recognize no ruler but the local datto,
are unable to accomplish anything of national significance. Concerted
action is with them impossible. Thirty or forty villages are built
around the lake. They are so thickly grouped, however, that one
might as well regard them all as one metropolis. The mountains form
a background for the lake, which is located on a high plateau. The
climate here is more suggestive of a temperate zone than of a place
within four hundred miles of the equator, and the nights are often
disagreeably cold. To become a datto it is only necessary to possess
a few slaves, wives, and carabao. A minor datto averages about four
slaves, a dozen head of cattle, and two wives. He wears silk clothes,
and occupies the largest _nipa_ house.

The Moro weapons are of several kinds,--the _punal_ (a wedge-bladed
knife), the _campalon_ (a long broadsword), and the _sundang_ (a Malay
kriss). They also use head-axes, spears, and dirks. Being Mohammedans,
they show a fatalistic bravery in battle. It is a disgrace to lose
the weapon when in action; consequently it is tied to the hand. Many
of their knives were made by splitting up the steel rails laid at
Iligan. The brass work of the Spanish locomotives, also, was a great
convenience in the manufacture of their cutlery.

Although they have schools for the boys, the Moro people do not
make a speciality of education. The young men are taught from the
Koran by priests, who also teach the art of making characters in
Arabic. Their music is for the most part religious, inharmonious,
and unmelodious. The _coluctang_, their most important instrument,
resembles our guitar. They seem to recognize three grades of
priests--the _emam_, the _pandita_, and the _sarip_, named in order
of superiority. Their churches are great, circular inclosures, made of
_nipa_ and bamboo, with no attempt at decoration. Sacred instrumental
music is supplied by bells and drums. The drum at Uato, where I was,
being of extraordinary size, required two men to operate it. Each town
contains a large percentage of ladrones, whose influence is offset by
the _pandita_ (or elders), three or five for every _barrio_. These are
the secondary priests, and it is necessary that they go into the church
three times a day to pray. At sunrise, at midday, and at sunset they
will cry repeatedly, "_Alah! Alah! Bocamad soro-la!_" (Allah is god;
Mohammed, prophet.) All the priests wear bright robes like the dattos,
but the clergy is distinguished by a special _bangcala_, or turban,
which is ornamented by a string of silver rings.

There are about five hundred Filipinos living with the Moros, mostly
slaves. Deer, jungle-cock, wild hogs, and cattle are to be found
in the plains and forests near the lake. The soil is fertile, and
sufficient crops of corn, rice, coffee, and tobacco may be raised,
_Camotes_ (wild potatoes), fruits, and cocoanuts are very scarce.

Though many of the dattos are disposed to treat the Americans as
friends, three in particular will entertain a different attitude. These
are Bayang, Mario, and Taraia, who, among them, have control of many
men. They realize, however, that the new invaders will be harder
to oppose than were the Spaniards of the former _laissez faire_
regime. The Filipinos will, of course, be glad to see the Moros beaten
in the conflict that is now inevitable.

To conclude my narrative, we finally got the better of our hosts, the
enemy. The Moros wanted $1,500 in return for the $500 they had loaned
Rufino. "Then you must let the hostage come to his own people," said
Rufino, "so that he can use his influence among them and solicit funds;
for otherwise we will not ransom him." The situation did not look so
very bright for me; but at a conference of the interested dattos they
reluctantly decided that I might depart. Eight Moros were appointed
to accompany me as a body-guard. On reaching Iligan it was requested
that the post commander furnish me an escort back to Oroquieta, which
was done. The Moros profited so much by our excursion, selling us good
will and rice, that I am sure they will forgive us for not paying them
the ransom money, which is no more than the brokerage on a small loan.





Chapter XVI.

Along the Iligan-Marahui Road.


The recent victories achieved by Captain Pershing over the
fanatic More tribes in the vicinity of Lake Lanao, have opened
up for military occupation a new territory equal in fertility and
richness to the famous Cagayan valley of Luzon. The Moros under the
American administration will be recognized as independent tribes,
and be restricted probably to reservations similar to those the
Indians now occupy. This means that a great tract of land will some
day be thrown open for American development. The soil will yield
abundant crops of corn, tobacco, coffee, rice, and other products,
while the forest wealth appeals to the imagination. Rubber, sugar,
hemp, and _copra_ are the natural products of the country near
the coast. The lake itself is situated on a high plateau, with a
prevailing temperate climate. Where the mountains do not intervene,
the land <DW72>s gradually down to the sea.

One of the most important military operations that was ever undertaken
in the Philippines was the construction of the Iligan-Marahui road,
which, having been for some time open to the pack-trains and the heavy
traffic, is at present nearing its completion. Though the work was
planned by members of the engineers' corps, all the clearing, grading,
and the filling-in were done by soldiers who had never until then known
what it meant to handle pick and shovel. The younger officers, who,
for the first time in their lives, were superintending a construction
job, went out and bossed the gangs as well as many an experienced
and seasoned foreman could have done. The soldiers, who deserve no
little credit for their work, are members of the Twenty-eighth and
the Tenth infantries.

It was about the last of January that I made a trip to Iligan,
arriving in a Moro sailboat from another port on the north coast
of Mindanao. Two or three army transports, with the quarantine
flag flying (for the cholera was still in evidence), lay quietly
at anchor in the bay. Along the shore a warm breeze ruffled the
green branches of the _copra_ palms. Near the new dock a gang of
Moros were at work, perspiring in the hot rays of the tropic sun. A
tawny group of soldiers, dressed in khaki, rested in the shade of a
construction-house, and listened dreamily to far-off bugle calls.

The Moros were dressed picturesquely in a great variety of costume,
ranging from bright- silk to dirty corduroy. Red _buya_-juice,
was leaking from the corners of their mouths. Their turbans, though
disgracefully unclean, were silk. Their coats were fastened by brass
military buttons, and their sashes, green and red, with a long fringe,
were tied around their waists; their trousers, like a pair of riding
breeches, buttoned up the side.

While spending the first evening at the club, I had seen mingling
with the young lieutenants, immaculate in their new olive uniforms,
bronzed, mud-bespattered officers in the blue army shirt and khaki,
with the Colt's six-shooter hanging from an ammunition belt. These
were the strangers from the town of white tents on the border of the
woods. At midnight possibly, or even later, they would mount their
horses and go riding through the night to the encampment on the
hill. The very next day one of the immaculate lieutenants, laying
off the olive uniform, might have to don the old campaign hat and
the flannel shirt, and follow his unshaven comrades up the road.

We stretched our army cots that night in the roulette room (this
is not a country of hotels), and to the rattle of the balls and the
monotonous drone of the croupier, "'teen and the red wins," dropped off
to sleep. On the day following the _Dr. Hans_ dropped in with Generals
Wade and Sumner, and the jingle of the cavalry was heard as they rode
out with mounted escort to inspect the operations of the road. After
a dance and a reception at the residence of the commanding officer in
honor of the visitors, "guard mount," the social feature of the day,
was viewed from the pavilion in the little plaza where the exercise
takes place. Its dignity was sadly marred that evening when a Moro
datto, self-important in an absurd, overwhelming hat, accompanied
by an obedient old wife on a moth-eaten Filipino pony, and a dog,
ignoring everybody, jogged along the street and through the lines.

I walked out to the camp next morning with Lieutenant Harris. Even for
this short stretch the road was not considered altogether safe. We
forded the small river just beyond the cavalry corral, where an old
Spanish blockhouse stands, and where a few old-fashioned Spanish
cannon still lie rusting in the grass. A Moro fishing village--now a
few deserted shacks around the more pretentious dwelling of the former
datto--may be met near where the roadway joins the beach. Pack-trains
of army mules, with their armed escorts, passed us; then an ambulance,
an escort wagon, and a mounted officer.

Two companies of the Tenth infantry were camped in a small
clearing near the sea. Leaving the camp, we went along the almost
indistinguishable Moro trail to where the mighty Agus River plunges in
a greenish torrent over an abrupt wall into the deep, misty cavern far
below. The rushing of the waters guided us in places where we found
the trail inadequate. Arriving at the falls, we scrambled down by
means of vines until we reached a narrow shelf near where the cataract
began its plunge. Upon the opposite side an unyielding precipice was
covered with a damp green coat of moss and fern. It took five seconds
for a falling stone to reach the seething cloud of mist below.

The trail back to the camp was very wild. It led through jungles
of dense underbrush, where monkeys scolded at us, and where wild
pigs, with startled grunts, bolted precipitously for the thicket. A
deep ravine would be bridged by a fallen tree. The Iligan-Marahui
road now penetrates the wildest country in the world, and the most
wonderful. Turning abruptly from the coast about five miles from
Iligan, it winds among the rocky hills through forests of mahogany and
ebony, through jungles of rattan and young bamboo, and spanning the
swift Agus River with a modern steel bridge, finally connects the lake
and sea. It has been built to meet the military road from the south
coast, thus making possible, for the first time, communication _via_
the interior. The new roads practically follow the old Moro trails.

The scene at early morning on the road was one of great activity. Soon
after reveille the men are mustered, armed with picks and shovels in
the place of the more customary "Krag," and long before the tropic
sun has risen over the primeval woods, the chatter of monkeys and the
crow of jungle-cock is mingled with the crash of trees, the click
of shovels and the rumble of the dump-cart. The continued blasting
on the upper road, near the "Point of Rocks," disturbs the colonies
of squawking birds that dart into the forest depths like flashes of
bright color. As the land is cleared for fifty yards on either side in
order to admit the sunlight and to keep the Moras at a proper range,
the great macao-trees, with their snaky, parasitic vines, on crashing
to the ground, dislodge the pallid fungi and extraordinary orchids from
their heavy foliage. Deep cuts into the clayey soil sometimes bisect
whole galleries of wonderful white ants, causing untold consternation
to the occupants.

Each squad of soldiers was protected by a guard besides the officer,
who, armed with a revolver, acted as the overseer. The work was very
telling on the men, and often out of a whole company not more than
twenty-eight reported. Some grew as strong as oxen under this unusual
routine; others had to take advantage of the sick report. The soldiers
were required to work five hours a day, and double time after a day
of rain. Considerable Moro labor was employed on the last sections
of the road.

A unique feature of the work was the erection of small bridges made
of solid logs from the material at hand, and bolted down by long steel
bars. The "elbow" bridge which makes a bend along the hillside near the
first camp is a triumph in the engineering line. The camps were moved
on as the work progressed, and the advance guard ran considerable
risk. The Moros had an unexpected way of visiting the scene of
operation, and admiring it from certain hiding-places in the woods. As
they could hike their thirty or forty miles a day along the trails,
they often came much nearer to the troops than was suspected. Sentry
duty was especially a risky one, as frequently at night the Moros used
to fire into the camp. Only about one hundred yards along the trail
a soldier, who had gone into the woods for a "short cut," received
one from a Moro who was waiting for him in the shadow of a tree.

The camp at night, illuminated by the blue light of the stars, the
forest casting inky shadows on the ground, seemed like some strange,
mysterious domain. The officers around the tent of the commanding
officer were singing songs, accompanied by the guitar and mandolin. The
soldiers also from a distant tent--it was their own song, and the tune
"The Girl I Left Behind Me"--practicing close harmony, began:


        "O, we're camped in the sand in a foreign land
          Near the mighty Agus River,
        With the brush at our toes, the skeeters at our nose,
          The jimjams and the fever.

        We're going up to Lake Lanao,
          To the town they call Marahui;
        When the road is built and the Moros killed,
          We'll none of us be sorry.

        We're blasting stumps and grading bumps;
          Our arms and backs are sore, O!
        We work all day just a dreamin' of our pay,
          And d----n the husky Moro!


When taps sounded, we turned in beneath two blankets in a wall-tent
lighted by a feeble lantern. All night long the restless jungle sounds,
the whispering of the mysterious forest, and the distant booming
of the sea, together with the measured tread of the night sentry,
made a lullaby which ought to have worked wonders with the "jim-jam"
and the fever patients of the Twenty-eighth.





Chapter XVII.

The Filipino at Play.


As in the pre-Elizabethan days the public amusements consisted
of performances by priests and monks on scaffolding set up before
the church, mystery plays, "moralities," and "miracles," religious
pageants through the village streets,--so in the Philippines, where
they have not outlived the fourteenth century, the Church plays
an important part in popular _fiestas_. The Christmas holidays are
celebrated still by carol singing from house to house, and by the
presentation of the old-time "mystery" by strolling bands of actors,
with a wax-doll to represent the Sacred Child.

Each town, besides the regular church holidays--as indicated by
innumerable red marks in the calendar--has a _fiesta_ for its
patron saint, which is of more importance even than the "Feast of
Aguinaldo" ("Aguinaldo" is their word for "Christmas present"), which
is held annually in December. One of these _fiestas_ is announced
by the ringing of the church-bells--big bells and little bells all
turning somersaults, and being banged as they go round. During the
intermissions the municipal band discourses Spanish and Visayan music,
coming to the end with a triumphant bang. Only on Holy Friday are the
bells abandoned and tin pans and bamboo clappers, sticks and stones,
resorted to for purposes of lamentation--functions for which these
instruments are perfectly adapted.

People come in from far and near, riding in _bancas_ or on ponies,
often spending several nights upon the way. The great church at the
morning mass is crowded; women faint; and, as the heat increases,
it becomes a steaming oven. It is more spectacular at vespers, with
the women kneeling among the goats and dogs; the men, uncovered,
standing in the shadows of the gallery; the altar sparkling with a
hundred candles; and the dying sunlight filtering through mediaeval
windows. As the resinous incense odor fills the house, through
the wide-open doors the sun can be seen setting in its tropical
magnificence behind a grove of palms.

Then the procession, in a haze of dust--led by the band, the padre,
and the acolytes; the sacred relics borne aloft on floats encircled by
a blaze of candles; young men holding each other's hands; children and
old women following, holding their tapers and reciting prayers--files
through the streets to the eternal clamor of the bells.

The afternoon is given up to tournaments--carabao races, pony races,
_banca_ races, cock-fights. Bamboo arches, decorated with red banners,
are erected in the larger thoroughfares, and under these the horsemen
ride together at full tilt, attempting to secure upon their lances
the suspended rings which are the favors of the local _senoritas_. On
dropping in at that volcanic little town, Mambajo, one hot afternoon,
I found a goose hung up upon the bamboo framework which became the
property of the competitor who, riding under it _ventre a terre_,
could seize the prize, regardless of the feelings of the goose. The
village had turned out in holiday attire, as the dense atmosphere of
cocoanut-oil and perfumery proclaimed. The band, in white pith helmets
and new linen uniforms, was playing under the mimosa-tree. Down the
main road a struggling crowd of wheelmen came, and from a cloud of dust
the winner of the mile bicycle-race shot past the tape. The difficulty
in the carabao event was to stick on to the broad, clumsy animal,
during the gallop around the course. One of the beasts, excited by
the shouts, began to run amuck, and cut a swathe in the distracted
crowd as clean as an ungovernable automobile might have made.

The ringing of a bell announced the cock-fight in the main beneath
the cocoanut-trees. It was near the market-place, where venders of
betel-nut, tobacco, cigarettes, and _tuba_ squatted on the ground,
their wares exposed for sale on mats. As the spectators crowded
in, the gatekeeper would mark their bare feet with a red stamp,
indicating that admission had been paid. On booths arranged within
the last inclosure, _senoritas_ sold hot chocolate and raisin-cakes
and beer. Tethered to little stakes, and straining at their leashes,
the excited game-cocks, the descendants of the jungle-fowl, screamed
in exultant unison. The small boys, having climbed the cocoanut-palms,
clung to the notches, and looked down upon the scene of conflict.

Little brown men, squatting around the birds, were critically hefting
them, or matching couples of them in preliminary bouts, keeping a good
hold of their tails. There was the wicked little Moro Bangcorong,
the trainer of birds that never lost a fight. There was Manolo, the
Visayan dandy, who on recent winnings in the main, supported a small
stable of racing ponies at Cebu. The person entering a bird deposits
a certain amount of money with the bank. This wager is then covered by
the smaller bets of _hoi poiloi_. When a "dark" bird is victorious, and
the crowd wins, an enthusiastic yell goes up. But just as in a public
lottery, fortune is seldom with the great majority. As the bell rings,
the spectators press close around the bamboo pit, or climb to points
of vantage in adjacent scaffolding. A line is drawn in the damp earth,
and on one side all the money wagered on the favorite is arranged,
which must be balanced by the coin placed by opposing betters on the
other side. There is a frantic rushing around at the last moment to
place bets. The Chinaman waves a ten-_peso_ bill excitedly, and clamors
"_buenting! buenting!_"--meaning that he puts his money on the speckled
bird. Somebody on the other side cries out "_guingan!_" or "green," and
thus they both find takers for their "_sapi_." Then the _presidente_,
who referees the fight, sends two policemen to clear out the ring;
the sheaths are removed from the razor-sharp steel spurs; the two cocks
are held opposite each other, and are simultaneously launched into the
arena. Ruffling, and facing each other with their necks outstretched,
"blood in their eyes," and realizing to the full extent the danger of
the situation, they prepare to fight it out to death. A quick stab,
and the victim, trembling violently, a stream of red blood trickling
down its leg, drops at the first encounter, and the fight is over.

While no record has been kept of how the bets were placed, every
one seems to remember, and the money is handed over honestly. If
Filipinos were as honorable in all their dealings as they are in
this, they would be ideal people to do business with; for although
they will beg and borrow, or even steal, to get the money which is
wagered at these "combats," they will never evade a debt of honor
thus incurred. Regarding gambling as a livelihood, or a profession
in good standing, they devote their best hours to the study and the
mastery of it. They, with their false philosophy, believe that wealth
is thus produced, and that there is a gain for every one.

The list of fights progresses, some of the cocks only giving up the
struggle after a last dying kick has been directed at the breast of
the antagonist, who, desperately wounded, summons strength for one
triumphant, but a rather husky, crow. Sometimes both birds are taken
from the cockpit dead. The bird that loses a fight through cowardice
is rent limb from limb by the indignant owner, and is ignominiously
hung upon the bamboo paling,--bird of ill omen, that has ruined the
finances of a family, mortgaged the house and carabao, and plunged
its owner into debt for the next year!

Sometimes a "free for all" is substituted for the dual
contest. Eighteen or twenty fighting-cocks will be arranged in a large
circle, dropped at the same time in the ring, and set to work. Half
of the birds, not realizing what is going on, will innocently start
to scratch for worms, or set out on a search for seeds. It is amusing
then to see the astonished look they give when suddenly confronted
by a couple of antagonists. They settle their disputes in bunches of
three and four, and soon the ring is full of chickens running to get
out of danger, maimed and crippled, or still innocently scratching
after worms. There was a little white cock at the recent main at
Oroquieta, who avoided every fight without, however, leaving the
arena. The game old buzzard that belonged to _Capitan_ A-Bey--a bird
with legs like stilts and barren patches in his foliage--had put down
every challenger in turn. Confronted by two birds at once, he seemed
to say, "One side, old fellow, for a moment; will attend to your case
later"--which he did. Dizzy and staggering from loss of blood, still
"in the ring," he sidled up to the immaculate white bird that had so
ingeniously evaded every fight. It was a case of out-and-out bluff. If
the little bird had struck, he must have won. A single look, however,
at his reprehensible antagonist sufficed. The little bird made a
direct line for the gate, while _Capitan_ A-Bey's old rooster, with
defiance in his look and voice, was carried away in triumph. In the
parade next day, where the competing game-cocks were exhibited, the
"buzzard," though he was exempt from taking part in the proceedings,
led the procession and was loudly cheered.



My introduction to polite society in Filipinia was certainly
auspicious. "Betel-Nut Sal," the wife of the constabulary sergeant, had
a birthday, and invited everybody to the dance and the reception which
would take place in the jail. The _Senorita_ Tonio, most prominent of
the receiving ladies, was engaged when I arrived, in meting out gin to
the visitors. Her teeth were red from betel-chewing, and a cigarette
hung from the corner of her mouth. The orchestra, armed with guitars
and mandolins, had seated themselves upon a bench, barefooted with
their legs crossed, ready to begin. The insufficiency of partners
for the ladies had necessitated letting out most of the prisoners
on parole. A certain young dandy who had been locked up on charge
of murder, was the hero of the hour. While he was dancing, soldiers
with their Remingtons guarded the door. I was induced to try a dance
with Tonio. The hum of music could be heard above the "clack-clack" of
the carpet-slippers tapping on the floor. Then suddenly the _senorita_
swore a white man's oath, and stopped. Her carpet-slipper had come off,
and as she wore no hosiery, the situation was indeed embarrassing. Our
hostess asked us twenty times if everything was satisfactory, and
finally confessed that she had spent almost a year's income for the
refreshments. "Dancee now; _manana_, washie, washie."

I must tell you of Bernarda's party. "We expect you for the eating,"
read the invitation, and when dinner was all ready I was sent for. Then
we sat down to a feast of roast pork, rice, and goat-flesh, with
a rather soggy cake for the dessert. At most balls it is customary
for the ladies to be seated first at the refreshment-table, where the
most substantial articles of diet are boiled ham with sugar frosting,
cakes flavored with the native lime, and lemon soda. Like the coy nun
in Chaucer's "Prologue," she who is most elegant will take care not
to spill the food upon her lap, eat with the fingers, or spit out
the bones. At wedding feasts the gentlemen are given preference at
the table.

When the orchestra arrived--a trifle late after a six-mile hike through
muddy roads and over swollen streams--the company was more delighted
than a nursery. The orchestra began the program with the piece entitled
"Just One Girl," to which the people sang Visayan words. Vivan, the
old clown, in clumsy commissary shoes, skated around the floor to
the amusement of the whole assembly. The chair-dance was announced,
and the most favored _senorita_ occupied a chair set in the middle of
the room. A dozen suitors came in order, bowing low, entreating her
not to reject their plea. One after another they were thrown down,
and retired crestfallen. But at last the right one came, and waltzed
off with the girl triumphantly. There was a salvo of applause, the
more intense because in this case an engagement had been practically
announced. No native ball would be complete without the symbolistic
dance which so epitomizes Filipino character. This is performed by a
young lady and her partner wielding fans and scented handkerchiefs,
advancing and retreating with all kinds of coquetries.

Long after midnight, when the party broke up with the customary
horse-play, the accommodating orchestra, who had enjoyed the evening
with the rest, still playing "Just One Girl," escorted the assembly
home.





Chapter XVIII.

Visayan Ethics and Philosophy.


He is the drollest little person in the world--the Filipino of the
southern isles. He imitates the sound of chickens in his language and
the nasal "nga" of the carabao. He talks about his chickens and makes
jokes about them. As he goes along the street, he sings, "_Ma-ayon
buntag_," or "_Ma-ayon hapon_," to the friends he meets. This is
his greeting in the morning and the afternoon; at night, "_Ma-ayon
gabiti_." And instead of saying, "Thank you," he will sing, "_Deus
mag bayud_" (God will reward you), and the answer, also sung, will be
"_gehapon_" (always)--just as though it were no use to look for a
reward upon this world.

You wonder how it is that he can spend his life rooted to one spot,
like a tree, passing the days in idleness. He is absorbed in his
own thoughts. If you should ask him anything he would not hear you;
he is far away in his own dreamland. You must wake him up first,
and then repeat your question several times. If you should have
instructions for him, do not give them to him all at once. A single
idea at a time is all that he can carry in his head. If he has not
been broken in to a routine, he will chase butterflies upon the way,
influenced ever by the passion of the moment. There is no yesterday
or no to-morrow in his thoughts. What he shall find to eat to-morrow
never concerns him. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

Many mistakes have been made in the hasty judgment of the
Filipino character. Such axioms as "Never trust a native under
any circumstances;" "Never expect to find a sense of gratitude;"
"Never believe a word a native says," are only too well known in
Filipinia. The Spanish influence has been responsible for most of the
defects as well as for the merits of the native character. Then, the
peculiar fashion of the Oriental mind forbids his reasoning according
to the Occidental standards. Cause and effect are hazy terms to him,
and the justification of the means is not regarded seriously. His
thefts are in a way consistent with his system of philosophy. You are
so rich, and he so poor. The Filipino is at heart a socialist. But he
does not steal indiscriminately. If it is your money that he takes,
it is because he needs it to put up on the next cock-fight. If he
selects your watch, it is because he needs a watch, and nothing
more. The Filipino, when he transacts business, has two scales of
prices,--one for the natives, and another for Americans. He reasons
that because Americans are rich, they ought to pay a higher price for
what they get than Filipinos do. He would expect if he bought anything
from you that you would make a special rate for him regardless of
the value of the article in question. You would have to come down to
accommodate his pocketbook.

The Filipino code of ethics justifies a falsehood, especially if
the end in view should be immediate. He lies to save himself from
punishment, and he will make a cumulative lie, building it up from
his imagination until even the artistic element is wanting, and
his lie becomes a thing of contradictions and absurdities. When
questioned closely, or when cross-examined, his imagination gets
beyond control, and it is possible that he believes, himself, the
"fairy tales" he tells. Fear easily upsets his calculations, and he
runs amuck. But he will not betray himself, although he will deny a
friend three times. He may be in an agony of fear, but only by the
subtlest changes could it be detected.

The Spaniards, when they left out gratitude from his curriculum, made
up for the deficiency by inculcating strict ideals of discipline. The
Filipino never has had much to be grateful for, and he regards a
friendly move suspiciously. But he admires a master, and will humbly
yield to almost any kind of tyranny, especially from one of his own
race. The poorer classes rather like to be imposed upon in the same
way as the Americans appreciate a humbug.

In their communities the _presidente_ is supreme in power; and, like
the king, this officer can do no wrong. He uses his position for his
private ends. Why not? What is the use of being _presidente_ if it
does not profit you? I have known some who secured monopolies on the
hemp-trade by fining all who did not sell their hemp to them. Others
appropriate the public funds for entertainment purposes, and when
an inquiry is made regarding the condition of the treasury, the
magistrate expresses the greatest surprise on finding that there is
no money left. This officer, however, whatever his prerogatives may
be, is not ambitious that his term of office be of any benefit. If
he presides well at the cock-fights, it is all that is expected of
him. If he goes to building bridges over rivers that the horses easily
can wade across, the people will object to the unnecessary labor and
expense. The _presidente_ dominates the town. If he can bring about
prosperity in an agreeable way, without recourse to sudden means,
the people will appreciate him and support him, though they do not
take much interest in the elections. If the civil government can
only get good _presidentes_ in the larger villages, the problem of
administration will be solved.

Malay traditions make the Filipino proud, disdainful, and reserved--and
also cruel. Not only are the ardent sun and his inherent laziness
accountable for his antipathy to work. It is beneath his dignity to
work, and that is why he takes delight in being a public servant or
a clerk. The problem of living is reduced to simplest terms. One can
not starve to death as long as the bananas and the cocoanuts hold
out. The question as to whether last year's overcoat or straw hat can
be made to do, does not concern the Filipino in the least. If he needs
money irresistibly, he can spend one day at work up in the mountains,
making enough to last him for some time. If he can spend his money
so as to create a display, he takes delight in doing so. But paying
debts is as uninteresting as it is unpopular. The outward signs of
elegance are much respected by the Filipino. The American, to live up
to his part, must always be attended by a servant. Sometimes, when we
would forget this adjunct, we would stop at some _tienda_ and propose
to carry home a dozen eggs wrapped in a handkerchief. "What! have
you no house-boy?" the natives asked. Apparently extravagant, they
practice many petty economies at home. A morsel of food or a bit of
clothing never goes to waste in Filipinia. They imitate the Chinaman
in letting one of their finger-nails grow long.

The Filipino is fastidious and dainty--in his own way. He will
shudder at the uncouth Tagalog who toasts locusts over a hot fire and
eats them, and that evening will go home and eat a handful of damp
_guinimos_, the littlest of fish. He takes an infinite amount of care
of his white clothes, and swaggers about the streets immaculate; but
just as soon as he gets home, the suit comes off and is reserved for
future exhibition purposes. The women pay comparatively small attention
to their personal adornment. Their hair is combed straight back
upon their heads. The style of dresses never undergoes a change. The
ordinary dress consists of three important pieces--the chemise, a long,
white, sleeveless garment; the _camisa_, or the _pina_ bodice, with
wide sleeves; and the skirt, caught up on one side, and preferably
of red material. A yoke or scarf of _pina_ folds around the neck,
and is considered indispensable by _senoritas_. The native ideas of
modesty are more or less false, varying with the individual.

It might be thought that, on account of his indifferent attitude toward
life and death, the Filipino has no feelings or emotions. He is a stoic
and a fatalist by nature, but an emotionalist as well. While easily
affected, the impressions are not deep, and are forgotten as they slip
into the past. Although controlled by passion, he will hold himself in,
maintaining a proud reserve, especially in the presence of Americans. A
subtle change of color, a sullen brooding, or persistent silence,
are his only outward signs of wrath. He will endure in patience what
another race had long ago protested at; but when at last aroused and
dominated by his passions, he will throw reserve and caution to the
winds, and give way to his feelings like a child; and like a child,
he feels offended if partiality is exercised against him. His sense of
justice then asserts itself, and he resents not getting his share of
anything. He even will insist on being punished if he thinks punishment
is due him. While revengeful if imposed upon, and bitter under the
autocracy of cruelty, he has a great respect for firmness. And the
Americans would do well to remember that in governing the Filipino,
kindness should be mingled with strict discipline.

The Filipino can not be depended upon for accurate, reliable
information. His information is indefinite, as perhaps it should be
in the land of By and By. In spite of his imaginative temperament,
his cruelty to animals is flagrant. He starves his dog and rides his
pony till the creature's back is sore. He shows no mercy for the bird
that loses at the cock-fight; he will mercilessly tear it limb from
limb. In order to explain--not to excuse--this cruelty, we must again
regard the Filipino as a child--a child of the toad-stabbing age.

A little learning he takes seriously, and is puffed up by pride when he
can follow with his horny finger the religious column in _Ang Suga_,
spelling the long words out laboriously. Even the boys and girls who
study English, often do so only to be "smart." It is a clever thing
to spice one's conversation with an English word or expression here
and there.

Yet the Filipino is not altogether lazy and unsympathetic. Often
around his houses you will see a tiny patch of corn or a little garden
of green vegetables. He makes a mistake by showing a dislike for the
_camote_, or the native sweet-potato, which abounds there. Preferring
the unsubstantial rice to this more wholesome product, he leaves the
sweet-potato for his Chinese and his Moro neighbors. On every street
the sour-smelling _copra_ (cocoanut meat) can be seen spread out upon
a mat to dry. The cattle are fed on the long rice-grass (the _palay_),
or on the unhusked rice (_sacate_). A primitive trades-unionism exists
among the Filipinos; every trade, such as the carpenters' or the
musicians', having its respective _maestro_, with whom arrangements
for the labor and the pay are always made. The native jewelers are
very clever, fashioning the silver _pesos_ into ornaments for bolos,
hats, or walking-sticks. Ironmongeries, though primitive in their
equipment, have produced, by dint of skill and patience, work that is
very passable. The women weave their own cloth on the native looms,
and practice various other industries. The children are well trained
in hospitality and public manners, which they learn by rote.

While not original, they are good imitators, and would make excellent
clerks, mechanics, carpenters, or draughtsmen. Some of their devices
rather remind one of a small boy's remedy for warts or "side-ache." In
order to exterminate the rats they introduce young pythons into the
garrets of their houses, where the snake remains until his appetite
is satisfied for rodents and his finer tastes developed. Usually
the Filipino does things "wrong side out." Instead of beckoning
when he would summon any one, he motions away from himself. Instead
of making nicknames, such as Bob or Bill, from the first syllable,
he uses the last, abbreviating Balendoy to 'Doy, Diega to a simple
'Ga. They are the happiest people in the world, free from all care
and trouble. It is among the younger generation that the promise
lies. The little ones are bright and gentle and respectful--quite
unlike the boisterous denizens of Young America. The race is still
back in the fourteenth century, but the progress to be made within
the next few years will span the chasm at a single bound.

When I return to Filipinia, I shall expect to see, instead of the brown
_nipa_ shacks, bright-painted American cottages or bungalows among
the groves of palm. I shall expect to see the mountain <DW72>s, waving
with green hemp-fields, worked by the rejuvenated native. Railroads
will penetrate into the dark interior, connecting towns and villages
now isolated. The country roads will be well graded and macadamized,
and bridges will be built across the streams. The cock-fight will
have given way to institutions more American, and superstition will
have vanished with the mediaevalism. The hum of saw-mills will be
heard upon the borders of the timber-lands; sugar refineries will
be established near the fields of cane; for Filipinia is still an
undeveloped paradise. The Great White Tribe has many problems yet
to solve; but with the industry that they have shown in other lands,
they can improve, not only the material resources, but can stir the
Filipino from his dream of the Dark Ages, and point out the way of
modern progress and enlightenment.





NOTE


[1] Johnson, the runaway constabulary officer, was killed October
last by the crew of the native boat which he had captured after
the Steamship "Victoria," which he had seized, had grounded off the
coast of <DW64>s. Four of the crew were killed during the fight. In
true brigand style he had taken the boat at the revolver's point,
and headed for the coast of Borneo. He had ten thousand dollars of
government money, and his intention was to land at various ports and
make the local merchants "stand and deliver." I gave the following
interview to the reporter of the Princeton (Indiana) "Clarion-News,"
October 16, 1903:

"'Johnson, the pirate,' is dead, and buried in the lonely isle of
<DW64>s. Many a worse man occupies a better grave. The worst that you
can say of Johnson is, that he was wrong and that he liked to drink
too much.

"I shall always remember him in his red shoulder straps, his khaki
riding suit and leather leggings. Before I had ever seen him I had
heard the old constabulary captain say: 'That feller looks like a born
fighter. Bet he ain't afraid of anything.' ... The padre gave us a
Christmas dinner, and Johnson at this function took too much of the
communion wine. On the way back he reeled continually in his saddle,
vomiting a stream of red wine....

"We often used to race our ponies into Oroquieta neck and neck,
scattering natives, chickens, and pigs to right and left. The last I
saw of him was as he put out on a stormy sea in a frail Moro sailboat
bound for Cagayan, which at that time was infested with ladrones.

"Johnson was only a boy, but he had been a sailor and a soldier,
and had seen adventures in the Canary Islands, in Cuba, and the
Philippines. The boat that he held up and started off to Borneo was one
employed in questionable trade. She was a smuggler, and had formerly
been in the service of the 'Insurrecto' Government. She used to drop
in at a port at night and pull out in the morning with neither a bill
of lading nor a manifest.

"Johnson should not be blamed too much for the wild escapade. The
climate had undoubtedly affected him; moreover the constabulary has
no business putting heavy responsibilities upon young boys."






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Great White Tribe in Filipinia, by
Paul T. Gilbert

*** 