Exploits and Adventures of a Soldier Ashore and Afloat, by William L. Adams

I.

Campaign of the “Governor’s Troop,” Penna. Volunteer Cavalry

The “Pandora Box”—Call for Volunteers—Mustered In—Breaking of Horses at Mt. Gretna—Liberality of the Ladies of Harrisburg and Hazleton—Departure of the Tenth Pennsylvania for the Philippines—My First Rebuff, by Major-General Graham—Thirty Thousand Soldiers Celebrate the Victory of Santiago—Troopers Decorated with Flowers by the Maidens of Richmond—The Concert Halls of Newport News—The Ghost Walks—Off for the Front—Convoyed by Battleships—Porto Rico—Spanish Hospitality—Wounded by a Shell—Jack the “Mascot” Passes the Deal—Reception in New York, Harrisburg, and Hazleton.

The destruction of the United States battleship Maine in Havana harbor, on the night of February 15, 1898, was the key to the mysterious “Pandora Box,” containing maps of new United States possessions, the commission of an admiral, the creation of a President, the construction of a formidable army and navy, the humiliation of a proud nation, and numerous other undisputed ascendencies.

The uncivilized, brutal, and oppressive methods resorted to by the Spaniards in conducting military operations on the Island of Cuba and other territory adjacent to the United States had long been a theme of discussion by patriotic and sympathizing Americans. When the news flashed over the wires that the big man-of-war, the Maine, had been blown up and two hundred and sixty-six members of her gallant crew had been sent to a watery grave, the hearts of American youths burned with indignation and every mother’s son yearned to avenge what was considered Spanish treachery. What followed is entered in the archives of American history and is familiar to all. The call for volunteers was responded to universally, there being so many applicants to fill the ranks that only the flower of the American youth was accepted.

When the news was wired broadcast that Commodore Dewey had fairly annihilated the Spanish fleet in Asiatic waters, without the loss of a man, there was a burst of enthusiasm that can well be imagined by those too young to remember the occasion. At 9.00 A.M. on the second of May, 1898, this news was received in Hazleton, Pennsylvania. It was followed by a telegram from the Captain of the “Governor’s Troop,” Pennsylvania Volunteer Cavalry, of Harrisburg, which stated that twelve vacancies existed in that troop and that in accordance with the request of Governor Hastings these vacancies should be filled with the first volunteers from the city of Hazleton. In two hours’ time the recipient of the telegram, Mr. Willard Young, had notified and enlisted twelve of Hazleton’s stalwart sons, and at 7.40 A.M. the next morning, amidst the waving of the national colors and cheers from the populace the boys were escorted by the famous old Liberty Band to the Lehigh Valley Station where, after bidding adieu to relatives, sweethearts, and friends, they boarded a train for Mt. Gretna, the military rendezvous.

The men who comprised this Hazleton assemblage were—

Ario P. Platte, Jr.
Schuyler Ridgeway
John J. Turnbach
William K. Byrnes
Willard Young
Charles H. Rohland
Edward R. Turnbach
Stephen A. Barber
Edwin W. Barton
Herbert S. Houck
Clarence H. Hertz
William L. Adams

En route to Pottsville the train was boarded by my life-long friend, David L. Thomas, who was on his way to his law office. On learning the destination of the patriots he laid down his “Blackstone” and wired his parents in Mahanoy City that he had cast his fortunes with the avengers of Spanish tyranny. Of this group of volunteers, two loyal soldiers have answered the last roll call, namely: Ario P. Platte, Jr., and David L. Thomas.

Arriving at Mt. Gretna we beheld, under miles of canvas, Pennsylvania’s gallant National Guard. Upon inquiry we found the cavalry headquarters, consisting of the “City Troop” of Philadelphia, the “Sheridan Troop” of Tyrone, and the “Governor’s Troop” of Harrisburg, stationed in a clump of forest near the lake.

Immediately reporting to Captain Ott, commanding the “Governor’s Troop,” we were assigned to quarters in large Sibly tents and met the old members of the troop, among whom I was delighted to find Feight and Barker, two classmates of mine at “Dickinson Seminary.” We were at once issued mess kits, the most necessary equipment required by a soldier when not in the face of the enemy, and, roaming hither and thither, awaited the usual medical examination preparatory to being mustered into the service of the United States, which, after several dreary and monotonous days, occurred on the 13th of May. After being fitted in natty cavalry uniforms we were drilled twice daily on foot by an ex-sergeant of the regular army, whose service in the regulars had qualified him for the arduous task of breaking in raw recruits. This drill was an experience not relished very much, as profound obedience was required, and many wished the war was over before it had really begun.

Before bringing the troop to attention, the sergeant would usually say: “Now boys, I want you to pay attention to my orders, and if you make mistakes I am apt to say some things I do not really mean.” So we would take his word for this, but ofttimes thought things we did mean. This was his song: “Fall in,” “Troop attention,” “Right dress,” “Front,” “Count off,” “Backward guide right,” “March,” “As skirmishers,” “March,” “Get some speed on you,” “Wake up,” “Wake up,” “Assemble double time,” “March,” “Look to the front, and get in step, you walk like farmers hoeing corn,” “Close in,” “Close in,” “Take up that interval.” These were the daily commands, until the troop was able to execute close and extended order to perfection. Then came the horses, and the monkey drill, and some pitiful sights of horsemanship, until each of the boys had accustomed himself to his own horse and had become hardened to the saddle.

DETACHMENT OF GOVERNOR’S TROOP, MT. GRETNA PA., 1898.

At first we were equipped with the old Springfield rifle, but this was soon replaced by the Krag-Jorgensen carbine. Each trooper was soon fully equipped as follows: horse, McClellen saddle, saddle bags, bridle, halter, and horse blanket, carbine, saber, Colt revolver, belts, and ammunition, canteen, mess kits, sleeping blanket, shelter half, and uniforms.

The ladies of Harrisburg and Hazleton were extremely generous to the troop. From Harrisburg each soldier received a large and beautiful yellow silk neckerchief, a Bible, and a large quantity of pipes and tobacco. From Hazleton came literature and boxes after boxes of edibles, which were greatly relished by the troopers.

Some time was consumed in the breaking of horses, getting them bridle wise, and training them to the saddle, and this afforded great amusement to the thousands of spectators who visited the reservation daily. The troop, which consisted of one hundred privates and three commissioned officers, was made up of men from various walks of life. Lawyers, athletes, students, merchants, ex-regular-army soldiers, cowboys, and Indians swapped stories around the camp-fires at night. Every day, after the usual routine of duty had been performed, games of all descriptions were indulged in, poker under the shade of an “A” wall tent usually predominating. One of the entertaining features of the camp was a quartette of singers, members of the “Sheridan” and “Governor’s” troops, and ex-members of the University of Pennsylvania Glee Club. These boys were always in demand.

“Broncho buster,” George S. Reed, an ex-Texas ranger, Nome gold miner, and survivor of several duels, the most noted man of the “Governor’s Troop,” had cast his fortunes with the soldier “lay out,” and had boasted that there never was a broncho foaled that he could not cling to. “Broncho’s” debut as an equestrian was to ride a horse we called the “rat,” a bad one. Reed had great difficulty in getting his foot in the stirrup, as this animal would bite, buck, and kick, and besides held a few tricks in reserve. Finally, taking a desperate chance, “Broncho” swung himself into the saddle and the show was on. The horse plunged, bolted, and bucked, in trying to unseat the rider. When all efforts seemed to have been exhausted, the “rat” bucked, and made a complete somersault, rolling the ranger on the turf, then rising and doing a contortion, wriggled through the saddle girth and blanket, and bolted for the timber. “That horse is mad,” said Reed, brushing the dust from his uniform. “Did you see it loop the loop?” The horse that fell to “Broncho’s” lot was a gentle animal, that could tell by instinct when the canteen was empty, and would stand without hitching at any point where the goods could be supplied.

Each day brought forth news of the mobilization of troops and the progress of the war. Mt. Gretna, an ideal place for a military rendezvous, presented a grand spectacle. Regiments were rigidly disciplined and drilled to the requirements of war, sham battles were fought, galloping horsemen could be seen repulsing the enemy, while the wild cheering of the infantry in the charge, and the reckless maneuvering of artillery in establishing points of vantage for getting into action, had the aspect of mimic war.

Days rolled by and the troops yearned for active service. The Tenth Pennsylvania Infantry, having received orders to proceed to the Philippine Islands, was the first regiment to break the monotony. There was great activity in breaking camp, and a speedy departure amidst a wild demonstration enthused the boys whose fate lay with the fortunes of war, and whose valiant bravery along the south line, from Bacoor to Manila, will ever remain vivid in the annals of the insurrection.

The news of the departure of the “Rough Riders” for Cuba was heralded with much joy as a forerunner of our getting to the front, also the distribution of regiments to southern camps, where the sons of the “Blue and the Gray” commingled and fraternized as comrades fighting for the same cause, and spun yarns of the bloody strife of the rebellion in which their fathers had opposed each other in a bitter struggle.

The promulgation of the general order directing our departure for the South was received with cheers. Breaking camp was immediately begun, the loading of horses and equipment on the train being accomplished with the dexterity of a troop of regulars. All along the route the train met with an ovation. There was waving of flags and handkerchiefs, bells were tolled, and the shrill whistles of factories welcomed the boys on to the front. Arriving at Falls Church, Virginia, we at once set to work unloading our horses and accoutrements of war, which was accomplished with almost insuperable difficulty, due to our having reached our destination at night and in a blinding rain-storm.

Among the members of our troop was a Swedish Count, and at this point I recall a little incident which it will not be amiss to relate. We had unloaded our horses and were awaiting orders, when the Count approached me and said:

““Bill, ven do ve eat?”

““I guess we don’t eat, Count,” I replied; “these are the horrors of war.”

“Vell, py tam,” said the Count, “dis vore vas all horrores. I vanted to blay benuckle on der train und der corporal say: ‘You go mit der baggage car, unt cook some beans,’ unt by tam, I couldn’t cook vater yet.”

We remained at Falls Church over night, and in the morning marched to Camp Alger through blinding torrents of rain and fetlock-deep in mud. This camp, like most Southern camps, was very unhealthy, the heat was stifling, and many soldiers succumbed to fever. Here the troops of cavalry were consolidated into a squadron, consisting of Troop “A” of New York, Troop “C” of Brooklyn, “City Troop” of Philadelphia, “Sheridan Troop” of Tyrone, and “The Governor’s Troop” of Harrisburg, under the command of Major Jones, formerly captain of the “Sheridan Troop,” who relieved Captain Groome, of the “City Troop” of Philadelphia, who had been temporarily in command.

Camp Alger was a city of tents, as far as the eye could discern in every direction, there being about thirty thousand soldiers in the camp. My first duty at this Post was a detail as “orderly,” at General Graham’s headquarters. With a well-groomed horse, polished saddle, and soldierly immaculateness, I reported for duty. Entering the General’s spacious tent and saluting, I said:

“Sir, Trooper Adams, of the ‘Governor’s Troop,’ reports as orderly to the Commanding General.”

“Very well,” replied the General; “give the Colonel of the Second Tennessee my compliments and tell him I will review his regiment at 4.30 P.M.”

“Yes, sir, but, by the way, General,” said I, “where is the Second Tennessee located?”

“Make an about face and follow your nose,” the old man replied, and I did; but if the old General could have heard the mute invectives aimed at him I probably never would have told this yarn. I do not blame him now, as I realize how unmilitary I was. I had no difficulty in finding the Colonel of the Second Tennessee, as I kept my nose right in front of me.

The news of the victory of Santiago was celebrated by the troops in gorgeous style. Regiment followed regiment in wild acclaim, cheers after cheers resounded from the throats of the thirty thousand soldiers who were anxiously awaiting their call to the front. Bonfires of tar barrels were kept burning all night, and the excitement of the camp was intense.

The cavalry was ordered to Newport News to await the arrival of the transports; but, unlike the Sixth Massachusetts, that was stoned in Baltimore at the outbreak of the rebellion, our greetings in the South were exceptionally friendly. At Richmond bouquets of flowers were scattered in profusion among the soldiers, and many a fair maiden left the station with a pair of cross sabers pinned to her shirtwaist.

Our camp at Newport News was on sandy soil on the banks of the James River, which afforded excellent bathing and fishing. Here the cavalry received their khaki uniforms, which were the first issued to United States troops and had the appearance of an officer’s regimentals. As a consequence it was a common sight to see a “doughboy” saluting a trooper as he strolled through the city. A member of a Kentucky regiment was heard to remark: “That Pennsylvania cavalry is hot stuff; they are all officers.”

A few days after pitching camp, something happened; it is an occasion when a soldier possesses that air of complacency which invariably pervades the atmosphere. It is when the “ghost walks” (pay day) that the soldier is not only happy, but has a keen desire for making every one with whom he comes in contact happy. As a dispenser of pleasure, when he has “the necessary,” his speed brooks no competition, and all others look like “pikers” compared with “the man behind the gun.”

In 1898 Barton’s Theatre and Concert Hall was a nightly scene of revelry, by cavalry, artillery, and infantry, and from a spectator’s point of view it was hard to decide which was of more interest, the scenes in front or in rear of the footlights. Songs that reached a soldier’s heart were sung by dashing “prima donnas from the cottonfields of Dixie,” the soldiers joining in the chorus. After the “ghost had walked” this particular concert hall fell into the hands of the boys, among whom was found talent far surpassing anything behind the footlights. The soubrettes of the ballet dance mingled with the boys, and these scenes were equivalent to the “Can Can” of the famous “Red Mill” of Paris, or a Creole “Bal Masque” during a New Orleans “Mardi Gras.”

As the orchestra struck up the music to “For he is only a Soldier Boy,” a dashing southern beauty, in military costume, would saunter to the footlights, accompanied by a chorus of lesser lights, whose evolutions, combined with their singing, were extremely pretty and inspiring to the soldiers. This sketch brought forth deafening applause, dying out only as a trooper announced that he would endeavor to recite “The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere,” or perhaps “Tam O’Shanter,” while another would volunteer to inflict us with “Casey at the Bat” or “The Face upon the Bar-room Floor,” to the mournful strains from the dirge of Imogen, a sure harbinger for the dispensers of “sangaree” to get busy and take orders. Another song, and the dance was on once more and continued until the “dog watch” of the night, when the soldiers realized that at reveille every man must be in ranks to answer to the call of his name or suffer the alternative, a berth in the “brig.”

This was the bright side of war, and, as each soldier was intent on getting to the front, it was the exception rather than the rule to hear of a misdemeanor being committed, or even to hear of a man being confined to the “guard house.”

Newport News was a gay place in ’98. Its people were very hospitable and friendly with the troops. Old Point Comfort and the Forts of Hampton Roads were but a short run by rail from the camp, and these were favorite resorts of the soldiers. Great excitement prevailed when the order for the Porto Rican expedition—“Pennsylvania Cavalry to the front”—was received.

The transport Manitoba had been fitted from an old cattle scow to a serviceable troop-ship, and had just returned from conveying a detachment of “Rough Riders” to Cuba. This vessel was spacious but lacking in the accommodations of our present-day transports that ply the Pacific. Considerable time was spent in getting our horses and munitions of war on board. When the signal to cast loose and provide was given we had on board three troops of cavalry, three batteries of field artillery, one battalion of Kentucky infantry, and detachments of engineer, hospital, and signal corps, seven hundred head of horses, and three hundred head of mules, besides the cargo of munitions of war.

Our time on board was occupied in preparing for a harder campaign than materialized. Carbines and six-shooters were oiled, and sabers burnished (the scabbards of these, being nickel-plated, required merely a coating of oil to keep them from rust). Our boots were greased, and the front and rear sights of our carbines were blackened. The boys scalloped the rims of their campaign hats, and some were tattooed by adepts in the art. Cards and reading were other pastimes of the voyage.

The fifth day out the United States cruiser Columbia and battleship Indiana were sighted; they had come to convoy the ship into the harbor of Playa Del Ponce. Arriving in the harbor at night, we had the misfortune to run on a sand-bar, where, being compelled to anchor with a list of about forty degrees, the possibility of our landing at night became rather vague. While making preparations for an attempt to land, a heavy gale encompassed the bay, making our position perilous, and, as this continued throughout the following day, it was with the utmost difficulty that our horses and mules were landed, a number of them being swung overboard and allowed to swim ashore.

Having finally reached the ground of the enemy, great precaution was taken to avoid a surprise; the water was inspected to make sure that it contained no poisonous substance and the orders in posting sentinels were rigidly enforced—each sentry before being posted had to be thoroughly familiar with his orders, being required to repeat them verbatim, and was also admonished as to the importance of keeping constantly on the alert. He was forewarned that to be found asleep on post in the enemy’s country meant to be tried by court-martial and if convicted to suffer the penalty of death.

Our first rendezvous was alongside of an old Spanish cathedral, surrounded by plantations of sugarcane, coffee, hemp, and tobacco; here we pitched a camp of shelter or “dog-tents” as they were generally called. As we were getting our accoutrements of war in shape the rapid fire of the Sixteenth Pennsylvania engaging the enemy could be distinctly heard, this engagement, however, being of short duration, like all other Spanish-American encounters in the West Indies.

Playa Del Ponce is the port of the city of Ponce, and is the shipping point for that section of the Island of Porto Rico. The town is surrounded by rich plantations of tobacco, coffee, sugarcane, and rice, also trees teeming with oranges, cocoanuts, guavas, lemons, grape-fruit, and groves of bananas and plantains. The staple production of the island is tobacco, from which is manufactured a very choice brand of cigars. The city of Ponce lies inland a distance of about three miles, and is typically Spanish in its architecture.

Shortly after our arrival at Playa Del Ponce, I had occasion to take my horse in the ocean for a swim, which was great sport and beneficial to the animal. In dismounting on my return to the beach, I had the painful misfortune to tread on a thin sea shell which penetrated my heel, breaking into several pieces. On my return to the camp I found the troop surgeon had left for Ponce, so seeking the assistance of a Spanish-Porto Rican physician, one Garcia Del Valyo, I was relieved after considerable probing, of the broken pieces of shell. The wet season being in progress and our hospital facilities limited, the doctor kindly offered me quarters in his beautiful residence, and recommended to my troop commander that I remain at his home until my wound had healed. To this the officer acquiesced.

I was given a room overlooking the bay on one side, with the town bounding the other; a crutch and an oil-cloth shoe were provided for me, with which I was able to hobble around with the two beautiful daughters of the old gentleman, namely, Anita and Consuelo Del Valyo. They spoke the Anglo-Saxon language fairly well and taught me my first lessons in Spanish, while I in return instructed them in my language. Both were artistes, being skilled in painting, sculpture, and music, and I often recall the happy evenings spent listening to the sweet notes of “La Paloma” as sung to the trembling tones of a mandolin accompaniment. Traditional custom permitted the piano and various Spanish songs during the day, but never “La Paloma,” wine, and the “Fandango” until after twilight. It was a picturesque sight to watch these senoritas perform the “Fandango,” clicking the castanets and gracefully tapping the tambourine as they whirled through coils of cigarette smoke.

I spent nine days in this hospitable domicile and was sorry when my wound had healed, but alas! I had to join my troop, which had departed for the interior. Before leaving Playa Del Ponce, I was presented with a small gold case containing the miniatures of these charming ladies. During the campaign on the island, I made several trips in to see them, accompanied by members of the troop, and before our departure from Porto Rico, had the extreme pleasure of attending a genuine Porto Rican “Fiesta.” It is sad to relate that the entire family suffered the fate of a large percentage of the population of Playa Del Ponce, in the terrible tidal wave which swept that portion of the island in 1899. Far be it from me to ever forget the kindness, engaging presence, and irresistible charm of these unfortunate people.

On my way to join the troop, I met the Sixteenth Pennsylvania Infantry, escorting about eight hundred prisoners of war into the city, where they were to remain in incarceration until the arrival of the transports which were to convey the Spanish soldiers to Spain. When they halted near the old stockade in the city of Ponce I secured some unique curios including a Spanish coronet of solid gold (a watch charm), rings, knives, Spanish coins, and ornaments of various kinds.

Having finally reached my troop and reported for duty, I joined my old “bunkies,” Young and Turnbach, and learned from them that the soldiers were starving to death on a diet commonly known as “canned Eagan,” others dubbed it “embalmed beef” and swore that no cattle were ever taken alive that supplied such meat, as they were too tough to surrender. Suffice it to say it was at least a very unwholesome diet. The British bull-dog “Jack,” a “blue ribbon” winner that had been purchased at a London dog-show by Norman Parke, a member of the troop, was a worthy “mascot” and general favorite among the soldiers of the squadron. Parke, having been detailed as orderly to Colonel Castleman, which necessitated his absence from the troop, presented the dog to Trooper Schuyler Ridgeway, in whom “Jack” found an indulgent master. Schuyler, in order to demonstrate the quality of the “encased mystery,” had a can of it tapped, and invited the dog to sink his teeth in it. “Jack” with true bull-dog sagacity refused, realizing, I presume, that it would be attempted suicide, and withdrawing a short distance gave vent to his spleen by a wicked growl, after which a pitiful whine which seemed to say, “Home was never like this.” Reed, the ranger, said he had played the starvation game before, even to chopping wood in some kind lady’s woodshed for his dinner, and added that Spanish bullets were only a side line to the present grit he had hit.

Camp life in the tropics in active service was not without its pleasures, however, and, as fruit grew in abundance, sustenance was maintained even if it was of the Indian variety. Details of mounted scouting parties galloped through the mountains daily, taking observations and frequently exchanging shots with guerrillas, who in riding and marksmanship were no match for the American troopers. The cavalry squadron figured in several skirmishes, but the retreat of the Spanish from the carbine volleys and glittering sabers of their foe put them to rout, so that I doubt if the same troops ever reassembled.

At last the news of the armistice was received, hostilities had ceased, and preparations for the trip to the home land were begun. Hither and thither we had marched for months, in cold and hot climates, slept in rain under ponchos with saddle-bags for pillows, lived on the scanty rations of field service, and now the time had come for our return, the war being practically over. The transport Mississippi, a miserable specimen of “troop-ship,” had been put at our disposal, and was to convey the greater part of General Miles’ expedition to New York City.

After striking camp and loading all the equipage of war accessories onto army schooners, a march of a few hours brought the cavalry to the point of embarkation. Playa Del Ponce presented a spectacle of grand military activity. Soldiers representing the army in all its branches were busily engaged in storing aboard ship the munitions of war and necessary rations for the homeward bound voyage. The artillery and cavalry were spared the irksome duty of loading their horses, these animals being left behind for the relief of the “regulars.” When all was in readiness and the signal given, the “homeward bound pennant” was flown to the breeze, as the ship’s bell tolled seven. Steaming northwest over a sea of calm saline billows, three cheers from the deck of the transport resounded to the shore, and, as the troops wafted adieu to this verdant island of the West Indies, it was with silent regret that lack of opportunity had prevented them from accomplishing the notable achievements of their forefathers—but such are the fortunes of war.

Our return was uneventful until we reached Sandy Hook, where the transport was met and convoyed through New York Harbor by myriads of yachts, launches, and tugs loaded with relatives and friends of the boys who had offered their lives for their country and many of whom the grim reaper had grasped from loving ties and the comradeship of their compatriots.

The reception in New York City was one grand elaboration of hospitality, evidenced by the demonstration of the thousands of people who thronged the landing place. Numerous bands of music played inspiring airs, as the city’s fair ladies dispensed chicken sandwiches and demijohns of wine to the soldiers, while others fairly covered the squadron with garlands of beautiful flowers. The reception in New York lasted about four hours, after which the “Governor’s Troop,” led by its gallant commander, Captain (now Major) Ott, of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, marched to and boarded a section of Pennsylvania Railroad coaches, and was ere long rolling over the rails toward the capital of the Keystone State.

On the arrival at Harrisburg, the home of the “Governor’s Troop,” an immense demonstration awaited the boys. Leaving the train in their worn habiliments of the jungle, the troopers were soon dressed in ranks, answered roll call, had counted off, and were marching behind a band of music, under a bower of pyrotechnics that resembled a mythological scene in “Hades.” After parading through the principal streets of the city, the troop was marched to the armory, which was beautifully decorated for the occasion; here the battle-scarred heroes of a successful campaign sat down to a banquet, over which an host of Harrisburg’s fair maidens presided. Oh for a moving picture of that scene! Each soldier wore a vestige of the pretty silk neckerchief the Harrisburg ladies had presented him with. Speeches were made by prominent citizens, songs were sung and toasts responded to, and it was with a feeling of deep appreciation that the troop left the banquet hall to seek a much-needed rest. The following day was spent in meeting friends and relating episodes of the campaign.

A TROOPER

The Hazletonian complement of the “Governor’s Troop” had been apprised of a demonstration awaiting them at their home city, and upon the reception of the prescribed two months’ furlough, departed for the scene of the climax to the campaign. This Hazleton greeting was the most enthusiastic reception of all, perhaps because this was home. Alighting from the cars amidst thousands of people who thronged the platform and streets, the soldiers were met by a committee, relatives, and friends, and it was with great difficulty that the horses provided for the troopers were reached. As each man swung into the saddle, the famous old Liberty Band struck up a march, and as the procession, consisting of the Band, Reception Committee, Clergy, Grand Army, National Guard, Police, Fire Department, Secret Organizations, and others, turned into the main street of the city, a burst of exultation extolled the welcome home, and as the line of march advanced between thousands of people under a bower of phosphorescence it was with a keen sensibility of delight that we had lived to enjoy such a unique and prodigious reception. A sumptuous banquet was tendered the cavalrymen in the spacious dining-hall of the Central Hotel, where addresses and toasts were made by prominent Hazletonians, terminating a successful campaign of the “Governor’s Troop.” After the expiration of the two months’ furlough, this troop of cavalry was mustered out of the service of the United States.

II.

On Board a Man-of-war from New York to Morocco

Admiral’s Orderly on the U. S. Cruiser New York—A Storm on the Atlantic—Duties of a Marine—The Author Reads his own Obituary—Under the Guns of Gibraltar—A Bull-fight in Spain—Pressing an Indemnity Against the Sultan of Morocco—An American Subject Burned at the Stake by Moors—Burial in Morocco of a Shipmate.

The Boxer outbreak in China in 1900 attracted the attention of the entire civilized world, and was the incitement that inspired many of an adventurous turn of mind to cast their fortunes with the allied forces in suppressing the depredations of the Tartar tribes in the land of the Heathen Chinee. In August, 1900, while a spectator at the Corbett-McCoy bout, in “Madison Square Garden,” New York, I learned, from a chief petty officer of the battleship Massachusetts, that the United States cruiser New York, lying in dry dock at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, was being rapidly prepared to be put in commission, and was to be the “flag-ship” of Rear Admiral Rodgers, who was destined for a cruise to the Chinese coast. Upon further inquiries at the Navy Yard, I heard this news authentically corroborated, and at once determined to see the Orient.

A battalion of marines under the command of Major Waller had won laurels in Tien Tsin and Pekin, being among the first to enter the Forbidden City. Keeping tabs on the daily progress of the war, I became more and more interested, and, having learned that marines were the first landing force during hostilities, I enlisted in this branch of the service, and ere long was installed in the “Lyceum” of the Brooklyn Navy Yard operating telephone switches. From my window in the “Lyceum” I could gaze on the sailors who were rapidly putting the big cruiser in readiness for her cruise around the world; for, contrary to expectations, the order to proceed direct to China was abrogated in lieu of an indemnity which required pressure in Morocco.

Having made application for the “marine guard” of the New York, which consisted of seventy-two men, one captain, and one lieutenant, I was very much pleased when informed that my application had been approved of, and that I was to prepare to board the vessel in the capacity of “orderly” to the admiral. I was relieved from duty in the “Lyceum” and ordered to join the “guard,” which had been undergoing a process of special drill.

On being ordered aboard the ship, we were assigned to quarters, instructed as to our stations for boat drill, fire drill, large gun drill, abandon ship, arm and away, strip ship for action, collision drill, and the positions of alignment on the quarter-deck, where the “present arms,” the courtesy extended to military and civil dignitaries at home and abroad, had to be daily executed.

The New York, which had been the “flag-ship” of Rear Admiral Bunce, who commanded the “North Atlantic Squadron,” and later the “flag-ship” of Rear Admiral Sampson at the battle of Santiago, was in 1900 the show ship of the navy, making a magnificent appearance while under way. She carried a complement of six eight-inch guns, twelve four-inch, and ten six-pounders, and had a speed of more than twenty-one knots per hour.

A feature of the New York was her enormous engine strength compared with her weight, the battleship Indiana developing nine thousand horse-power on a ten thousand two hundred ton displacement, while that of the cruiser New York was seventeen thousand horse-power on a displacement of eight thousand two hundred tons.

The day having arrived for placing the vessel in commission, a galaxy of army and navy officers, civilians, and beautiful women assembled on the quarter-deck, which was inclosed and draped with flags of all nations. Orderlies were kept busy announcing the arrival of the guests to the admiral and captain, many of whose names included exclusive members of New York’s “Four Hundred,” whose ancestral genealogies, emblazoned with ensigns of heraldry, adorn their multitudinous—what not?—though ofttimes, let it be known, the power and honor behind the throne can be traced to the purchasing power of filthy lucre. Not unlike the “Sons and Daughters of the Revolution,” whose sacred heritage and portals have been defiled by the presence of incognizable descendants of ancestors who in reality were unloyal to the colonies, Tories of King George III., some of whom sat in that august body the “General Assembly” and cried Treason! Treason! as Patrick Henry introduced his famous resolutions in denunciation of the Stamp Act, and in a passionate burst of eloquence uttered those never-to-be-forgotten words, “Cæsar had his Brutus, Charles the First his Cromwell, and George the Third”—pausing awhile during the interruption by Tories, calmly added—“may profit by their example.”

Wafting adieu to old New York town, our sea-going home steamed out of New York harbor and down along the Atlantic coast to Hampton Roads, our first stop, anchoring midway between Fortress Monroe and the “Rip Raps,” where tons of coal were placed in the bunkers.

Coaling ship is the most disagreeable work a sailor can perform, but, as the task is usually accomplished in one day, each man tackles the work with that heroic resolve which has so characterized the American “man-of-war’s-man” in battle.

Immediately after coaling, the ship is thoroughly cleansed from truck to kelson; the decks are holy-stoned and the berth deck is shackled, after which the men take a thorough shower-bath, don immaculate uniforms, and all has the refreshing appearance of a swan on a lake.

The essential duty of a “marine” on board a ship is to preserve order; he fulfils the position of both sailor and soldier, and, while he is sometimes dubbed a leather-neck, on account of his tight-fitting uniform, by his more aquatically uniformed shipmate, it is nevertheless noticeable that he is the first to cross the gang-plank when there is trouble in the wind; and the number of “medals of honor” and “certificates of merit” that have been awarded to marines since 1898 is the mute indubitable evidence of his fidelity and bravery; however, this is not to be construed in any way to detract from the loyalty of our brave “Jack tars.”

Our ocean voyage from the Atlantic coast to the Fortress of Gibraltar was beset with difficulties, due to a severe storm we encountered the second day out, in which one of our cutters or life-boats was washed away. This it seems was picked up by a “liner” en route to Havre, France, and, as we were four days overdue at Gibraltar, it was believed that the cruiser had gone down with all on board. Some time later along the African coast, it was amusing to read, in the Paris edition of the New York Herald, our own obituary, and to see the picture of the “flag-ship” and her crew going down to “Davy Jones’s locker.”

The storm abated as we came in sight of the Madeira Islands, but, owing to our being overdue at the “Rock,” we were compelled to pass this beautiful place without stopping. The voyage from the Madeiras to the straits was quite calm, and we were again able to eat soup without the aid of a dipper.

When off duty I spent a great deal of time playing chess and reading. We had an excellent library stocked with the best editions from the pens of the most famous authors; besides a piano and excellent performers, among these being the ship’s printer, E. Ludwig, well known prior to his enlistment by the author.

As outlines of the “Pillars of Hercules” appeared on the horizon, it was evident that in a very few hours we would be plowing the waters of the great Mediterranean Sea. The quartermaster and signal-men were busy getting their signal-flags in shape, ammunition was hoisted for the salute, and the marine guard and band were busy policing themselves for the part they had to play in entering a foreign port.

Passing through the Straits of Gibraltar, which separate the mainland of Europe and Africa, we beheld, looming into the clouds, the most magnificent and impregnable fortress of the world, Gibraltar.

As we entered the bay of Algesiras, the huge guns of the fortress and battleships of various nations belched forth an admiral’s salute of thirteen guns; these were responded to by the American “flag-ship.”

Gibraltar is an impregnable promontory fortress, seven miles around at the base, and forms the southern extremity of Spain. It is fourteen hundred and forty feet high at its highest point, is studded with disappearing guns, and its honeycombed caverns contain munitions of war for a campaign of many years.

The population of Gibraltar is composed of English, Spaniards, Jews, and Moors. A causey separates the town from the mainland of Spain. The British side is patrolled by British soldiers, who are so close to the Spanish sentries that the challenge can be heard at night by either side.

We remained in Gibraltar ten days, and had the pleasure of meeting a large number of English soldiers and sailors at the “Royal Naval Canteen,” where we swapped stories over a can of “shandy gaff,” which is a mixture of stout and ginger ale.

At the solicitation of some of the soldiers of the Royal Artillery, we Americans accompanied them to the town of Algesiras, in Spain, to witness a bull-fight. Engaging passage to a point of landing about five miles across the bay, we embarked with a pent-up feeling of excitement, overly eager to see the gay Castilians in their holiday attire turn out en masse for their national sport.

On our arrival in town, we found business practically suspended, and all making their way to the arena, which was enclosed by a high board fence. On being admitted, we at once became objects of considerable scrutiny, as the war fever had scarcely died out.

Venders were busy disposing of their wares; senoritas, gayly bedecked in flowers and loud colors, seemed to bubble over with enthusiasm; horsemen galloped through the enclosure, and bands of music thrilled this novel audience with inspiration. As we took our seats and patiently awaited the onslaught, a sickening silence cast its pall over this picturesque assemblage. This was momentary, however, as a blast from a bugle was followed by the entrance of the alguazil and mounted toreadors in costumes of velvet; the arrival of these gladiators of the arena was heralded with a tumult of cheers, which became deafening as the gate was thrown open and the bull rushed in.

Mounted picadors were stationed in various parts of the arena, whose duty it was to infuriate the animal by thrusting banderillas, or spikes with ribbons attached, into the animal’s shoulders, others waved robes or capes for the same effect. Charge after charge was made on the matadore, who gracefully side-stepped the attack and awaited the return of the bull, which had become frantic from the sting of the banderillas.

The last charge is made with defiance, but alas! is met with the undaunted courage of the matadore, whose fatal blade reaches a vital spot, adding another victory to his list of successful combats. “Bravo! Bravo!” yell the maddened crowd, as the victor is showered with compliments and carried from the arena. Preparations immediately follow for a continuance of this semi-barbaric sport, and in like manner each encounter was attended with the same skill of the matadore and enthusiasm of the spectators.

On leaving the arena, it was with little wonder at the Spanish for their marked devotion to this their national sport, as it proved to be exceedingly fascinating and fraught with great excitement.

On our return to Gibraltar we journeyed to the naval canteen, where sailors and marines of the British battleships Endymion and Ben-bow were laying the foundation for a session of joy, the Boer war being the chief topic of discussion.

During the day the Governor-General of Gibraltar, Sir George White, whose appointment had recently followed his winning the “Victoria Cross” while in command of troops in South Africa, had been entertained on board the American ship, in company with other notables of the army and navy.

After the ship had been coaled and various stores taken aboard, anchors were weighed and the vessel steamed for Morocco, a sultanate on the northwest coast of Africa. On reaching the straits the signal was given to strip ship for action, all unnecessary impediment was removed from the gun-decks and superstructure, awnings were furled and secured by gasket, spars and davits lowered and all secured in places of safety, while the big eight-inch turret guns free from tompions were trained abeam or at right angles to the ship’s keel.

On entering the harbor of Tangier, the customary salute was fired; this was answered by the crumbling old forts of the Moors, relics of the Dark Ages and monuments of antiquity.

As the cruiser anchored with her starboard battery trained on the city, it was evident that the visit was of far greater import than that of a mere social call.

The pressure of an indemnity is a matter of deep concern, the wilful disregard of which is usually followed by hostilities. When one sovereign nation calls on another sovereign nation to apologize, the first nation is expected to resort to arms if the apology is not forthcoming. Though not representing a sovereign nation, the mission of the New York in the harbor of Tangier was clearly perceptible as an expounder of a precedent.

The grand vizier of the Sultan of Morocco had made himself obnoxious to America by refusing an interview with Mr. Gummere, United States consul at the port of Tangier. For this discourtesy and other claims of the United States long pending against the government of Morocco, it was found necessary to despatch a war-ship to put pressure on the Moors.

The history of the conflicts between the Moors and the United States had covered a period of more than one hundred years, dating back to the naval wars of the infant nation with the Mediterranean pirates. Discriminations against Americans and interference by officials of the Sultan with Americans doing business in Morocco were largely due to the ignorance of the Moors as to the power of the United States.

Claim after claim was ignored by the Sultan. In 1897, in order to bring this sublime potentate to a realizing sense of the importance of recognizing the demands of the United States, the United States cruisers Raleigh and San Francisco, in command of Rear Admiral Selfridge, were ordered from Smyrna to Tangier for the purpose of lending support to Consul-General Burke. This act had its effect, as promises were given that in the future discriminations would be eradicated.

In June, 1900, however, the strife was renewed when Marcus Ezegui, who was a naturalized American citizen and manager of the Fez branch of the French firm of Braunschweig and Co., while riding horseback through a narrow street in Fez, jolted against the mule of a Moroccan religious fanatic; a dispute ensued, the crowd siding with the Moor. In self-defence Ezegui drew his revolver and fired, wounding a native. This was the signal for a general attack on the American; he received a dozen knife wounds, and was burned at a stake before life had become extinct.

For this atrocious crime the United States asked an indemnity of $5000 and the punishment of the offenders; the request received little adherence by the Moorish government; then the State Department demanded $5000 for the failure of Morocco to punish the offenders.

After much diplomatic correspondence between Washington and Fez, the Moroccan capital, the United States battleship Kentucky was ordered across the Atlantic to procure the necessary demands. In this she was partially successful, though failing to negotiate the demands in their entirety. Time dragged on and promises remained unfulfilled. The capital was moved time and again between the cities of Tangier and Fez purposely to evade negotiations with the United States. It remained for the New York to consummate a successful issue, in the undertaking of which she was ably commanded by Rear Admiral Frederick Rodgers, whose iron-willed ancestors had bequeathed him a priceless heritage,—the courage of his convictions combined with executive diplomacy.

On the reception of Consul-General Gummere by the admiral, it became known adventitiously that the grand vizier of his Sultanic Majesty, in company with the Sultan, had departed for the city of Fez. This they called moving the capital. With the afore, aft, and waist eight-inch “long toms” trained idly on the city and forts, Admiral Rodgers, with flag-officers and escort and accompanied by Consul Gummere, departed on a small British yacht for the city of Fez, with the determination to promulgate his mission to his excellency’s government,—namely, its choice of a satisfactory adjustment of the indemnity or the unconditional alternate: a bombardment. It is needless to say that this was the final negotiation, terminating with a successful and honorable issue.

A member of the ship’s crew having crossed the “great divide,” permission for the obsequies and burial in Tangier was granted. In a casket draped with the American colors, the body was conveyed by launch to the beach, where pall-bearers, members of the departed sailor’s division, took charge of the conveyance to the cemetery. With muffled drums the band led off, playing a solemn funeral dirge, followed by the procession, which included an escort of honor and firing squad of marines.

A circuitous route of three miles through narrow streets, with buildings crumbling to decay and indicative of architecture of an early period, led us to the cemetery on a shady plateau near the outskirts of the city. Here the cortege halted, and the last rites were solemnized by Chaplain Chidwick of the New York, well known as the late chaplain of the ill-fated battleship Maine. Three volleys were fired over the sailor’s grave, and the services closed impressively with the sound of “taps,” “lights out.”

As the band struck up “In the good old summer-time,” ranks were broken, and the men roamed at will through the narrow, spicy-scented streets, thronged with semi-barbarians, rough-riding vassals of the Sultan costumed in turbans, sandals, and flowing robes, whose contempt for all foreigners cannot brook restraint. It was a pleasant relief to escape the fumes of this incensed city, to inhale the fresh ozone aboard the man-of-war.

On departing from Morocco, our cruise led to ports along the coast of the great Mediterranean Sea.

III.

Thrilling Adventure with Moors in the “Kasbah” of Algiers

Moonlight on the Mediterranean—Meeting with O’Mally, a Pedestrian of the Globe—“Birds of a Feather” in the Moulin Rouge—A Midnight Hold-up by Moors; O’Mally with Gendarmes and French Soldiers to the Rescue—A Pitched Battle in which Blood Flows Freely—French Soldiers Drink the Health of the United States—Malta and Singers of the “Yama Yama.”

A calm moonlight night on the waters of the Mediterranean Sea is the most awe-inspiring feeling that can be manifested in the heart of a man-of-war’s-man. The dark blue billows, resembling a carpet of velvet, surging in mountainous swells, seem to reflect the glitter of every star in the celestial firmament, while moonbeams dance in shadowy vistas o’er the surface of the deep. It was on such a night that our cruiser plowed her course from Palermo, Sicily, and entered the land-locked harbor of the quaint old capital of Algeria.

I can vividly remember the embodiment of contentment with which I was possessed as I leaned on the taffrail of the ship and beheld the illuminated city of Algiers, rising from the water’s edge diagonally to an immense altitude.

Life-buoys dotted the harbor, and a small light-house played a search-light to our anchorage. After the anchors had been cast, booms spread, the gig, barge, and steam-launches lowered, the deep stentorian voice of the boatswain’s mate could be heard through the ship, piping silence about the deck; taps had been sounded, and all except those on duty were supposed to be swinging in their hammocks.

With the loud report of the morning gun could be heard “Jimmy-legs,” the master at arms, as he made his way through the berth-decks, singing his daily ditty, “Rise, shine, and lash up.” This, repeated rapidly for a period of five minutes, was likened unto a band of colored brethren at a Georgia camp-meeting hilariously singing, “Rise, shine, and give God the glory, glory,” et cetera. In fifteen minutes every hammock had to be lashed according to navy regulations and stored away in the hammock nettings.

After breakfast in port, every man must appear military. Uniforms must be pressed, buttons and shoes polished, and accoutrements ready for inspection, for at eight bells the colors are hoisted, the National air is played by the band, and visits of courtesy commence between the various fleets and shore officers.

The ship’s band renders music three times daily in port, and visiting parties are conducted through the ship. A large number of bum-boats, with their venders of fruit and curios, always surround the ship; these people are an interesting class and present a picturesque scene, with their quaint costumes, noisy chatter, and cargo of varieties.

As in all other ports, the men entitled to “liberty” (a word used to designate shore leave) make their preparation early, then await the noon hour, when the boatswain’s mate pipes his whistle, and cries out: “Lay aft all the liberty party.” All going ashore fall in, in double rank on the quarter-deck, where they answer their names and pass down the gangway and into boats, in which they are conveyed ashore, where the boys cut loose from discipline and nothing is too good for “Jack.”

On our first day in the harbor of Algiers I was on duty, and among other announcements I had to make to the admiral was the announcement of one Mr. O’Mally, a pedestrian from San Francisco, California, who desired an interview with the admiral of the flag-ship New York.

Mr. O’Mally was walking around the world for a wager; he had covered the distance from San Francisco to New York, had walked through Europe, and was at this time making his way through Africa. He had come on board the American ship to have Admiral Rodgers sign his credentials showing he had been at this point in Africa on this particular date. At the close of the interview the admiral ordered me to show our distinguished perambulator through the ship. I found him to be a very congenial fellow, and was very much interested with his stories of his travels by foot.

Accompanied by his French interpreter, we started through the vessel, I explaining everything of interest to their apparent satisfaction, after which we returned to the quarter-deck, and, after exchanging cards, Mr. O’Mally and his guide departed for the city, stating that he would probably meet me in Algiers the following day, where I would be on shore leave.

The next day, accompanied by five other marines, with that almost uncontrollable desire for pleasure and excitement known only by the men who undergo the rigid discipline of the navy, I boarded a sampan and was sculled ashore, where numerous guides, always in evidence in foreign ports, offered to conduct us through the labyrinths of gayety. Waving aside these pests, we ascended the stone steps leading to the plaza overlooking the bay and a grand boulevard. This plaza was thronged with pedestrians and equipages of the civic and military, French and Moorish officers, gendarmes, tourists, fakirs, fortune-tellers, Bedouins, and beggars, commingled, forming a most cosmopolitan scene. Seeking an exchange, we converted some money into centimes, sous, francs, and napoleons, and, after purchasing some relics from the bazaars, engaged landaus and proceeded to see the sights of this quaint African city.

Arabs, Moors, Spaniards, Jews, French, Germans, Maltese, and Italians—in fact, every nationality extant—seem to be represented here.

The City of Algiers was built about 935 A.D., was poorly governed by a long succession of Turkish deys, and fell under the yoke of French rule in 1830, obliterating the despotism which had long existed.

The Boulevards, beautifully adorned with arcades and lined on either side with orange and lime trees, are the scenes of magnificent equipages drawn by blooded Arabian horses.

The heat, though at times intense, is mitigated by a delightful cool sea-breeze.

The principal places of interest are the French bazaars, the Catholic cathedral, the hot baths of Hammam Phira, the marketplace, casino, public bath, coffee-houses, theatres, bank, quarters of the soldiers of the foreign legion, the Moulin Rouge, identical with the famous “Red Mill” of Paris, where “birds of a feather flock together,” and where L’amour et la fumee ne peuvent se cacher.

Discharging our landaus, we journeyed through the Rue Bab Azoun, passing here and there groups of French and Moorish soldiers, and occasionally brushing against women of the true faith, whose veils hide many a beautiful face.

In the cabarets or cafés which line the plazas, French soldiers can frequently be heard singing the national air of France, the “Marseillaise.” The cosmopolites who comprise the foreign legion are an interesting body of soldiers, representing all nations, but serving under the dominion of the French government. Entering a cabaret where a game of roulette was in progress, we marines took a chance on the roll of the ivory ball, in which some of the party increased their wealth considerably. About every fourth turn of the ball, wine was dispensed. I had been very lucky in my play, having several times picked the number, column, and color at the same time, to the great disgust of the croupier, whose radiant smile beams only when the wheel wins.

As conversation had become boisterous and my luck had taken a sudden turn, I cashed in, and, after thanking the croupier for his kind donations, whose smile portrayed a feeling of derision, I made my exit.

After depositing for safe keeping, in one of the leading hotels, numerous curios and several hundred dollars in French currency, I roved at random through the city without any special point of direction.

Having heard a great deal about the interesting sights to be seen in the “Kasbah,” the Moorish quarter, which is the ancient fortress of the deys and commands a view of the city from a height of five hundred feet above sea level, I ventured to this weird section of the city. Climbing the long winding stairway, or steps of stone, I soon found myself encompassed by a collection of wild-looking Moors in flowing robes, turbans, and sandals, the women similarly dressed, whose veiled faces showed only their eyes, and the artistic tattooing in the centre of their eyebrows, pranced through dimly lighted lanes, like Rip Van Winkle’s hobgoblins of the Catskills.

Being unable to hold conversation with these barbarians, I contented myself with being a silent spectator of their grotesque actions.

After making the rounds of various places of interest, where it was distinctly obvious that I was an unwelcome visitor, I decided to return to the better-lighted and more civilized plazas of the city. As I tried to figure out my bearings on an imaginary compass, I became bewildered, and in consequence followed any street which had an incline.

From the main street of the “Kasbah” are numerous short streets or lanes, which seem to have no connection with other streets, terminating at the entrance to a building. I had tried various ways to reach the steps I had climbed, without success, and here realized the importance of having a guide or an interpreter. Finally I sighted the rays of a search-light, and later a light on the mainmast of a merchant marine entering the bay. Following in the direction of this light, I reached a badly lighted portion of this section of the city overlooking a precipice, when, without a semblance of warning, my arms and feet were pinioned, I was gagged with a roll of hemp, which was placed under my chin and drawn taut around my neck. I made a desperate struggle, but was helpless without the use of my arms, and was compelled to yield when a blood-thirsty brigand placed the point of a dirk against the spring of my affections,—namely, the region of my solar plexus; and it is needless to say that “to slow music” I was relieved of my personal possessions, including my watch, chain, finger-ring, keys, money, letters, and trinkets, by six Moorish brigands, who kindly refrained from casting me over the precipice. As they broke away, I was left to ponder in amazement.

It was absolutely futile for me to think of an attempt at anything except that of securing myself and reaching the heart of the city. At this juncture, and to my great surprise, I was delighted to see, coming out of one of the narrow streets, my friend Mr. O’Mally the pedestrian and his interpreter. Recognizing him instantly, I informed him as to what had happened, which brought a cry from his interpreter for the gendarmes and soldiers. In a few moments the soldiers and police had arrived, and I led them in the direction the bandits had taken, but at night it is impossible to distinguish one Moor from another, for like Chinese they all look alike at night; therefore, the soldiers contented themselves in beating them indiscriminately, as the Moor is the French soldier’s bitterest enemy.

These soldiers, unlike the American soldier, carry their side arms when off duty, and it was with great difficulty that the gendarmes prevented some of the Moors from being killed. At one stage of the game we had a battle royal, and there are a number of Moors in the “Kasbah” who carry scars as evidence of this night’s fracas.

On our return to the plaza, I discovered that besides leaving the buttons on my blouse the robbers had overlooked two gold napoleons which I carried in the watch-pocket of my trousers, and, as the French soldiers were not averse to accepting a potion of wine for their services, it was not long before we were drinking to the health of the United States and the French Republic.

Mr. O’Mally and his guide left the party in the “wee sma” hours of the morning, and, as three years intervened before my return to America, I lost all trace of this interesting gentleman.

Next day while returning to my ship, I received the intelligence that the other marines who had accompanied me ashore had fallen into the hands of the gendarmes for destroying the roulette-wheel and creating a general “rough house,” due, they claimed, to crooked work on the part of the croupier. Later in the day on paying a small fine they were released.

Our stay in Algiers covered a period of ten days, which included Easter Sunday. This was a gala day on the plazas and along the Boulevard; the services in the French cathedral were performed with great pomp and ceremony; flowers were banked in profusion, while the singing of the choir was decidedly of a rare quality.

Before leaving this memorable city I had the pleasure of attending a French masquerade ball in the Rue de Rome, where Parisian dancing novelties were introduced and where fantastic costumes had no limit.

The last day in Algiers was given to a reception, aboard the ship, to the foreign legations. As usual on these occasions, the ship was gayly decorated with flags of all nations. Easter lilies, which had been presented to the admiral by Algerians, fairly covered the quarter-deck. Dancing continued throughout the evening, the guests departing at midnight to the strains of the “Marseillaise.” A few hours later anchors were weighed, and, under a beautiful pale moonlight, our cruiser steamed out of the harbor, carrying with it everlasting memories of the picturesque City of Algiers.

After a cruise of four days the Island of Gozo was sighted, and ere long we had entered and anchored in Valetta, the capital of Malta. A large British fleet lay anchored here, also a yacht having on board his royal personage “The King of Siam,” who was making a cruise of the Mediterranean Sea. “The Duke and Duchess of York,” on board the Ophir bound for Australia, for the opening of Parliament, was also sighted in the Mediterranean Sea.

The Island of Malta is of Arabic origin, but at present an English possession. It is frequently mentioned in Biblical history, having been conquered by the Romans two hundred and fifty years before the birth of Christ.

Near the City of Valetta a spot is pointed out as having been the place where Paul the Apostle’s ship was wrecked.

I heard Captain McKenzie of the New York remark to the admiral that Malta is the only place where a Jew cannot prosper, as a Maltese will beat a Jew.

The principal sights of Malta are the Strada san Giovanni in Valetta, a wide stone stairway lined on either side with buildings of ancient architecture, the ruins of a Roman villa and the Beggar’s Stairs. The Maltese are a musically inclined people, and at night it was very inspiring to hear the young people, as they coursed around the ship in “gondolas,” singing selections from the famous “La Traviata” to the accompaniment of mandolins and guitars, invariably offering as an encore, the ever beautiful, Venetian “Yama Yama,” famous for ages along the shores of the Mediterranean Sea.

It was with regret that Alexandria, our next port, was to end our cruise on this magnificent body of water.

IV.

From the Pyramids of Egypt to Singapore

The Pyramids of Gizeh—The Sphinx—A Famous Relic of the Honeymoon of Cleopatra and Mark Antony—Cairo—Camel Caravansary en route from Syria to Cairo—Suez Canal—Red Sea—Mt. Sinai—Aden—A Monsoon in the Indian Ocean—Singalese of Ceylon—Singapore.

On the arrival of our ship at Port Said, Egypt, the haven of beach-combers and the most immoral city on the face of the earth, preparations were at once made for coaling ship. Lighters loaded with coal were towed alongside, and natives of the Nubian Desert relieved the crew of this detestable task. Men were granted liberty with the privilege of visiting Jerusalem or Cairo. It being necessary to travel by boat a long distance to Jaffa in order to get a train for the Holy Land, I decided to spend the time in seeing the sights of Cairo, the Pyramids, Sphinx, and the Nile.

Securing transportation, I boarded a train for the Egyptian capital; not a very pleasant trip, however, as the heat was intense, and thick gusts of dust were continually blown from the Sahara and Nubian Deserts.

The first novel sight that met my gaze was a camel caravansary with a band of Arabs on their way from Cairo to Syria. Upon entering the city, the Arabic architecture was the first to attract my attention, the mosques and minarets particularly appearing prominent. The streets were thronged with tourists of all nations; camels wending their way and donkeys for hire or sale at every corner gave the city the aspect of the “Far East.”

I visited the Sacred Gardens of the “Howling Dervishes,” the tombs of the Caliphs, an ostrich-breeding house, “Wells of Moses,” the mosque of the Sultan Hassan, and several museums containing relics of priceless value dating back to dynasties before the birth of Christ.

In Shephard’s Hotel, Napoleon’s headquarters during his campaign in Egypt, I saw, guarded with jealous care, the magnificent catamaran or gondola in which the Egyptian Queen Cleopatra cruised the Nile during her ostentatious honeymoon with Mark Antony.

After visiting the citadel and places of less interest, I journeyed to the streets where the music of the tomtoms was attracting attention. The shades of night having fallen and my appetite being keen, I sauntered into an Arabian café for dinner, where a string of Egyptian dancers amused the guests with the muscle-dance, far surpassing “Little Egypt” or “The Girl in Blue.” These dancers are serious in their art, and to snicker at them is to manifest ridicule and is considered an unpardonable breach of manners.

After my “Seely dinner,” every course of which was served quite warm, I repaired to my hotel and retired for the night.

The following day I engaged a hack and journeyed across the grand bridge of the Nile to the Pyramids and Sphinx. These landmarks of prehistoric ages, seventy in number and considered one of the seven wonders of the world, can be seen from a great distance looming up in the desert.

The Pyramids of Gizeh, on the west bank of the Nile, are the largest of the group. The first or Great Pyramid covers thirteen acres at the base, and is nearly five hundred feet high; it is honeycombed, and contains the remains of the ancient rulers of Egypt. One hundred thousand men were employed thirty years in its construction.

Following our guide through the cavernous catacombs, we finally reached the sarcophagus of Cheops, who ruled Egypt twenty-five dynasties before the Christian era. After a random tramp of more than an hour through this dreary dark abode, we returned to the light of day, and, climbing the Pyramid, reached a point from where Napoleon reviewed his troops after his campaign against the Mamelukes.

Lying three hundred feet east of the second Pyramid is the colossal form of the Sphinx, hewn out of solid natural rock, having the body of a lion with a human head. It is one hundred and seventy-two feet long and fifty-six feet high. The Sphinx was symbolic of strength, intellect, and force, and thousands of Egyptians were employed twenty years in its construction.

Having spent two days of most interesting sight-seeing in this old historical city, I returned to the cruiser, and after remaining a few days in the harbor of Port Said, commenced our journey through the Suez Canal.

This canal, which connects the Mediterranean and Red Seas, was built by Ferdinand De Lessepps, a Frenchman. France built the canal, but England owns it, although she permits Frenchmen to run it. The idea originally was not De Lessepps’, as there had been a canal connecting the Mediterranean and Red Seas thirteen centuries before Christ. When Napoleon was in Egypt, he also entertained the project, in order that France might supplant England in the eastern trade; but it required the indomitable courage and wonderful genius of De Lessepps to carry the herculean task to triumph.

The work was begun in 1860 and finished in 1869. One hundred million dollars were spent, and thirty thousand men were employed in its construction. The canal is eighty-eight miles long, twenty-six feet deep, one hundred feet wide at the bottom, and about three hundred feet wide at the top. The waters contain three times more salt than ordinary sea water. There are stations along the route where ships tie up to permit ships going in an opposite direction to pass. Its course lies through the Nubian Desert, the land which Pharaoh gave to Joseph for his father and brethren. An occasional drawbridge is in evidence where the caravansaries cross going to and coming from the Holy Lands.

A novel sight midway in the canal was a French transport loaded with French soldiers returning from the Boxer campaign in China. Vociferous cheering from the Americans was responded to by the Frenchmen.

After ploughing the waters of the Suez Canal, our ship entered Bitter Lake, where we anchored for the night, departing on our voyage at the break of dawn. Entering “The Gate of Tears,” a strait between Arabia and the continent of Africa, and so called from the danger arising to navigation caused by strong currents, we beheld the entrance to the Red Sea. The Twelve Apostles was the first memorial to remind us of the historical chronology of this broad body of water. These “apostles” seem to be of mysterious origin; they consist of twelve symmetrical columns of rock, which project from the sea in a straight line, the same distance apart, and shaped identically alike. Not far from the coast on our port side could be seen Mt. Sinai and Mt. Horeb, famed in biblical history. Some distance beyond is Mecca, the Jerusalem of the Mohammedans, near which a spot is pointed out as being the place where, under the providence of God, the Red Sea was divided, making a dry pass for the deliverance of the Israelites from their bondage in Egypt, under the leadership of Moses, the God-inspired liberator of his people.

Steaming by Mocha, celebrated for its production of the finest coffee in the world, we entered the harbor of Aden, our first port in Arabia. Aden is a city typical of the “Far East”; spices of a rich odor permeate the atmosphere for miles from the coast. The city is built in the crater of an extinct volcano, and has an altitude of one thousand feet, is strongly fortified, and commands the trade to India. Arabs engage in trade of all kinds; beautiful ostrich feathers, Bengal tiger skins, and ornaments of carved ivory, and souvenirs of sandal-wood are displayed in the bazaars. Aden is not the dreariest place on earth, but the few palm trees which surround the city only serve to remove it a bit from this inconceivable state.

The heat in this section of the world is intense, and, as we steamed out of the harbor of Aden, it seemed we were ploughing through molten copper; however, the nights were cool. After passing through the Straits of Bab el Mandeb and the Gulf of Aden, we entered the Indian Ocean, enjoying a delightful cool breeze; but soon encountered an interval of calm, which was followed by an East Indian “monsoon,” a veritable hurricane at sea. Engines were shut down, guns were lashed, hatches battened, and lookouts were strapped to the crow’s nest. Mountainous swells of water washed aboard the ship, and for nine hours the vessel was at the mercy of the waves. The storm having finally abated, our rigging was restored, awnings spread, and, after a few days of delightful cruising in the Indian Ocean, we entered the harbor of Colombo, the capital of Ceylon, firing the customary salute, which was returned by the forts and the various navies here represented.

Ceylon, a British possession, is an island in the Indian Ocean, lying southeast of the peninsula of Hindustan, and is covered with a rich luxuriance of tropical vegetation. The Singhalese are the most numerous of its inhabitants; they are devoted to Buddhism, the prevailing religion of the island. In Kandy, an inland town near the capital, the sacred tooth of Buddha is guarded with jealous care.

Ceylon is rich in metals, minerals, and precious stones; its gems, such as sapphires, rubies, topaz, garnets, amethysts, and cats-eye, have been celebrated from time immemorial. The interior of the island abounds with birds of paradise and immense bats resembling the vampire. Animals, such as the elephant, bear, leopard, wild boar, deer, and monkeys, roam at will, while the crocodile, tortoise, and large lizards, infest the bogs of the jungle. A celebrated mountain visible from Colombo is Adam’s Peak, which attains the height of 7420 feet above sea-level.

Colombo, the capital, a fortified city on the western side of the island, shaded by the trees of the cocoanut palm, is progressive as a maritime port and particularly as the entrepôt for the East India trade. The hotels are furnished with “punkahs,” while hammocks of rattan are stretched on every veranda.

In addition to the native Singhalese, Hindus, Tamils, Moors, Malays, and Portuguese engage in various occupations, a large number of these being employed on the coffee and tea plantations.

In the Prince of Wales Hotel I met some soldiers of the famous “Black Watch” who had participated in the Boer War and who had been sent to Colombo to recuperate; I accompanied them to their barracks, where we exchanged various curios.

A large revenue is derived by the government from the pearl-fishery in the Gulf of Manaar, and whales are captured off the coast.

Seven days were spent in the harbor of Colombo, after which our ship steamed across the Indian Ocean, and through the Straits of Malacca to Singapore, an island in the Straits Settlements, south of the Malay Peninsula, and eighty miles from the equator. It commands the highway leading from British India to China, and became a British possession by a treaty with the Sultan of Johore in the year 1824.

Singapore is the entrepôt for the trade of the Malayan archipelago and China; its chief exports are tapioca, tin, tortoise-shell, camphor, coffee, nutmegs, gutta percha, and rattan. Situated on the south side of the island, the town has a very oriental appearance, and its inhabitants represent sixteen nationalities speaking different tongues, the most enterprising of these being the Chinese. Though very warm, the climate is healthy and it is seldom subjected to quarantine.

For ages past the tiger has been a menace to Singapore, and the government’s archives record an average of three hundred Chinese and other natives carried off annually by these blood-thirsty man-eaters.

While lying in the harbor of Singapore, the crew of the New York had the opportunity of witnessing a total eclipse of the sun. Astronomers from various nations had come to take observations and data for the official chronological records of their respective governments. It was an amusing sight to watch the natives as the eclipse passed over the sun; their superstition led them to believe that the end of the world had come, and their utterance and performance were ridiculous.

From Singapore our ship steamed into the China Sea for ports in the Philippine Islands.

V.

Hong Kong, China, and the Denizens of the Underworld

A Trip to Canton—“Happy Valley” the “Epsom Downs” of the Far East—Discovery of an American Actress in an Opium Joint—A “Rough House” in which Guns are Drawn—Moonlight Meditations on the Quarter-deck of the Rainbow—Encounter with a Victim of Brain Storm.

I had made numerous trips across the China Sea, and had been up and down the Chinese coast from Taku to Saigon several times, on board the United States Cruiser New York, during the Boxer campaign. On this particular trip, however, I was serving on board the United States Flagship Rainbow, in the capacity of orderly to the junior commander of the Asiatic fleet, the late Rear Admiral Wilde.

This trip had been looked forward to with great pleasure as our ship was scheduled for dry dock and this meant lots of shore leave for the crew.

Leaving Manila we steamed across the China Sea, which required about three days. After the usual quarantine inspections we entered the land-locked harbor and cast anchor near Kowloon, a town on the mainland of China.

Hong Kong is situated on Victoria Island and is a British possession; the island rises to an immense altitude on the slope of which, facing Kowloon, spreads the City of Hong Kong. The entrance to the harbor is well fortified and from a light-house on a cliff a powerful light is cast at night for miles over the China Sea.

Having visited Hong Kong several times, it was my desire this time to pay a visit to the more typical Chinese City of Canton. So, accompanied by the Japanese steward of the Rainbow, I secured passage on the British side-wheeler Moonlight.

The passengers seemed to represent every nation on earth. There were Bombay and Chinese merchants, American and European tourists, East Indian Sikhs, Japanese waiters, and Chinese sailors.

After an all night run on the Pearl River, dawn broke with our eyes fastened on this great Chinese city, Canton. Here years could be spent without learning a great deal about its historical calendar.

Entering through a gate of the old stone wall, we found the only European hotel in the city, the “Victoria,” where, after having had breakfast, we engaged two sedan chairs carried by coolies, and sought the places of interest. The streets are so narrow that two chairs can just barely pass each other. We visited the ancient pagodas, the execution ground and block where highbinders are beheaded, the markets, bazaars, and opium dens, and finally witnessed a Chinese wedding.

One of the interesting sights of the Pearl River is its floating population. It is estimated that three million Chinese live in junks on this river.

I was not at all reluctant to leave this relic of the dark ages for the more up-to-date city of Hong Kong. We know the nations of the earth are represented in our New York, but for real cosmopolitanism the “Queen’s Road” in Hong Kong makes old Broadway look like a street in a country village.

The principal enterprises of Hong Kong are shipping, the manufacture of chinaware, silk goods, sedan wood-work, and pyrotechnics. Labor is very cheap, and, as British imports are entered free of duty, the living in this city of the far East is very cheap.

Many Hong Kong Chinamen are educated in the English language, have adopted the customs and manners of the English people, and for cleverness in business and practical affairs are unexcelled.

A tram-way leads up the mountain-side to the Peak Hotel, from which you can be conveyed in sedan chairs to the zenith of Victoria Peak. At the Peak Hotel I met two American prospectors, with whom I played several games of billiards; these men had spent three years in Sumatra and were awaiting a liner for “Frisco.” With them I visited Happy Valley, the Chinese Court, the Dairy Farm, Douglass Castle, Kennedy Road, the Chinese market, the Royal Naval Canteen, the barracks of the Welsh Fusileers, the Highlanders, the Scots Guards, and the Sikhs, old Chinese joss houses, and the famous Traveller’s Inn, where British bar-maids do the honors.

Horse-racing is the favorite sport in Hong Kong, and the track at Happy Valley is the Epsom Downs of the Far East. A Derby is a signal for the suspension of business, and the excitement in the paddock, grand stand, and along the rail is akin to that at Sheepshead Bay on the day of the Brooklyn handicap.

The Chinese are born gamblers, whether playing at “fan tan” or picking the winners on the track. They will carry complete data of a horse: the distance he can go at his best; the weight he can best carry; whether fast or slow in starting; and whether a good or bad animal in mud; all this a Chinaman will study over before placing his money, and it is usually safe to follow his system.

Hong Kong, like all other cities of the earth, has its underworld. These labyrinthal subways, where flourish the opium dens, are as thickly infested with thugs as are the darkest recesses of Mulberry Bend. Having accompanied a party of Highlanders and Welsh Fusileers into these dimly lighted caverns, for the purpose of seeing opium smoked, we fell upon sights which seemed degrading even to a party of slumming soldiers; here and there in deep recess were cots on which reclined the sleeping forms of seminude victims of the yenhock. Further on, an American girl in a kimono approached me with the query as to what part of the United States I was from. Her flushed face indicated that she was under the influence of “samshu,” a popular native intoxicant. She told me how eager she was to get back to her native land, but how impossible it seemed to raise the price of the transportation. Her home she said was in St. Louis, that she had accompanied a theatrical troupe from San Francisco to Australia, which had stranded and disbanded in Sydney; from Australia she had accompanied a troupe through the Straits Settlements, and finally arrived in Hong Kong, only to fall a victim to the plague, from which she recovered, and finally drifted penniless into the abode of the denizens of the underworld. Her story was a sad one, but you meet the same class and hear similar stories in all cities of the world. As we bade her adieu and passed on through this “chamber of horrors,” we could hear her voice, singing, “Give me just one little smile; every little bit helps.”

There were some ugly-looking heathens in this underground bee-hive, and, before leaving, we played at “fan tan,” having considerable luck, which seemed to irritate an almond-eyed highbinder to such an extent that he broke up the game. This caused a Highlander to hand him a jolt on the eye, and this started a “rough house,” in which I was compelled to declare peace along the barrel of my Colt automatic; it looked like work for a coroner, but Chinese are afraid of a gun, and the resumption of order was momentary.

Having visited every nook and cranny of this quaint city during my ten days’ shore leave, I returned to the arduous duties about the deck of a “man-of-war.”

The Rainbow had changed her position from the anchorage ground in the bay to a dry dock in Kowloon opposite the City of Hong Kong; here she was undergoing a process of renovation.

On board a “man-of-war” the hours for performing duty are divided into three watches, each watch commencing at eight bells. At eight o’clock commences what is known as the first watch, this watch is relieved at twelve o’clock by the mid watch, and this is relieved at four o’clock by the dog watch, the night watches being regulated the same as the day.

In the navy the non-commissioned officers of the guard exercise no authority over the orderlies of the admiral and “skipper,” and there is no posting an orderly, as in the case of a sentry, there being a mutual compact that each relief report promptly on the hour.

At night it is customary for each orderly to waken his own relief. As eight bells struck for the dog watch, I was in the bulkhead leading to the admiral’s cabin, testing my annunciator and receiving any verbal orders which might have been left by the flag-officer or officer of the deck. On this particular night Admiral Wilde, who “by the way” commanded the Boston of Dewey’s fleet at the battle of Manila Bay, accompanied by Commander Staunton of the Rainbow, had left the ship to attend a dinner party on board the British commerce destroyer Terrible.

The old man being away, I spent my watch in leisure, as an admiral’s orderly takes orders from no one but the admiral. After sampling a few of his mild Manila cigars and running off a few letters on the typewriter, I climbed aloft to the quarter-deck, where the capstan and brass tompions of the big aft eight-inch guns shone bright in the moonlight.

What a night this was! Never on such a night could Dewey’s fleet have passed unseen the forts of Corregidor. There, stretching over the mountain-side of Victoria, lay the illuminated City of Hong Kong; the wavelets of the Pearl River, with its myriads of junks and sampans, seemed to dance in the moonlight; off at the entrance, from the tower of a light-house, a powerful revolving search-light cast its rays beyond the horizon of the China Sea. Here and there dotting the harbor were the “dogs of war” of the American, British, German, and French navies; large junks with colored Chinese lanterns at the bow, which trembled in the soft breeze, and an eye on either side, to guide it on its way, passed to and fro, like phantoms of the mist.

All was silent about the deck. The tramp, tramp, tramp of the big East Indian Sikh who patrolled the water front was the only sound to disturb the tranquillity of this dream-like night. As I leaned on the taffrail of the quarter-deck, in deep meditation, I thought of what a prodigious subject this scene would make for the pen of a Byron or a Browning, and that it was on such a night in Venice that Desdemona eloped with her tawny Moorish warrior.

As my eyes feasted on the grandeur of these moonlight scenes, the tongue of the bell tolled seven; it was half past eleven and time to call my relief. With a dark lantern I started for the berth-deck; near the entrance to the conning tower I was approached by an excited sailor, who asked my opinion of the terrible massacre in Hong Kong. I informed the fellow that I had heard nothing of a massacre, whereupon he volunteered to show me a bulletin; leading the way to the pilot-house, he found it locked; gazing through the window, the man exclaimed, “Look there! read that!” The light was on, and, sure enough, there was a scrip attached to the wheel, the writing of which it was impossible to read.

Having aroused my curiosity, I further inquired as to the circumstances leading to the massacre. For several minutes the fellow was non-committal, acting surprised at my ignorance in not even having heard the report of the guns. Impulsively he shouted, “Look there! see that cloud of smoke? The Inniskilling Dragoons have fired on the Royal Artillery, and, as the result of the conflict, ten thousand natives lie strewed in death.” This unusual surprise did not exactly paralyze me, but it was the cue for me to make my exit, which I did with symptoms of the ague, having made an excuse to go below for a pair of binoculars that we might gaze on the scene more clearly.

This was my first experience with a victim of brain storm, and, although I shrink from the admittance of “having cold feet,” I must admit that the atmosphere on this occasion was unduly chilly.

On the main deck I met some coal-passers who had been gambling in the engine-room; apprising these fellows of there being a crazy man on deck, we concurred in the advisability of notifying the master at arms and having him put away for safe keeping. In a short time the fellow was manacled and led to the brig, protesting his innocence of having been a party to the massacre.

Upon examination by the surgeon, the man was removed to the “sick bay,” where it developed that the unfortunate fellow was suffering from acute melancholia. During the investigation to consider the advisability of sending him to a sanitarium in Yokohama, he tried to cough up a ten-inch shell which he claimed to have accidentally swallowed. Having undergone a course of treatment on the Island of Hondo, Japan, the fellow fully recovered, and I have since learned that he regained his normal health and is prospering in the middle West.

Upon completion of our ship in dry dock, we bade adieu to the land of the heathen Chinee and steamed into the China Sea en route to the Sula Archipelago, spending Thanksgiving in the harbor of Puerto Princessa on the Island of Palawan.

VI.

A Trip to Japan

Departure of the “Flag-Ship” from Manila—A Typhoon in the China Sea—The Inland Sea of the “Rising Sun”—Baseball with the Kobe Country Club—Fujiyama—Yokohama—Tokio, and the Imperial Palace of the Mikado—A French Fleet Celebrates the Taking of the Bastille—Unveiling of Perry’s Monument—A Reception on Board the New York to the Nobility of the “Flowery Kingdom.”

The United States Cruiser New York,—flying the ensign of Rear Admiral Rodgers, commander-in-chief of the Asiatic station, who had received orders to proceed to Yokohama, Japan, to participate in the unveiling of a monument erected by the Japanese government in commemoration of the achievement of Commodore Perry, his grandfather, who anchored there with his fleet in 1854, and, as ambassador sent by President Filmore, succeeded in opening the ports of Japan to foreign commerce,—drew anchor June 25, 1901, and steamed into the China Sea, with the gun-boat Yorktown following in her wake.

The cruise was uneventful for the first few days, when, about 11 A.M. of the third day, the barometer suddenly dropped several degrees and dark, heavy clouds gave evidence that a typhoon was approaching. All sails on board were secured, guns were lashed, hatches battened down, and sou’westers donned by the lookouts. A few minutes later we were being rocked in a heavy sea; a terrible gale of wind, whistling through the ventilators, brought relief to the coal-passers below. Our deep fog-whistle was blown every minute, and the boatswain and his mates were active and constantly on the alert. Our engines were kept going as usual, and by evening the typhoon had broken and we were sailing on a fair sea off the coast of Formosa.

After two days’ more sail, occasionally passing a man-of-war or mail-steamer, we sighted the beautiful islands of the Inland Sea, the land of the Rising Sun, which we entered at sunrise. This land-locked Japanese body of water is a broad lake over two hundred miles long, filled with islands and sheltered by uneven shores. From sunrise to dark, shadowy vistas opened and peaceful shores golden with ripening grain slipped by. There was nothing to disturb the dream-like charm, and yet human life and achievement were constantly in sight. Along the shores stretched chains of villages, with stone walls, castles, and temples soaring above the clustered roofs, or peeping from wooded slopes were terraced fields of rice and grain, ridging every hill to its summit and covering every lower level.

Dotted throughout this fairy-like lake are stone torrils, miniature light-houses, which guide the ships at night. Junks and sampans lie anchored in fleets or creep idly across the water, and small coasting steamers thread their way in and out among the islands. For miles we steamed by what is supposed to be the most picturesque scenery in the world. It was yet twilight when Kobe was seen in the distance at the head of the Inland Sea, sheltered from the land by the range of mountains back of it. We entered the harbor after having been inspected by the Japanese quarantine officials, and anchored astern of the British battleship Aurora. Before the last notes of tattoo were sounded our booms were spread and launches lowered, and the beautifully illuminated city of Kobe lay before us. Kobe means “Gate of God” and is the model foreign settlement of the eastern part of Japan, with a population of 215,000.

A pretty park in the heart of the concession, shaded by camphor trees and ornamented by groups of palms, thatched summer houses, and a bell-tower, was once the execution ground of Hiogo. A line of tea-houses cover the brow of the hill, which is also dotted here and there with orange groves. The streets are lined with curio shops and jinrikshaws drawn by coolies. Here we spent the Fourth of July; the men-of-war lying here all dressed in holiday attire, our flag-ship fired a salute of twenty-one guns. In the afternoon our base-ball team, accompanied by the band and all those eligible for liberty, went ashore, where we crossed bats with the Kobe country club, our band rendering inspiring music during the game. The result was a whitewash for the country club, who entertained us lavishly at their club-house in the evening.

After spending two weeks in this city we set out for Yokohama, making the voyage in thirty hours. After passing the famous light-ship at the entrance to Yokohama harbor, we were met by the quarantine officials. Their usual routine of work completed, we steamed into the harbor, firing a national salute of twenty-one guns, which was returned by the forts and by the British, French, Italian, and Japanese men-of-war, our band playing the national airs of the various countries here represented, the marines presenting arms. Casting anchor near the French cruiser Friant, the usual visits of courtesy were exchanged.

Numerous vessels of the merchant marine of all nations, besides men-of-war, brigs, yachts, barks, sampans, and junks, were scattered profusely over the harbor, coming and going, bells rang in chorus around the anchorage ground, saluting and signal-flags slipped up and down the masts, while the bang and low-rolling echo of the ship’s guns made mimic war. At night the harbor dazzles with various colored lights, while the search-lights of the “men-of-war” illuminate sections of the city on the heights.

Yokohama lies between immense bluffs, on one of which the stars and stripes are seen flying over an American hospital. Beyond the bluff proper stretches the race-course, from which can be seen Fujiyama, or sacred mountain, which is invested with legends; it is said to have risen up in a single night, two thousand years ago, and for centuries pilgrims have toiled up the weary path to pray at the highest shrine and to supplicate the sun at dawn.

Fujiyama, with the circling storks and ascending dragons, symbolizes success in life and triumph over obstacles. Until the year 1500 it was a living volcano. A road leads from “Fuji” to Mississippi Bay, where Commodore Perry’s ships anchored in 1854.

To the port side lies Kanagawa, well fortified; just beyond is the grave of Richardson, the Briton who was killed, by the retainers of the prince of Satsuma in 1862, for deliberately riding into the daimyo’s train. A memorial stone, inscribed with Japanese characters, marks the spot where Richardson fell. This cost the Japs the bombardment of Kagishima and an indemnity of 125,000 pounds.

Near this spot is situated black-eyed Susan’s tea-house, a favorite resort for tourists. According to one version, “Susan’s strand” is where the Rip Van Winkle of Japan (Urashima) sailed on an immense tortoise for the home of the sea king. Yokohama is surrounded by rich silk districts, orchards, and the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen. The villages in the suburbs are very picturesque, with narrow roads and shady paths leading through perpetual scenes of sylvan beauty: bamboo trees, thatched roofs, and gnarled camphor trees everywhere charm the eye.

Tokio, the capital, is but eighteen miles from Yokohama. The city is intensely interesting; Japanese ladies in silk kimonos and straw sandals, fluttering along the streets like butterflies, invariably wearing a red carnation in their neatly dressed coal-black hair, present a pretty sight as they enter and leave their quaint little tea-houses; you are reminded of the scenes in the Mikado, San Toy, and Geisha operas. The jinrickshaw man is everywhere in evidence, ready to convey you to any part of the city; for one yen, or about fifty cents in American gold, he will haul you around for an entire morning.

The coolies of Japan are superior to those of Ceylon and Singapore in the power of endurance and intelligence, the former being full of spirit and animation, while the latter possess that languorous indifference characteristic of the Straits Settlements native.

The Imperial Palace, the abode of the Mikado, is a magnificent edifice surrounded by the Imperial Gardens, which cover a vast area of ground; a short distance beyond, with no less ostentation, stands the palatial residence of the Empress Dowager. My “rickshaw coolie” having taken me into this Imperial Park, I was admiring the beauty thereof, when we were approached by a sentry who admonished the coolie to proceed no farther; when I urged him to continue, he informed me he was afraid of being shot, whereupon we returned to the more peaceable surroundings along the studios of the “geishas.”

The police register the arrival of all strangers, keeping a record of their movements and admonishing them as to their behavior. The temples are of great interest; in one I was shown the tomb of Buddha, whose final interment, like the disposition of the bones of Columbus and John Paul Jones, has been based on presumptive evidence.

Besides the diplomatic corps, there are a great many missionaries in Tokio, while the army is everywhere in evidence.

July the 14th, the day set for the unveiling of Commodore Perry’s monument at Uraga, dawned with a heavy fog hanging over the harbor. Coincident with this event was the anniversary of the destruction of the “Bastille,” which the flag-ship of the French fleet, the cruiser Friant, had prepared to celebrate.

About 7.45 A.M. quarters sounded: the marines formed an alignment on the starboard side of the quarter-deck, attired in full dress; saluting gun crews fell to the forward six-pounders, and blue-jackets formed an alignment on the port side. Everything ready, my annunciator rang, and I reported to Admiral Rodgers, eight bells and under way. As we steamed by the British, French, German, Italian, and Japanese war-vessels, followed by the American fleet, the various bands played “The Star-Spangled Banner,” the marines presenting arms, while the American band played the Japanese national air, and in turn the “Marseillaise,” the national air of the French republic. In less than an hour we had entered the harbor of Kurahama, near Uraga, firing a salute of twenty-one guns, our ships dressed in holiday attire from bow to stern, with the Japanese ensign flying at the main. Our salute was returned by the Japanese, and we anchored near the spot where Commodore Perry’s ships anchored in 1854.

The Japanese fleet represented ancient, medieval, and modern warfare, and included two of the most modern battleships afloat at that time,—namely, the Shikishima and Hatsuse, both of which figured prominently in the bombardment of the Liaotung Peninsula and the terrible slaughter of the Russians in the Straits of Korea.

The Yokohama Yacht Club was well represented in the harbor, and every craft and packet, down to the odd-looking sampan, endeavored to appear festive and holiday like.

The terrible weather prevented what was to have been a very imposing ceremony. Thousands of Japanese from Tokio, Yokohama, Hakodate, Kioto, Kobe, Osaka, Nagasaki, and the interior villages, had congregated to witness the unveiling. A guard of five hundred marines from the fleet, with the naval band of the Hatsuse, landed and were stationed in front of the monument. The officers of the ships and government officials were stationed on stands erected.

About twelve o’clock the ceremonies commenced with the band rendering the Japanese national air, Admiral Rodgers broke the cords that held the veil, and the monument was put in view. The United States minister, Colonel A. E. Buck, being ill, an address was made by J. M. Ferguson, secretary of the legation, who dwelt on the progress of Japan and the friendship existing between her and America since the opening of her ports to foreign commerce, and other beneficent consequences that have followed Commodore Perry’s visit.

This was followed by a speech in Japanese by Premier Viscount Kasura, after which Admiral Rodgers addressed the assemblage. Governor Sufu also spoke in Japanese, and this was followed by the last address, made by Rear Admiral Beardsley (retired), who was a midshipman on Commodore Perry’s flag-ship over half a century ago.

After several appropriate selections by the band, during which courtesies and greetings were exchanged, this military and civic pageant, drenched by the rain that continually fell, dispersed to their respective vessels and returned to Yokohama.

The monument consists of an immense slab of granite, resting on a large granite foundation, on which the inscription, in Japanese characters, translated is: “This monument marks the landing-place of Commodore Perry, of the United States of America”; on the reverse side, “Landed on the 14th July, 6th year Kayai; constructed on the 1st July, 34th year Meiji.” It is thirty-four feet high and weighs nineteen tons.

It was about five o’clock when the anchors of the New York were again hauled, and before supper was over we had again entered Yokohama Bay, where the Friant lay beautifully dressed in various-colored flags, and literally covered with incandescent lights, the name Friant shining over the mizzen-top.

As the guns of the American war-ship belched forth a national salute, in honor of the day that changed the current of events in France, the American band struck up the “Marseillaise” (Chant de Guerre de l’Armee du Rhin), and as the ship cast her anchors off the port bow of the British commerce-destroyer Terrible, rapturous enthusiasm was exhibited by the sailors. The festivities on board the French flag-ship were joined in the evening by the officers of the various fleets represented, and this ended a day of pleasure and events.

The following day a reception was tendered by the Americans, on board the New York, to representatives of the nobility, officers of the army and navy of Japan, members of the legation, civilian representatives, and officers of the various fleets. The ship was dressed in her best holiday attire for this occasion, and it was a gala day for all on board. Ladies of various nations vied with one another for beauty and effect. Japanese attired in European dress, many of whom had been educated in the United States and Europe and spoke Anglo-Saxon fluently, were there with sparkling vivacity. Lunch was served on board by Japanese waiters, who could carry eighteen goblets of champagne on one tray without spilling a drop. Music and dancing were the chief features of the day.

The ship remained in Yokohama two weeks on this trip, steaming from here to the famous dry-dock at Kure on the Island of Hondo. Here the cruise was curtailed, owing to American interests requiring pressure along the Chinese coast, where piracy in various forms was found flourishing brazenly red-handed. After remaining two weeks in the harbor of Amoy, the cruiser New York steamed off in the darkness for the Malay Peninsula.

VII.

War Orders in the “Land of the Rising Sun”

Sacred Ports of the “Mikado”—The “Kobe Country Club”—A Baseball Game—War Orders—Under Forced Draft to Manila—A Company of the Ninth Infantry Annihilated by “Bolomen”—A Midnight Bombardment along the Coast of Samar—Death and Solemn Burial of a Midshipman—Blowing up a “Banco”—A Fight in the Gandarra Straits—Midnight Fusillade—Terrible Deprivations—War is Hell—Return to the Land of the “Rising Sun.”

Through the courtesy of the Mikado of Japan, Admiral Rodgers, commanding the American Asiatic squadron, had been granted the unusual privilege of visiting, with his flag-ship the New York, ports in the land of the “Rising Sun” whose harbors, surrounded by a succession of mountain scenery and terraced hills of fantastic formation, had never been graced by the flag of a foreign nation. It was therefore hailed with delight by all on board when the news was promulgated about the decks, that ere long our sea-going home would be winding her way through the thread-like channels of the most beautiful body of water extant, the “Inland Sea” of Japan, in the fashioning of which nature’s handiwork reached its highest degree of excellence, unquestionably supervised by all the “gods” of the omnipotent realm.

From the Malay Peninsula, and ports along the Celebes Sea, our ship ploughed her way to the smaller islands of the Philippine archipelago, where the crew had been occupied for several months placing beacons and bell-buoys along the rocks and shoals.

Some time had been spent in target practice in the China Sea, both shell and torpedo, and, with the exception of an occasional run to Zamboango or Cebu, isolated ports, the monotony was intensified by the lack of news from the outside world.

“Heaving the hook” (as the sailors say) one cloudy morning, as the mist hung o’er the rice fields, the cruiser steamed for an anchorage of a few days in the waters of Manila Bay. Lord, what a relief! We had been coaling ship from colliers, and living on “salt-horse,” hard-tack, and beans for nearly four months; and this was not the worst of all, for we had had no mail from home (anywhere in the good old United States was home), and mail in these foreign ports was mighty precious. Even the poor fellow who seemed homeless and friendless would listen with tears in his eyes, while his shipmate read him passages written by some one in the home land.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d leave my ’appy ’ome for you, double o, double o;

For you’re the sweetest girl I ever knew, double o, double o,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn, damn, damn the Filipinos,

Pock-marked, almond-eyed ladrones,

And beneath the starry flag

We’ll civilize them with the ‘Krag,’

Then we’ll journey to our old beloved homes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back to the land of the “Rising Sun”

Where the blood-red poppies grow,

To the minarets of the Inland Sea

And the “geishas” of Tokio.

NOTE.

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

VIII.

The Cowboy Soldier, a Coincidence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

“Army of the United States.

“To All Whom It May Concern:

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

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

“Colonel Dodd,
“Commanding Third Cavalry.

“Character EXCELLENT.

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

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

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

IX.

Life Among Hostile Moros in the Jungle of Mindanao

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

Two men were caught in a Moro trap, and the Datto’s guns sang near,

And one wore an officer’s shoulder-strap, the other a private’s gear;

One was a black of the Twenty-fourth, and one was a Southern man,

And both were caught in a dark defile by the line of the Moro clan.

Oh, wonder it is, and pity it is, that they send the scouts alone

To die in the silent jungle paths with never a word or groan;

Wonder it is, and pity it is, but the two stood back to back,

And never a word between them passed as they waited the first attack.

What prayers they said they said them low, and to their beating hearts

That thumped so loud and out of tune; and now the battle starts.

A ring of flame about them ran; a tongue of fire shot through;

Then as machines their muscles moved and aimed their rifles true.

The bullets whined, the wounded shrieked, the rifle bores grew hot;

But still the two stood back to back, and answered shot for shot.

And now the Moro fire dies down, and now there comes a hush;

And white and black, with bayonets fixed, await the bolo rush.

They heard the Moro chief call out, “Oh, black man, hark to me!

You give to us the Christian dog and you shall go out free.

Heed you the call of color and blood—what need we longer fight?

In color and blood you’re brother to me. Oh, black man, give the white.”

Now, one was a white of the Southern breed, and cheap he held the black,

And little he’d thought, as the two had fought, of the man behind his back;

He loved to live as the white man lives, but the Datto’s words rang true;

And he had no doubt, as the chief called out, what the black behind would do.

Two men they stood them back to back, and never a word they said;

But, face to face with an easy death, what thoughts were in each head!

“You go,” the white man spoke at last; “for you owe naught to me;

You go; for I can die alone, that you may go out free;

“You go; it seems your time has come to draw the color line;

You and your breed owe naught to me, nor certainly to mine.

I’ll go to death as my fathers went”—between his cold set lips—

“My fathers who used to use your kind for trade—and poker-chips.”

One was a black of the Twenty-fourth, and his face was washed with fear,

And his breath came quick, and his bowels were sick, as he thought of the knife-blades near.

Then steady his hand swung to his belt, and back to the bolt again,

And he loaded and fired, as a well-drilled man, and counted his dead to ten.

And, “Man,” he said, “in ole Kaintuck a mammy she prays foh me;

An’ Ah laks to lib lak yo’ laks to lib, but ouah end it am plain to see.

Ouah colah an’ blood it ain’t de same, but we sets to de same old boahd,

An’ if we diffah in skin an’ blood, w’y, we pass dat up to de Lawd.

“Ouah colah an’ blood it ain’t de same, but de flag dat covahs us bofe—

It nevah has changed on de colah line, an’ dey didn’t colah ouah oafe;

Yo’ go yo’ route to de gates o’ Gawd an’ I shell trabel mine—

An’ we shell see, when we reach His knee, how He’s drawin’ de colah line.

“Doan’ fink Ah’m fightin’ foh de lub o’ yo’ or de breed that yo’ laks to brag—

Ah’m fightin’ foh mammy in ole Kaintuck, an’ lub o’ mah kentry’s flag;

Yo’ watch dem niggahs along yo’ front, an’ Ah’ll attend to mine,

An’ we’ll go up to de Gates o’ Gawd to settle de colah line.”

Two men they stood them back to back, and the white man called to the chief:

“He’s answered the call of the color line, and his answer will bring you grief.

We don’t declare as brothers-in-blood, or the burden of friendship drag,

But we do unite on a color line, and our color’s our country’s flag.”

Two men lay dead in the jungle path, and their faces stared at the sky;

And out in the bush on each man’s front the Moros were piled waist high.

And when the warriors they went in to mutilate the dead.

They found them lying back to back, but white and black were red!

“How strange it is,” the chief he cried, “these men should together go;

They did not love each other’s kind—in blood they differed so.

For one was black and one was white, and yet they chose to die

Because they served a single flag; in honor they shall lie.

“What gods they worshipped I know not—what gods I do not care—

They fought me well, and for their flag, and they shall have a prayer.

For be he white, or be he black, his flag be what it may—

All honor to him who dies for that—my men, kneel down and pray.”

Two mounds they stand in a jungle path; they buried them back to back;

And the wondering Moros tell the tale of the white man and the black.

Oh, the warlike Moros pass that way to kneel in silent prayer,

And ask their gods for the spirit of the men they buried there!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

X.

A Midnight Phantasy in California

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XI.

Semper Fidelis—the Guard of Honor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

U.S. MARINES, WORLD’S FAIR, ST. LOUIS, 1904

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XII.

Topographical Survey in Northern Luzon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

During the evening the son of the presidente of the village, accompanied by his sweetheart, a pleasing young couple, called at the hacienda. Being unable to hold an intelligent conversation with these guests, our conversazione was one of ignorance crasse. The elder Señora Lemaire, Carmen’s mother, served the guests with limeade and charlotte-russe, which were delectable and refreshing.

CHIEF ADAMS GUN MULE DEWEY AID COLEMAN

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

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

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

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

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

MACHINE GUN PLATOON OF THE 29TH INFANTRY IN THE SNOW CAPPED WASATCH RANGE, UTAH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the mist was on the rice-fields, and the sun was droopin’ low,

She’d get her little banjo and she’d sing the coola la lo.

With her arm upon my shoulder, and her cheek against my cheek

We used to watch the hathis, and the elephants pilen teak;

Elephants a pilen teak in the smudgy sludgy creek,

Where the silence hung so heavy, you was half afraid to speak.

On the road to Mandalay, where the flyin’ fishes play,

And the dawn comes up like thunder out a China ’cross the bay.

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

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

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

XIII.

Cock-Fighting, the National Sport of the Philippines

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

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

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

Every village or barrio in the Philippines has its cockpit, the most pretentious of these being found in the villages of Caloocán and San Pedro Macati, surrounding the city of Manila. Here, in a large well-ventilated arena, can be found gathered together night after night, not only a motley crowd of peasants from the rice-fields of the interior, but the up-to-date business people of the “Escolta” and the aristocracy of the old walled city, whose gorgeous victorias before sundown roll gracefully along the Luneta, to the music of the Constabulary Band. These mains are conducted under the glare of electricity with the same success as by the light of day. Chinese, who are born gamblers, occupy a large percentage of the space given for seating capacity; these people very methodically run a book in which odds are given on certain birds before they appear to the public gaze. They are quartered together and gamble only among themselves. There is also the house “book-maker,” who takes all bets but places no odds. The small fry, or the Filipinos whose pesos and pesetas are limited, bet among themselves, either man holding the stakes.

The pests of the American race-track known as touts and rail-birds are also in evidence here. One of these will approach you asking which is your favorite bird, invariably telling you he has a sure thing and that to bet any other way would be “mucho malo.” You bet on his advice, and he leaves you, meets another easy mark, and tells him to bet just the opposite to the way he advised you. This fellow is a sure winner, as one of the birds must win and his nightly rake-off is a stout roll.

The price of admission is una peseta, or ten cents (gold). Near the entrance to the “pit” is a bamboo stand where cigars, cigarettes, and ice-cold bottles of San Miguel’s salvaeso are sold. Flower-girls are everywhere in evidence, with their trays of palm-leaf fans, wreaths, and fragrant nosegays. An old Filipino woman chewing betel-nut and smoking a black cigar struts around selling cocoanut candy, the very appearance of which is enough to spread the cholera.

As the time approaches for the main, an old bald-headed veteran of the cocking main enters the screened pit, which is about the size of a “Marquis of Queensberry” prize-ring, and announces the beginning of the evening’s performance; he is loudly cheered by the gamesters of the arena. This is followed by the entrance of the owners with their birds.

The noise, which up to this time has been violent, here breaks into a paroxysm of tumultuous disorder. Each spectator is yelling for his favorite bird, which he designates by its color; this singsong chatter, being a jumble of the Spanish, Tagalog, and Chinese tongues, runs like this: Color row, color row, blanco, Ki tim chung a wong, blanco, blanco, Ki tim chung a wong, negro, negro, negro, focho, color row, blanco, Ki tim chung a wong. This is grand music for mutes and boiler-makers! The spurs, unlike the sharp-pointed gaff’s used on American game-cocks, are small steel blades shaped like a razor and honed to an extreme degree of keenness. After the spurs are fastened on and each Filipino is satisfied with the ire of his bird, they are pitted, the owners leave the pit, and the battle is waged; not in accordance with Dr. Clark’s rules of the United States, however, as cock-fighting was in vogue in the Philippines for ages before the discovery of America.

As the battle is waged, each bird seems conscious of the dire effects of the fatal blade of its adversary; they strut, crouch, and spar, each with eyes intent on the slightest move of the other. “Mucho bueno combati este negro,” shouts the Filipino as the red fowl narrowly escapes a lunge from the spur of the black. “Negro, negro, buena negro minok,” shout the backers of the black fowl, which, unlike in the case of the opponents in a prize-fight, the applause tends to intimidate, rather than inspire courage in the feathery tribe. “Spearo poco tiempo,” exclaims the red fowl’s admirer. “Caramba spearo,” cries the follower of the black with vehemence; “poco tiempo, este negro, murto este outro minok, tiene mucho jinero fora compra chow fora pickinniny, no mas traubaho.” This mixture of Igorrote and Tagalog translated means, “There will be a hot time in one nippa shack if the black bird wins.”

“Aha!” is uttered in crescendo. They have struck; feathers fly over the pit, and blood flows from the red fowl; they strike again, the red bird limps, and is seen to run, followed by the black, which is bleeding profusely from a gash hidden by its feathers; this brings forth tremendous cheers, which, however, die down as the crucial moment is observed. “Can it come back?” Both are weakening; the red game turns, with that blind spontaneity and instinct animated by fear; they crouch and strike together; a spur has reached the vital spot; the black swoons, its vital functions have ceased, and the battle is at an end. As the red fowl is proclaimed the winner, it is seen to sink, game to the last second; with its life it has paid the price of the victory.

“They are dead game chickens,” remarks a soldier as they are carried from the pit. Bets are now paid off, and the pit is sprinkled with fresh sand, new wagers are laid, and the main continues.

Cock-fighting in the Philippines is honest sport; there is no such thing as throwing the game as in a prize-fight, or pulling a horse as in racing. The fowls are usually so evenly matched that there is little of advantage in either one, from which to choose a preference, the book-makers in almost every case relying on their good fortune.

These mains are the most popular sport in the islands, and, in consequence of the honest methods of the promoters in conducting them, have been carried on for ages without cessation or municipal interference, such as is sometimes waged against bull-fighting, horse-racing, and prize-fighting in other countries.

The very atmosphere of the Philippines attracts you to these large nippa and bamboo arenas, and it seems you involuntarily follow the procession here as you would the race-track following in New Orleans or the daily crowd that gather to witness “Cuban pelota” in Havana. It is the antique axiom exemplified: “When in Rome do as the Romans do.”

XIV.

Departure of the 29th Infantry from the Philippines

Brigade Headquarters, Ft. Wm. McKinley—Afloat on the Pásig River—Quarantine at Mariveles—Liberty in Japan—Across the Pacific—Reception in Honolulu—Greetings in “Frisco”—Via Santa Fé to Governor’s Island.

It was midday in August, 1909, when the long chain of cascoes and steam-launches loaded with the three battalions and band of the Twenty-ninth Infantry swung into the rapids of the Pásig River to the strains of that dear old Southern melody, “My Old Kentucky Home,” leaving, as we floated with the current, many a heart-broken “mestizo” with her bandanna soaked in tears, wafting adieu to her “Americano soldado,” with whom she had had her last glide in the dance-halls of Guadeloupe. After a campaign of two years in a brigade post under the burning sun of the tropics, the course of our homeward-bound journey had begun on the historical old Pásig River, which, could it voice its history, might tell many a weird tale of adventure and bloody struggle.

The military rendezvous and scene of our departure was Fort William McKinley, situated on a plateau near the Pásig and Tagigue Rivers, overlooking the broad bay and city of Manila on the west, and the beautiful lake in the district of Laguna de Bay on the east. In close proximity was a branch line of the Manila and Dagupán Railroad, connecting the provincial territory between Manila and the village of Antipolo. In addition to the steam-train, a trolley system covered the government reservation, terminating in the barrio of Pásig.

At this post, brigade headquarters, the troops were housed in bungalow barracks, consisting of the Tenth United States Cavalry (colored), whose gallantry in Cuba in 1898 forever perpetuated the name of this courageous regiment of horse; the Twenty-ninth and Thirtieth regiments of infantry, the last additions to the infantry branch of the line; a battalion of engineers; numerous batteries of held artillery; and a large detachment of the hospital corps completed the strength of the brigade, which was under the command of Brigadier-General Pershing.

The Twenty-ninth Infantry, in command of Colonel H. K. Bailey, occupied the quarters in the southeast section of the post and nearest to the rifle-range. Each company was quartered separately, in barracks identical with those of the British army in India. These quarters were spacious two-story buildings with large apertures through which the cool currents of air from the China Sea fanned in gentle breeze.

Excellent shower-baths and a laundry, presided over by two Chinese, were valuable adjuncts that contributed to the accommodations of the men. Each morning on awakening, the soldier found, arranged in uniformity under his cot, his several pairs of garrison russet, gymnasium, light marching order, and civilian shoes, polished to a high degree of excellency; placed there by the “Oriental knights of the zapatos,” two native boot-blacks, employed by the company, and whose duty it was to have every shoe polished before reveille and the sound of the morning gun.

The amusement-hall contained a well-stocked library of the most popular editions, a billiard-table, and a phonograph, so that the rainy season was seldom unwelcomed by the soldier.

Large verandas shaded by clinging vines surrounded these bungalows, and in the evening, when not perambulating with the procession through the health-giving ozone of the Luneta or cajoling the birds at a favorite cockpit, it was a pleasure to lounge in a sedan chair with a mild Manila perfecto, and listen to the entrancing excerpts from some favorite opera, as beautifully rendered by the Twenty-ninth Infantry band.

Fort McKinley is separated from Manila along the riverside “speedway” by seven miles of macadamized road, over which during the dry season vehicles of all descriptions roll, from the two-wheeled caromato to the high-power limousine. This famous driveway is the “Ormond Beach” of the “Far East,” rivalling in climate and surpassing in beauty the celebrated winter resort of southern Florida. A moonlight ride along this magnificent boulevard is a scene never to be forgotten. On leaving the nippa-roofed bamboo shacks in the barrio of Guadeloupe, you light a cigarette and recline in luxurious ease on the cushions of your rubber-tired “victoria,” drawn by a pair of sleek Australian ponies, their languid movement being in keeping with the wishes of the “cochero,” who regulates his fee by the time consumed in conveyance. The witchery or charm of your entire surroundings is preternatural. The phosphorous ripples of the swift-flowing Pásig on one side seem to emulate the scintillation of the star-bespangled firmament, while, in rivalling contrast on the other, the glow-worm and fire-fly in sheltering palms and over dewy landscape, like the ignis fatuus, seem to mock the luminous glow of the moon.

As the old Santa Anna Cathedral, with its vine-clad balustrades falling to decay, appears in the scene, looming in magnetic amplitude over the verdant foliage of tropical grandeur, it is with a feeling of supplication, induced by the magical influence of the night, that you involuntarily alight from the “victoria” and enter the sacred portals of this time-consecrated sanctuary, most holy and inviolable site, where for ages past the “padre” sang mass to the souls of the donors, the parishioners, who, kneeling in humble supplication, have chanted, in eloquent voice, the Ave Maria and Gloria Patria from the prayers in the three chaplets of their worshipful Rosary. As you linger in silent meditation along the galleries of this sanctified edifice, as if in quest of the “Holy Grail,” it is with a feeling of penitence for an inherent apostasy which seems to overwhelm you. The glittering satellites in the heavens cast their rays through the apertures of the quaint old campanile, in whose lofty dome, the home of fluttering bats and a staid old owl, tinkling bells for generations rang out at sunset and early dawn, as the people sang their vespers and chanted the Ave Maria.

Inflamed with sudden passion you stand transfixed along the balustrade with a mixed feeling of sublimity and dread, as if anticipating a great pleasure fraught with dire results, when—hark! the faint though ever-beautiful tones of the “Te Deum laudamus” vibrate softly on the ear. Your peaceful tranquillity has been pleasantly disturbed, and you gaze in ecstatic amazement toward the vestry as a graceful spectre glides gently by. It is the “Choir Invisible.” You feel the fanning zephyrs blowing, you are thrilled with emotion and delight, and, as you depart from this phantasmagoria, you soliloquizingly ask, “Is there any inviolable covenant this scene should strengthen?” Varium et mutabile semper femina. “What’s the use?” you murmur, as you spring into the vehicle and order the cochero to hurry the ponies. In twenty minutes’ time you alight under the canopy of the entrance to the Hotel “Oriente” in Manila, step on the “lift,” and soon find you are amid the soothing strains of an orchestra and the sheltering palms of the roof-garden, tête à tête with your cheerful friends of the tropics.

* * * * *

Though many thousand miles from home, the prospects of soon fraternizing with friends in the United States brought cheer to the soldiers. Disembarking from the cascoes at the Quartermaster-wharf in Manila, the regiment marched along the beautiful Bayumbayan drive near the old walled city, to the government pier, the point of embarkation. As we bade Manila and its mystical orientalism a parting farewell, our sea-going tugs ploughed the waters of Manila Bay, and ere long the regiment had landed at the quarantine station Mariveles.

If there is a more isolated spot on the top of God’s green earth than this resort is, my conception of hell is very vague. At one time the rendezvous of Chinese pirates, Mariveles later became a Chinese stockade. The Spaniards used it as an outpost. Here at night the soldiers were cooped up like cattle, always welcoming the dawn, when they could at least roam and breathe fresh air. Some distance in the mountains, in the crater of an extinct volcano, a hot mineral spring with an elegant outlet afforded splendid opportunities for bathing. Swimming in the bay was also great pastime, and under the tutorage of Captain Wells, who inaugurated a system of swimming drill, we found considerable pleasure. His system was to execute, while swimming, the same tactics as we did on foot; this was very funny and enjoyable sport.

After spending two weeks insulated from civilization, during which time we had undergone a process of fumigation, our transport, the Thomas, hove in sight, and was soon moored to the wharf. Little time was spent in storing our accoutrements of war on board. After each company had been assigned to its quarters, the signal to cast loose was given; we had at last commenced our homeward-bound voyage in earnest.

With the homeward-bound pennant flying in the breeze, the transport steamed through the “Mona-Chica” into the China Sea headed for Japan. The shrill click, click, of the wireless telegraph, receiving and transmitting messages, continued throughout the voyage. Occasionally excitement was caused by the sight of a whale; “There she blows!” and you see off the port-side a monstrous species of the mammal genus cruising and spouting like a Holland submarine. Schools of porpoises are a daily sight on either side, while millions of flying-fish skirt the billows off every quarter.

On the spar-deck of the transport could be heard: “Come on, fellows, give us a bet; loosen up and take a chance; Steve Brodie did; when this war is over we’ll start another; come, soldiers, get on the field; double up; you’re sure to win some time.” About this time a soldier, who has put some “dealer” to the bad, grabs the dice and yells: “How much money have you got? I’ll tap your pile. Ninety dollars! Throw the bones.” As this gamester skilfully manipulates the dice which he rattles in his hand, and blows on for good luck, he affectionately remarks, “Bones! don’t refuse me this time; you’ve been good to me, old pals.” He rolls the dice and throws a ten. “Two to one he don’t ten; I’ve got you covered,” is heard on the side lines; another throw is made, a four this time, and bets are made on the side, that he comes. In the parlance of the soldier, the “bones” are talking friendly; as the dice roll over the green cloth for the third time, a six and four turns up; “Ten she is!” he shouts, as lie tucks away one hundred and eighty simoleons (a soldier’s word for money) and exclaims, “Good old bones.”

“Two bits he comes”; this is the tantalizing epithet directed at a fellow whose death-like form hangs over the taffrail a victim of sea-sickness.

Games are numerous on an army transport, everything from “keno” to “faro,” and this greatly breaks the monotony of the voyage. Every evening the regimental band discourses music, and dancing is indulged in. There are always plenty of girls who accompany the officers’ families as domestics (all colors, of course); these afford partners for the soldiers, and maybe there isn’t some class to the “rag”; everything goes, from the “barn-dance” to the “Frisco dip.”

A prize-fight is advertised between a “chocolate soldier” and a “pale-face.” Every man in uniform buys a ticket, the returns from which go to make up a purse for the winner. There are no Turkish baths taken to reduce weight, no skipping the rope or punching the bag to improve the respiratory organs; this was completed before leaving the Philippines, by way of mountain “hikes” in heavy marching order, from early morn till dewy eve, subsisting on an emergency ration, on which you are guaranteed to exist for at least a while. Each soldier is so confident in his prowess, that training is out of the question; each imagines he will land a hook that will send his opponent to the arms of Morpheus for the customary count. Steps are removed and a hatch is battened and roped; as the time arrives for the combat, soldiers crowd around the arena, hang from spars and davits, all eager to see the “black” and “white” contest for superiority. The contestants arrive with their seconds as the band strikes up a warm selection, the gloves are slipped on, and the men take their corners. The referee is a man who holds little value on life and must be able to fight himself. Time is called. The men shake hands, then spar awhile for an opening. A soldier cries, “Fake! why don’t they fight?” They now slam each other to body and head; both are bleeding when the gong sounds. Round second opens wild; they swing, hook, and duck, hammering away with one arm free in the clinch; each man dances as he awaits a lead from his opponent; both take their corners pretty much exhausted as the gong sounds. The third round begins viciously, though each man cautiously parries off the blows; both are fighting in good old military style, when they clinch; in the break-away they mix things, and the pale soldier drops to the mat as the crowd yell, “Foul! foul!” and he is counted out. A little ammonia revives him, and he is awarded the decision on a foul, though badly whipped by his dark opponent. “Can he come back?” No one cares. The referee is the hope of the white race!

As the transport approaches the Island of Hondo, soldiers are seen polishing their ornaments and buttons, pressing their uniforms, and making general preparations for a visit in Nagasaki. The conversation drifts to the way they are to spend their shore leave. “The first thing I do is to visit the bazaar,” remarks a soldier; “I want to buy a satsuma dinner set for my sister Peggy and a silk kimono for my sweetheart, some lacquer ornaments inlaid with mother-of-pearl, bronzes, and some silk.” “Well,” remarks another, “I am going to pick out the prettiest silk sunshade in Nagasaki, some cashmere shawls, and I guess a lace mantilla will suit Juana, my Creole friend in New Orleans.” “What’s the matter with having a nice colored ‘dragon’ and a ‘Tycoon in a jinrickshaw’ tattooed on your arms? and don’t forget to buy some amber cigar-smokers; there are beauties in Japan and very cheap,” speaks a soldier who has been there. “The first thing I am going to do,” another ejaculates, “is to hie me to a restaurant for a good square dinner; a Japanese duck with all the trimmings will do, with a bottle of ‘Rising Sun saki’ on the side.”

On arrival at Nagasaki, a fleet of Japanese war-vessels lay off our port bow. After anchoring, preparations were made to give the boys shore liberty; as we were to remain two days in this port, while the natives coaled the ship, it was decided to let one-half of the regiment go ashore each day.

“Japs” with sampans laden with curios and fruit surrounded the ship; these were exchanged for money by the soldiers, and hauled aboard by means of a rope and bucket.

The quarantine inspection in Japan is very rigid, which no doubt accounts for the excellent health of the race and the sanitary condition of the country.

As the call, “Lay aft, all the liberty party,” was piped by the boatswain, soldiers riled down the gangway and boarded launches, tugs, and sampans, and were at once conveyed to the “Land of the Rising Sun,” tea-houses, and chrysanthemums.

On reaching the wharf hundreds of Japanese jinrickshaw-men were in line, waiting to haul the Americans to any part of the city. Every “rickshaw” on the beach was immediately engaged, and away we went through the streets of Nagasaki, visiting bazaars, theatres, temples, pagodas, museums, and tea-houses. An unfortunate thing happened to a friend of mine while being hauled along the “Bund.” There were perhaps forty “rickshaws” in line, each contesting for the lead, when on turning a curve the “rickshaw” in front of mine broke down, precipitating my friend into the dust. My man, being unable to stop, ran over him, the wheel badly lacerating the whole side of his face. Both “Japs” ran away to escape punishment, the fellow in the rear ran into me, and there was a general spill along the whole line. It is needless to say that walking was good for several hours after this affair.

As our shore leave expired at 8 A.M., every fellow was getting the best out of the hours that were speeding by, as he knew there would be many monotonous days to spend on the Pacific Ocean before reaching Honolulu.

In tea-houses on the outskirts of the city, groups of soldiers sat and watched the geisha-girls do the “serpentine” to the music of “samisens,” their graceful forms presenting a novel spectacle, draped in flowing silk kimonos, as seen through a veil of cigarette smoke.

Next morning when the roll was called aboard the transport, a large percentage of the “liberty-party” was absent, and it became necessary to send out a patrol to round up the soldiers. As a result of this celebration, there were innumerable court-martials held en route to the Hawaiian Islands, with fines ranging from five to twenty-five dollars.

Our voyage across the Pacific was uneventful. The weather was extremely calm, the horizon appearing as a circular brink of a tremendous cataract, over which the surging billows thundered in pensive solitude. An occasional albatross was sighted winging its flight through the aerial regions. Under the leeward shrouds, groups of soldiers congregated, spinning yarns or playing at cards, while others on the windward side inhaled the health-giving ozone of the salt-sea breeze. A Japanese mail-steamer, and several merchant marines were sighted from our course, en route to points in Australia and the Orient.

Several hours before our arrival in Honolulu, it was whispered about the deck that our shore privileges were to be restricted, and, sure enough, the disappointment was realized, due, it was said, to those who had overstayed their privileges in Japan. To be kept a prisoner in Mariveles was bad enough, but to be prevented from mingling with the throng in the “Garden of the Gods,” the “Paradise of the Pacific,” Honolulu, was more than the boys could stand. As we entered the harbor, dotted here and there with bell-buoys, fishing-smacks, yachts, and vessels of the merchant marine, we saw the new naval station off our port side, and the camp of the United States marines extending to the coral reefs to starboard. From the spar deck we could gaze on the beautiful city of Honolulu, with its white stone buildings bathed in tropical luxuriance, and the contour of its mountainous inland towering to the clouds. It was with a feeling of relief, as the vessel moored to the wharf, that a chance could be taken on getting ashore.

The wharf was studded with people, mostly tourists and native venders, though a large concourse of officers’ families had come to greet their relatives. As the gangway was lowered, the band struck up an inspiring air, and only those who have seen an American transport loaded with soldiers returning home from that far-off jungle land, the Philippines and Sulu, can form any conception of the passionate display of enthusiasm manifested on these occasions.

Vendors of beautiful wreaths of flowers, curios, and succulent fruit greet the visitor on all sides. These flower wreaths are worn around the band of the hat and around the neck; they are a traditional necessity, without which you are staged, in this city of the Pacific, in a class by yourself.

Pineapples, pineapples, pineapples, everywhere you look; the most delicious pineapples in the world come from Hawaii, the bulk of the exportation to the United States being marketed along the Pacific slope.

The shore privileges of the battalion being restricted, we had to be content with taking observations from the taffrail. I had been to Honolulu several times while in the navy, and had stopped here en route to the islands with the Twenty-ninth Infantry, so that I naturally felt disappointed at my inability to go ashore,—so much, in fact, that I decided to eradicate the feeling at the risk of a court-martial.

Having anticipated making a social call, besides expecting mail addressed to the Alexander Young Hotel, I was determined on getting ashore, if it necessitated going down over the anchor-chains, as we did in the navy when shore leave was not forthcoming, which, however, would not be necessary in this case, as our ship was moored to the dock.

On the strength of being a non-commissioned officer, I thought that perhaps a diplomatic hand played judiciously might have some weight with the colonel.

Investing myself in a fresh-laundried suit of war-clothes, with carefully wound puttees, I approached without dismay headquarters, and with the determination, if rebuffed, to await complacently the first opportunity for smuggling myself ashore, when presently I heard my name being called out near the gangway. Hastening in this direction, I found a Hawaiian messenger with a note for me. Hastily tearing open the envelope, the missive read as follows: “My dear Mr. A——, We are friends of your cousin May; call up 091 Aloho Lane immediately.” Had I received my mail from Young’s Hotel, I would have understood the message thoroughly; but, alas! it was Greek,—not too Greek, however. Detaining the messenger, I sought the advice of the regimental sergeant major, who informed me that it would be absolutely futile to apply for shore leave, as a number of applications had been disapproved. Feeling chagrined over my inability to comply with the request in the message, I resorted, after considerable thought, to the miserable subterfuge of denying my presence on board. Seeking the assistance of Sergeant Allen, I dictated the following: “This message was opened inadvertently; Mr. A——has been detained in Japan; will be through on a liner next month. (Signed) Allen.”

The boy departed (after I had tipped him on keeping his counsel), leaving me meditating on how I was to get ashore.

My experience in the navy was helping me wonderfully, when something occurred demanding immediate action, an unforeseen exigency in the shape of another messenger. This time it was the first mate of the transport Thomas, Mr. Worth, who, to add to my chain of humiliating circumstances, informed me that three ladies were awaiting me on the promenade deck, two of them Hawaiians, the third an American. They had missed the messenger (thanks for his carelessness!). “For heaven’s sake!” I exclaimed; “I am not on board, mate! I am in Japan.” “Oh, they are wise; they have been talking to an officer, and he has sent an orderly to find you; so come on up; they look good to me and they are anxious to see you.” (Oh, if I only had that messenger, what I’d do to him!) “Tell them I will be there in a moment,” I exclaimed, as I went below for some letters a member of the crew had consented to mail.

In a few moments I had scaled the ladder to the promenade deck, where I met the jolliest trio of femininity it has been my pleasure to commune with. They told me what great friends they were of my cousin, of her writing them of my departure from the Philippines, of the explanatory letter awaiting me at Young’s Hotel, and all about the big touring-car awaiting us at the pier, et cetera. Two of these ladies were perfect types of Hawaiian beauty, Vassar graduates, and members of the obsolete nobility, the other a typical American girl, a tourist, and daughter of a retired naval officer.

I was aware that my cousin had spent the previous winter in Honolulu, and understood, from the message, that she had written her friends of my home-coming via the Hawaiian Islands on the transport Thomas, so that an apology for my failure to comply with the request in the message could hardly be avoided. So it became imperative that I disclose the facts in connection with the deprivation of our shore leave,—how we overstayed our liberty in Japan, and the denial of my presence on board the transport. Being jolly good fellows, these ladies considered this predicament a great joke, as they had visited Japan, and I presume knew the irresistible fascinations of the “Flowery Kingdom.” But that was neither here nor there: they had come on board to take me ashore, and ashore I must go.

The people in question are warm friends of a particular friend of mine, a globe-trotter (address, United States of America) whose meteoric flights cover both hemispheres, and who arranges the destinations of her itinerary in accordance with climatic conditions; when not basking in the sunshine along the Riviera or under the cocoa-palms of the tropics, she is shooting the rapids of the St. Lawrence River or ascending the precipitous slopes of Mt. Washington. This lady of rare accomplishments and precious jewels, whose benignity of aspect is subordinate only to her delicate finesse, is related paradoxically to the author, through a long chain of ancestry dating back to the tenants of Paradise; we are therefore by mutual consent known as cousins.

Through the courtesy of Mr. Worth, the privilege of his cabin was extended; here the party was served with ice-cold “Three Star” mineral-water, and here my departure from the ship was planned with great success.

After escorting the ladies to the gang-plank, promising to write, and bidding them a farewell, I repaired to my quarters, invested myself in a civilian suit of white duck, and was lowered over the side of the vessel into a steam-launch, which conveyed me to a point on the beach where, leaving the launch, I joined the trio in a large limousine of patrician elegance, for a spin over the famous Pali Drive. “That is going some,” I remarked, as the machine sped on. “Yes, and then some,” exclaimed the American girl. “Well, all is fair in love and war,” ejaculated a dashing Hawaiian. “Well, well sprinkle this event with romance,” added the other, laughingly. “‘Love and war’ sounds good. If I am reported, I will quote that as my defence,” I replied. “Aloho mie,” in an Hawaiian undertone, brings forth a peal of laughter as the party catch the sense.

Our ride included the ever-beautiful Pali Drive, a magnificent boulevard shaded by the bowery maze of the banyan-tree, a run to Diamond Head Beach, a spin along Fort Street, the business section, and the “King’s Highway.” After refreshments on the roof-garden of the Alexander Young Hotel, where I received my mail, we drove to 091 Aloho Lane, the home of these charming people; here, surrounded by tropical luxuriance, wide porticoes, hammocks, and reclining wicker chairs, we remained for the afternoon. During “tiffin” a victorolo rendered elegant operatic selections, while suspended over the dining-table a punka inspired a gentle breeze.

In the evening about sundown the party, having increased, journeyed to Waikiki Beach, the popular bathing resort. Here, at the Moana Hotel, we joined in a genuine native “luau,” heard “Sunny Chunna” sing her famous compositions, and later joined in the merry whirl to the music of the Hawaiian Band. Near this famous winter resort we journeyed into a gayety hall, where a string of Hawaiian beauties, festooned in garlands of flowers, performed the “Hulu Hulu” dance, rivalling in vivaciousness the whirlwind contortions of our valiant Ruth St. Denis.

After a midnight lunch at the Hotel Moana, the party returned to the city. A motor-boat conveyed me to the transport, which, fortunately, was boarded without difficulty.

Next morning on board the transport I was the recipient of a basket of delicious pineapples, and, as a memento of the enjoyable day, a scarf-pin bearing the coat-of-arms of the Hawaiian Islands.

Honolulu, on the Island of Oahu, is the most beautiful section of the earth I have visited; the climate varies little, and it can be more properly termed a temperate clime than tropical, although tropical vegetation is indigenous. Kilauea, on the eastern slope of Mauna Loa mountain, is the loftiest and most active volcano in the world, its crater being nine miles in circumference. Mauna Loa has an altitude of nearly fourteen thousand feet and is covered with perpetual snow.

A few hours before the departure of the transport for “Frisco,” “Jack” London, the writer, arrived in the harbor on the Snark, a twenty-four foot schooner, in which he was making a tour of the globe. As the ship cast loose from the pier, it was with a feeling of regret that I had to leave this delightful country and such amiable people. Wafting an Aloho to my friends and their country, we departed for the American coast, passing en route, the second day out, an American fleet of war-vessels. As the transport approached the city of the “Golden Gate” in the darkness of the night, myriads of lights glittered along the distant shore.

Steaming through the channel, we entered the bay in the break of the early morning. Off the starboard side stood the grand old landmark the Cliff House, overlooking the bay and city of San Francisco; on the port side, Fort McDowell and the old Island prison, San Quentin. After docking at the pier, relatives and friends of the soldiers were permitted on board, shore leave was granted, and the boys roamed at will through the city that had recently risen from a mass of ruins, caused by the telluric flames that followed the dreadful earthquake of 1906.

Three days were pleasantly spent in “Frisco” ere the regiment departed for the Atlantic coast in three sections, over the Santa Fé Railroad, the First and Second battalions for Forts Porter and Niagara, N. Y., the Third battalion, non-commissioned staff, and band for Governor’s Island, N. Y. Being a soldier of the Third battalion, the balance of my enlistment was spent at this post in the capacity of record clerk at headquarters of the Twenty-ninth Infantry.

Governor’s Island is a small island situated at the junction of the East River and New York Bay. It is connected with Battery Park, near South Ferry, by a government ferry-boat, which makes a trip between the island and South Ferry every half-hour. The island was first settled by the Dutch in 1614. When the English took New York in 1684, they built Ft. Columbus, the present site of Ft. Jay. Castle William, facing the harbor, was completed in 1810. It is used at present as a military prison.

Besides the palatial residence of the commanding general of the Department of the East, there are various buildings in which the business of this department is transacted; also homes of the officers, barracks of the soldiers, chapel, library, post exchange, quartermaster’s supply depot, the officers’ club, and a museum containing relics of wars dating back to the revolution. Here may be seen in a large glass repository, in a state of preservation, the noble steed fully equipped as it appeared when carrying General Sheridan through the valley of the Shenandoah.

Corbin Hall, a pretentious building adjoining the old chapel and facing the parade-ground, is the site of the officers’ club, and contains a sumptuous ball-room, which is frequently the scene of gorgeous military display. Through the courtesy of the Officers’ Club, the use of this magnificent ball-room was tendered the Fort Jay Social Club every Thursday evening, when mirth and good-fellowship reigned. During my incumbency in office as secretary of this club, I found it necessary to pass unfavorably on scores of written applications for invitations to these affairs, due solely to the fact that, each member of the club being allowed four invitations, it was impossible to accommodate more than the prescribed quota. I mention this fact to show the popularity of these dances, and in conjunction as a general apology to those to whom invitations were not forthcoming.

These weekly dances had the true brass-button effect, strictly military. The Twenty-ninth Infantry band furnished the music, the grand-march being invariably led by Chaplain Smith of Governor’s Island, accompanied by a budding debutante, blithe and fair; these were followed by the gay and graceful belles of Gotham, each on the arm of a stalwart soldier appearing at his best. During the intermission refreshments were served in the communicating apartments.

The use of the ferry was cordially extended to the New York patrons of the dance, who could step off the boat almost into the subway, where an express could be had for all points in New York, Brooklyn, and Jersey City.

The close proximity of Governor’s Island to the city bearing the proverbial appellation “Gotham” affords excellent opportunity to the soldiers for seeing the sights of a great metropolis. Every evening soldiers in civilian attire leave the island, and on entering the subway are soon lost sight of in this beehive of humanity. There are few items in the calendar of joy which the soldier overlooks, for his duty has been performed faithfully and he now seeks pleasure with unrestrained ardor.

If perchance, at the close of a drama or burletta, you wander through the “tenderloin” and casually stroll into “Maxim’s,” “Murray’s,” or “Martin’s,” you are apt to see him tête à tête with his sweetheart, dining table-d’hôte; or hail a “taxi” and spin over to the Café Boulevard, across to “Terrace Garden,” up to the “Haymarket,” down to “Little Hungary,” or a variety of other amusement halls, and there you will find him with bells on, in close communion with some favorite chorus satellite, of perhaps the “Folies Bergere,” whose grace along the “Rialto” brooks no competition, whose gowns and ostrich-plumes are the envy of Parisian salons and the pride of “Redfern’s” modistes, and whose long suite is the importance she attaches to her connoisseurship of the best things in life. Yes, there he is attracted like the moth to the flame.

During the summer evenings it is a most inspiring sight to witness the lowering of the colors, drooping slowly with the trumpet’s notes of retreat, as the regiment stands at parade-rest; the loud boom of the sundown gun, followed by the band’s rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner, and the regiment as it passes in review.

My enlistment having expired at Governor’s Island, March 2, 1910, I was discharged from the army of the United States.

THE END.

Page
William Llewellyn Adams	Frontispiece
Detachment of “Governor’s Troop,” Mt. Gretna, 1898		20
A Trooper		42
Tent No. 2, Fynmore and Adams, “World’s Fair,” St. Louis, 1904		214
Coleman and Adams, Gun-mule “Dewey,” Machine-gun Battery		258
Machine Gun Platoon of the 29th Infantry in the Snow Capped Wasatch Range, Utah		260

Exploits and Adventures
of a Soldier Ashore
and Afloat