bugle-calls, loud, strident bugle-calls, leaping in unison from the brass throats of bugles; tawny soldiers lining up for guard-mount before the officer of the day, as spick and span as a toy soldier; troopers in blue shirts, with their mess-kits in their hands, running across the street for rations; men in khaki everywhere, raising a racket on pay-day, fraternizing with the filipinos when off duty; poker games in the barracks, with the army cot and blanket for a table; taps, and the measured tread of sentries, and anon a startled challenge, “halt! who’s there?”—such were the days in cagayan in 1901.
the blue sea, stretching out into the hazy distance, sparkled around the little nipa-covered dock where commissary stores and sacks of rice were piled. the native women, squatting on the [224]ground, were selling mangoes and bananas to the boys. “cagayan mag,” who vended the hot bottled beer for “jawbone,” digging her toes into the dust, was entertaining the surrounding crowd with her coarse witticisms. the corporal of the guard, reclining in an easy steamer-chair, under his tent extension, was perusing the news columns from the states, by this time three months old. a sunburnt soldier, with his krag upon his shoulder, paced the dock, wearily doing the last hour of his guard.
“do you-all like hawg-jowl and black-eyed peas?” drawled “tennessee bill,” shifting his bony form to a more comfortable position on the rice-sack.
“reckon i ort ter; i wuz bo’n in geo’gy,” said his comrade, as he rolled a rice-straw paper cigarette.
after an interval of several minutes the same conversation was repeated. suddenly a sharp toot sent the echoes scudding back and forth among the hills. a moment later the small transport, with the usual blur of khaki in her bows, came swinging around the promontory. [225]
“pshaw! i thought it wuz the pay boat comin’” grumbled bill.
then, as the trenton pulled up to the dock, signs of activity began to animate that place. the guard, with leveled bayonet, began to shoo the “gugus” off the landing. down the hot road, invested in a cloud of dust, an ambulance was coming, drawn by a team of army mules and bringing the lieutenant quartermaster and his sergeants.
“why, hello!” said bill; “if here ain’t little wantz a-comin’. got his discharge an’ gone married a babay.”
the soldiers crowded around the ex-hospital corps man, who, still in his khaki suit, was standing on the shore with a sad-looking filipino girl in tow. her feet were bare and dusty, and she wore a turkey-red skirt caught up on one side, and a gauze camisa with a pi?a yoke, and the stiff, flaring sleeves. her head was bare, and her black hair was combed uncompromisingly back on her head. her worldly goods were done up in a straw mat and a soiled bandana handkerchief, and were deposited before her on the ground. [226]
“this is the gal,” said wantz; “old justice de laguna’s daughter, and the same what uster sell beer to the twenty-eighth over at tagaloan. she ain’t no beauty, but she’s a good steady trotter; ain’t you, dell?” the girl looked stupid and embarrassed, and did not reply.
a “rooky,” who had joined the company, stood on the dock disconsolately. his blanket roll and locker had been put off the boat. this was his first appearance in the provinces. he was a stranger in a strange land, a fish out of water, and a raw recruit.
the men were set to work immediately landing the commissary stores. they stripped their shoes and socks off, rolled up their trousers to the knee, and waded through the shallow water, carrying the bales and boxes on their shoulders to the shore.
the road up to the town was lined with nipa houses, shaded with banana-trees and bonga palms. this was the road that was almost impassable during the rainy season. as the ambulance rolled heavily along, scores of half-naked babies, shaped like peanuts, shouted after you a [227]“hello, baby!” and the pigs, with snouts like coal-scuttles, scattered on either side the thoroughfare. this was the famous “bolo alley,” down which, only a few months before, the insurrecto army had come shouting, “a la! á la!” firing as they ran.
you passed the market-place, an open hall filled with the native stalls, where soldiers loafed around, chatting with the visayan girls—for a freemasonry exists between the filipino and the soldier—dickering with one for a few dhobie cigarettes, sold “jawbone,” to be paid for when the pay-boat comes.
the troops were quartered in old spanish buildings, where the sliding windows of the upper floors disclosed the lanes of white mosquito-bar. back in the courtyard, where the cook was busily preparing mess, a mangy and round-shouldered monkey from the bamboo fence was looking on approvingly. the cook was not in a good humor. all that the mess had had for three weeks was the regulation beans and bacon, without a taste of fresh meat or fresh vegetables.
things were as bad, however, at the officers’ [228]mess, where the rule was that the first complaint should sentence its author to conduct the mess himself until relieved in a like manner. as might be imagined, such a system naturally discouraged an improvement of affairs. exasperated, finally, beyond his limit, lieutenant breck came out with—“if this isn’t the rottenest apology of an old mess”—saving himself by quickly adding, “but i like it; o, i like it; nobody can tell how much i like this mess!”
there was an officer’s club in a frame building near the headquarters. here, in the afternoon, the clan would gather for a round of “whisky poker” for the drinks. there was a strapping young kentuckian whose ancestors had all been army men. “the profession of arms,” said he, “is the noblest profession in the world. and that is the profession that we follow.” it was a rather sad sight, though, a few weeks later, after his wife, a little southern girl, had gone back to the “states,” to see this giant soldier playing cards and drinking whisky with the teamsters, bar-keeps, and camp-followers, threatening to shoot the man who [229]tried to interfere, and finally being taken down in irons for a court-martial.
the only one of all his friends who did not fall away from him was one, a little, catlike cavalry lieutenant, booted and spurred, and always dressed in khaki riding-breeches, never saying much, but generally considered the most popular young officer in all the service. and there was one other faithful one, but not an officer. the “striker,” who had followed him in many a hard hike, and had learned to admire his courage and to consider him infallible, tried for the sake of the young southern girl, to keep his master from the wretched drink.
the post of cagayan that winter was a busy one. on sunday mornings the stern-visaged officers would go the round of all the barracks on inspection duty. there was still a remnant of the insurrecto army operating in the hills, and an attack upon the town was threatened nightly. once a month, when pay-day came around, a reign of terror, which began with early afternoon, lasted until almost a company of miscellaneous marauders [230]could have been recruited from the guard-house. a dozen saloons and poker games were running the night long, and in those days little money was deposited in the paymaster’s bank.
a number of detachments had been left in different towns around the bay in charge of second lieutenants or first sergeants. here, while the discipline was more relaxed, the pandemonium of pay-day was avoided. but the two best poker-players in the company corraling all the money, either would proceed to narrow the financial distribution further, or would shake hands and agree to make deposits on the next disbursing-day. some of the men on their discharge would have a thousand dollars, or enough to set them up in business in the states.
these “outfits” differ greatly in their character. some are composed of sociable, kind-hearted fellows, while others may contain a large percentage of professional “bad men” and rowdies. each company will have its own traditions and a reputation which is guarded jealously. there was the “fighting twenty-eighth,” the regiment invincible. the soldiers grow attached to their outfit. [231]on their discharge, which they have eagerly looked forward to, after a day or two of frisco, when the money has been spent to the last dollar of the “finals,” more than one chop-fallen soldier, looking up the first recruiting sergeant, will “take on” again.
the “company fund” is a great institution, and an “outfit” with a good fund is considered prosperous. this money goes for extras at the table, for baseball equipments, or for company mascots. the sergeant-major usually has charge of this disbursement, and the soldiers, though they grumble at his orders, can not help respecting him. the sergeant-major has been seasoned in the service. he is a ripe old fellow, and a warrior to the core. the company cook is also an important personage. it was the old cook at balingasag—i think that he had served for twenty years—who fed me in the convent courtyard on camotes, egg-plant, and a chicken which he had stolen from a native. according to his theory, a soldier was a licensed robber, and the chicken should be classed as forage—not as plunder. he was a favorite among the officers, who used to [232]get him started on his favorite grievance,—the condemnation by a board of survey of a certain army mule. “i liked that mule,” he used to say. “he was the best mule that the service ever had.”
the nightly “argument,” or “chewing the rag,” is a favorite pastime in an isolated camp. sitting around upon the army cots or chests, the soldiers will discuss some unimportant topic until “taps” sounds.
i will admit that “company m” was a disreputable lot. they never dressed up; frequently they went without their footgear; and they drank much tuba with the natives. they took delight in teaching the small boys profanity, and they would shock the filipinos by omitting bathing-suits when in the surf. they used to frighten the poor “niggers” half to death by trying to break through their houses on a dark night. yet i believe that every filipino was the soldier’s friend, and i am sure i noticed not a few heart-broken se?oritas gathered at the shore when they departed. for my own part, i have always found the soldier generous, respectful, and polite.
there was a great wag in the company, who, [233]in some former walk of life, had figured as a circus clown. he also claimed to have been upon the stage in vaudeville. he had enlisted in the regimental band, but, through some change, had come to be bugler of m company. he owned a mandolin, called the “potato bug”—a name suggested by the inlaid bowl. he had brought back to life a cracked guitar, which he had strung with copper wire obtained by “jawbone” at the chino store. it was an inspiration when he sang to the guitar accompaniment, “ma filipino babe,” or in a rich and melancholy voice, with the professional innuendo, “just to jolly the game along,” a song entitled “little rosewood casket.”
it is a sorry company that doesn’t number in its roll a poet. company m had a good poet. local customs and the local atmosphere appealed to him, and he has thus recorded his impression of the philippines:
“there once was a philippine hombre;
ate guinimos, rice, and legombre;
his pants they were wide,
and his shirt hung outside;
but this, you must know, is costombre.
[234]
he lived in a nipa balay
that served as a stable and sty.
he slept on a mat
with the dog and the cat,
and the rest of the family near by.
he once owned a bueno manoc,
with a haughty and valorous look,
who lost him amain
and mil pesos tambien,
and now he plays monté for luck.
this poem was received so favorably that the following effort of the realistic school escaped:
“in this land of dhobie dreams,
happy, smiling philippines,
where the bolo man is hiking all day long,
where the natives steal and lie,
and americanos die,
the soldier sings his evening song.
social wants are small and few;
all the ladies smoke and chew,
and do other things they ought to know are wrong.
presidentes cut no ice,
for they live on fish and rice,
and the soldier sings his evening song.”
there is another stanza, but the song about the “brown tagalog girl” demands attention:
“i’ve a babay, in a balay,
down in the province of rizal.
she’s nice and neat, dainty and sweet;
she’s ma little brown tagalog gal.”
the army officers and their families still form the aristocracy of the philippines. while army life is not all like camp wallace and the gay luneta, in the larger posts throughout the provinces, both the officers and soldiers are housed very comfortably. the clubhouse down at zamboanga has a pavilion running out over the water, where the ladies sit at night, or where refreshments are served after the concert by the band. although their ways are not the ways of the civilian; although to them the possibilities of jones’s promotion from the bottom of the list seems of a paramount importance, you will not find anywhere so loyal and hospitable a class of people as the army officers. whatever little jealousies they entertain among themselves are overshadowed by the fact that “he” or “she” is of the “service.” and the soldiers, rough as they are, and slovenly compared to the red-coated soldiers of great britain, or the gray-coated troopers of the german army, are beyond doubt the finest fighting men in all the world.
