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.
OLNLJOHN N. WHITE
N-, '**
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BULLETS and
BOLOS
FIFTEEN YEARS
IN THE PHILIPPINE ISLANDS
JOHN R.WHITE
COLONEL PHILIPPINS CONSTABULARY, RETIRED
ILLUSTRATE WITH PHOTOGRAPHS
AND MAP


Upl


THE
Cew York


CENTURY CO.
London




I99 C
rjr
Copyright, 1928, by
THE CENTURY Co.
First Printing, July, z928
*     *
* *


PRINTED IN U. S. A.




TO THOSE WHO DIED ALONG AMERICA'S FURTHEST
FRONTIERS IN THE PHILIPPINES THESE
REMINISCENCES ARE AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED BY ONE WHO LIVED








FOREWORD
THE Philippine Constabulary, of which this book is an
epic, was born twenty-six years ago in a world that
acknowledged an obligation that Kipling called the White
Man's Burden. American altruism was the marvel of a
hard-boiled world. We were too internationally ladylike
to speak of anything so ordinary as Oriental trade and
markets. We acknowledged no interest in the new insular
possessions unless it were the desire to extend to them
the tutelage of a gifted people who had brought the art
of governing themselves to very high perfection. Some
of the least competent statesmen our country had produced in a century and a quarter were horrified at the idea
of governing anyone who did not wish to be governed.
The first echoes of what was later called self-determination of subject peoples sounded an uncertainty and partizanship in our policy toward the Filipinos that has
lasted and crippled its efficiency to this day. We have quite
successfully demonstrated that our form of government
is not adapted to governing colonies, or peoples living in
territory not acceptable for future statehood.
Civil Government in the Islands must not be delayed
though active insurrection still raged in many provinces
V*




viii              FOREWORD
in i9oi. The Army, which had brought such peace as existed and made it possible for the new Government to
function, was called upon to surrender the reins. It
seemed a little inconsistent after elbowing the militarygovernor out of his chair to begin at once asking for
troops to keep on subduing the Insurrection. Yet it was
many years before any considerable disorder in the Philip.
pines took other form than insurrection and the declaration of numerous little republics.
A new army was therefore created by the Philippine
Commission as the new civil government was called. This
native army was given civil powers, and, as its name of
Constabulary implies, consisted of peace officers charged
with enforcing order and suppressing brigandage and unlawful assemblies. It was organized and administered as
native infantry, and continuously operated as such
somewhere in those lovely islands of the Eastern Seas.
Its enlisted strength was native. From its organization in I902 until the World War, its senior chiefs were
officers of the United States Army. The remainder of its
commissioned strength was made up at first from the best
of the American volunteers who had remained in the
Islands after Civil Government was established, to whom
were added occasional appointments from the line of the
regular army, and in later years many graduates of American colleges sent out by the War Department. A few
Filipino officers entered the lower commissioned grades
and these gradually increased in numbers and rank.
The Army chiefs disappeared from the Constabulary rolls
with the War, and gradually elimination of the other
American officers has taken place so there are now but




FOREWORD


1X


few remaining. For fifteen years there was no department
of the Insular Government more influential and efficient
than the Constabulary. With the change of ideals and
policies that came in with the Harrison administration of
the Philippines, it was almost the only bureau that preserved the traditions of his predecessors and carried on
with the impetus of earlier days.
There is no better monument to the ingratitude of our
country than its treatment of the Americans it used in
the Government of the Philippines. With the doctrine of
the White Man's Burden, the memory of Cromer in
Egypt and of Wood in Cuba, numbers of our best young
men found employment in the Philippine Government and
truly carried its burdens for fifteen years after Dewey
took Manila. Beginning with the brutal ejection of Governor-General Forbes from office in I9I3, members of this
great Service, which included not only the splendid
American officers of the Constabulary, but other hundreds of equal merit throughout the Insular Government,
were thrown out in middle age, a dozen years out of touch
with business at home, and physically weakened by long
stay in the tropics. This was done by a very ingenious
law which provided that every American official and employee of the Government of not less than ten years'
service, who applied for retirement within three months
of its passage, might be retired by the governor-general
at his discretion with one year's pay. With absolutely no
secure tenure of office against dismissal without notice or
pay, there was almost unanimous application for this retirement. Some were retired at once but in the discretion
of His Excellency others remained with their applications




:t


FOREWORD


on file and liable to be acted upon at any time. It was an
eviction by wholesale of as fine a body of public servants
as ever gave their best years to a government. It fell with
particular force on the Constabulary. Many of them found
commissions in the American Expeditionary Forces and
a number of them were killed in action or died of wounds.
Almost invariably they made outstanding officers, for the
peculiar character of their service in the Constabulary
had accustomed them to take responsibility to a degree
which does not come to junior officers in the regular army
in time of peace. Some eighty of them still remain in our
Army. It is a pleasure to record that belated recognition
has come to this group through Congressional action in
the last month of the session just ended, which allows
them to count their Philippine Constabulary service in the
computation of pay and of time for retirement.
"Bullets and Bolos" is the account of thirteen years in
the Philippine Constabulary by one who was one of its
most gallant and outstanding officers. Colonel John R.
White passed through every grade from lieutenant to
colonel, and saw service in every part of the Philippine
Archipelago. It is twenty-five years this autumn since he
reported to me at Zamboanga as adjutant of the new Constabulary which I was to create from the Moslem Moros.
A true soldier of fortune, though in his maturity he
lightly scorns the imputation, he had already served in
the Greek Foreign Legion in the war with Turkey, had
participated in the rush to the Klondike, had come to the
Philippines as a soldier in our volunteer army, and at
twenty-four was wearing the gold bars and scarlet shoulder-straps of a captain. Over six feet in height, slender




FOREWORD


xi


and straight, very red-headed and very impulsive, he
was attractive and dashing to a degree that only a Kipling
could describe. His was the "crowded hour of glorious
life," for no one who wore the khaki and red saw more
of it in those days when we were all strong in our faith
in the value of the work to which we had set our hands.
Desperately wounded in the affair at Bud Dajo in 90o6,
his health later gave way under hardship and exposure and
his Constabulary career ended by his being sent to the
Rocky Mountains for lung trouble. He returned to the
colors in I9I8, and in France served once more under
his Chief of those old days, the story of which he has so
well told in this book.
To read it is to step from the present into the past, out
of the quiet of post-war days into the old romantic, adventuresome life which was very dear to all of us who lived
it. It revives, in the half-light of memory, people and
places forgotten now for more than twenty years. It
brings again the sounds we knew so well, the booming of
the Moro gongs, the crash of lantakas-the sight of nipa
roofs, the vint,as on Lake Liguasan, and the blue Straits
of Basilan, the crisp coolness of mountains, the scentladen warmth of lowlands-old thoughts, old memories,
old desires. It does not strengthen one's enthusiasm for
the well-ordered present, its conventions, its formalities,
its burdens. Perhaps the dull yearning it brings is for the
years that have passed rather than for the life we livedfor its memories reflect the glamour and the glory of
youth.
The Philippine Constabulary has had no other chronicler-it could not have a better one than John White. This




xii               FOREWORD
book is a glimpse of the stirring drama of the best days
of our occupation of the Philippines-in which Time's
shadowy curtain is for a moment drawn aside by one who
himself played a man's part upon that stage..&         6fz




INTRODUCTION


IF I had any purpose in writing this book beyond the
pleasure of recalling days in the Philippines-halcyon
days and dangerous days-it was to paint two pictures of
the earlier years of our occupation of the islands: one,
the life of Americans and Filipinos in the provinces outside the large cities; the other, the work, both hazardous
and constructive, done by American officers of the Philippine Constabulary.
There have been books about the Philippines by lawyers
and by scientists, by political economists and by journalists, by pessimists and by optimists. Some of the books
have been written by those who, before they began their
books, possessed fixed theories about the people and the
government of the islands; and the books show to the
initiate just how successfully or unsuccessfully they have
managed to make the facts fit their theories.
I have no theory about the Philippines or the Filipinos
unless it be that we should keep our promises to them
without more racial, legal, or economical obfuscation of
the issues than may be necessary. I count myself a friend
to the Filipinos without being less a friend to my fellow
Americans. How could I be otherwise than a friend when
my plucky Visayan, Tagalo, Bicol, or Moro soldiers have
stood by me in many a jungle fight; when I have received
at the hands of the Filipinos that open-hearted welcome...i




Xiv


INTRODUCTION


and hospitality reminiscent of California in the Spanish
days? If there is anything herein which offends my Filipino friends I apologize in advance. There are good and
bad qualities in all peoples under the sun; and I have not
consciously emphasized either the one or the other. The
same attempt at fair-mindedness cannot be claimed by
some American authors who, in their desire to show the
necessity for our retention of the Philippine Islands, have
investigated the sewers and the garbage pails while overlooking the more pleasant features of landscape and of
people.
As to my American friends in the Philippines and particularly those gallant fellows who wore the khaki and
red of the Constabulary, I do not need to apologize to
them for not relating their heroic deeds. A score of
bulky volumes would embrace only the more notable of
their exploits, whether in fighting, ruling, building, and
sanitating. All that I can do is to ske'tch an outline of my
own small share in that American job in the Philippines
which should take its place beside the winning of the West
in our own country. Indeed, the pacification and buildingup of the Philippines have been but the rolling on of that
restless American wave which surmounted the Rockies
to eddy and swirl for a while on the Pacific Coast; but
only to regain its momentum, and then sweep majestically
on across the Pacific until its combers sprayed the breed
of Boone and Crockett and Kit Carson over those Eden
Isles of the Far East, that are our Far West-the
Philippines.
To three persons I am indebted for the stimulus and
encouragement that have resulted in this book: to my




INTRODUCTION                     xv
wife, loyal to an old soldier somewhat broken in tropical
campaigns; to Colonel Charles W. Furlong, whose advice
and presentation of the manuscript resulted in publication;
and to Major H. F. Cameron, old-timer in the islands and
good friend to those in need after Philippine service.
J. R.W.








CONTENTS
CHAPTER                                     PAGE
I SOLDIER AND POLICEMAN....    3
II PAYMASTER OR FIGHTING MAN?...  II
III TASTES AND ODORS OF THE TROPICS..20
IV  A BALL-AND SOME REFLECTIONS..27
V A MODERN DON QUIXOTE...          35
VI GENRE PICTURES OF THE TRAIL..       47
VII A PROVINCIAL IDYL.      54
VIII A NIGHT RAID BY OUTLAWS..       63
IX  JUNGLE TRAILS......70
X  A DESPERATE VENTURE....8
XI DEEPER IN THE JUNGLE....91
XII A FIGHT ON A MOUNTAIN TOP..       97
XIII MURDER, MERRIMENT, AND MORALS..i08
XIV  CHOLERA IN CAMP.....I20
XV  FLOODS, AMPHIBIANS, AND EPIDEMICS..I25
XVI DISINTEGRATION AND RECONSTRUCTION.131
XVII A JUNGLE KILLING....      137
XVIII DALMACIO THE NEGRITO....147
XIX  RACE PREJUDICE AND CATTLE STEALING. 156
XX  A SENIOR INSPECTOR'S ROUTINE...163
XXI MORE ROUTINE-INCLUDING MURDER..169
xvii




xviii
XV[L1


CONTENTS


CHAPTER
XXII BAD HIKING AND WORSE CHOLERA


PAGE. I75


XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
XXXVI
XXXVII
XXXVIII
XXXIX
XL
XLI


AMERICAN PIRATES
THE MORO PROBLEM
A TRAGEDY OF ZAMBOANGA 
IN THE SPIDER'S WEB.
RIFLEMEN FROM MUD.
BULLETS AND BEES 
LIFE AT COTABATO 
A NIGHT ALARM. 
SAVED BY CICADAS 
DATU MATABALAO
ORIENTAL EDEN ISLES.
TALKING FOR MY LIFE.
SAILING THE SULU SEA.
AMOK AND JURAMENTADO 
BUD DAGO 
FROM WARRIOR TO WARDEN.
A DOLEFUL COLONY
THE IWAHIG EXPERIMENT 
THE END OF A TROPIC DAY
INDEX....... I82... 189
~..   196
196
201
214.223.    232
238.    242
253.    261.    271
28I.290
299
3I4
~.. 322
329
*. * 338
*  345




ILLUSTRATIONS
COLONEL JOHN R. WHITE...       Frontispiece
FACING
PAGE
MORO AND KALINGA, NON-COMMISSIONED OFFICERS IN
THE CONSTABULARY.....       I7
GIRLS OF THE SO-CALLED WILD TRIBES, AFTER THE
AMERICAN SCHOOL SYSTEM HAD TOUCHED THEM.   32
CONSTABULARY OFFICERS INTRODUCED SPORTS TO TAKE
THE PLACE OF HEAD-HUNTING IN NORTH LUZON.    32
CAPTAIN JOHN R. WHITE AND A DETACHMENT OF MORO
CONSTABULARY AT COTABATO, MINDANAO, I904.    78
CAPTAIN JOHN R. WHITE AT ISABELA, NEGROS, IN 1902,
WITH CELEDONIO THE BABAYLAN BOY CAPTURED IN
THE MOUNTAINS......          78
A DANCE AMONG THE KALINGAS OF NORTHERN LUZON
WITH CONSTABULARY SOLDIERS ASSISTING.. 127
THE KIND OF ROADS THE AMERICANS BUILT IN THE
PHILIPPINES........ 142
COLONEL WALLACE TAYLOR...... 190
CAPTAIN LEONARD FURLONG.                        I o.  90
COLONEL J. G. HARBORD.                        207
xix




xx              ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
CAPTAIN LEONARD FURLONG AND HIS NON-COMMISSIONED OFFICERS OF IST COMPANY, COTABATO, P. C.,
MINDANAO, 1905....... 2I5
TWO GENTLEMEN OF SULU. TYPICAL MORO WARRIORS. 254
OLD SPANISH BUILDING AT SIASSI, SULU PROVINCE. 271
MORO VINTA UNDER FULL SAIL..... 281
PEARL LUGGERS AT JOL6, SULU ARCHIPELAGO.. 281
GENERAL RIGGS INSPECTING BONGAO CONSTABULARY,
SULU PROVINCE....... 290
THE KIND OF MEN WHO FOUGHT AT BUD DAJO.. 299
MORO TRENCHES ON SUMMIT OF BUD DAJO... 319
VICE-PRESIDENT FAIRBANKS AND GEN L WM. C. RIVERS
INSPECTING THE IWAHIG PENAL COLONY, I908. 334




BULLETS AND BOLOS
THIRTEEN YEARS IN THE PHILIPPINE
CONSTABULARY


I




I:




CHAPTER I


SOLDIER AND POLICEMAN
ON July 4, i90i, William H. Taft was inaugurated first
American civil governor of the Philippine Islands. A temporary grandstand had been erected on the little plaza
fronting the Ayuntamiento in Manila; and the rough
board structure had been placed on huge blocks of stone
that marked the foundations of a building begun by the
Spaniards but never finished. Those unused foundations
were symbolical of that Castilian social and political
structure that had crumbled when Dewey's guns roared
over Manila Bay on May I, i898.
In front of that grandstand I watched the ceremonies
that transferred power from General Arthur MacArthur,
the military governor, to the civil authority; and saw a
big, blond, painfully hot man inducted into a position as
full of difficulties and stumbling-blocks as could well be
imagined.
Few men have perspired their way into the Presidency
of the United States and its chief-justiceship, yet on that
Philippine Fourth of July William H. Taft started a
career which took him from a hot and cheap grandstand
on the other side of the world to the cool and stately seat
of the Chief Justice of the United States-via the War
Department and the White House.
3




BULLETS AND BOLOS


The crowd of spectators was not dense. There were a
thousand or two Filipinos who should have been enthusiastically hopeful but were merely apathetic; a sprinkling
of frankly sarcastic officers and soldiers, regular and
volunteer; with a few, very few, American civilians who
were largely employed by the military government but
many of whom now found themselves automatically
transferred to the civil regime. For the most part the
civilian onlookers were unconscious of being part of a
historical event; ignorant that they were the nucleus of a
civil service that was within a few years to work great
changes in the allegedly unchangeable Orient. And least
of all did I imagine that for thirteen years to come I
should take a hand in the game.
It was perhaps fortunate that none of us at that time
had read Sir Edwin Arnold's thoughtful lines:
The East bowed low before the blast
In patient deep disdain;
She let the legions thunder pastThen plunged in thought again.
If we had known the history of Eastern nations or had
studied the relationship between Europeans and Asiatics
we might have been discouraged. But we were all young
and we belonged to a young and hopeful nation. With
firm and strong young hands which did not tremble we
took the reins of government from palsied Spanish
fingers; little did we reck that we knew nothing of the
temper or the mettle of the team we were to driveOccidental Democracy and Oriental Autocracy.
After two years as a private and non-commissioned




SOLDIER AND POLICEMAN


5


officer in the regular army, somewhat unprofitably spent
in a Turkish-bath chase after insurgents over and through
the rice paddies of Cavite Province, I had been discharged
to accept a clerkship under the military government. I
was twenty-one and, after the hardship of provincial
hiking and fighting, life in MIanila was good and fullflavored. For that was the epoch still affectionately referred to by old-timers in the Philippines as "The; Days
of the Empire"; when thousands of soldiers, volunteer
and regular, had transformed a sleepy old Spanish colonial capital into a fascinating palimpsest.
The principal business street of Manila, the Escolta,
throbbed with humanity from every quarter of Europe,
Asia, and America: officers and soldiers of the army,
khaki-clad and often stained by the mud of trench and
rice field; a diminishing number of Spaniards, flotsam of
centuries of Castile's rule and misrule of the islands; bluerobed and long-queued Chinamen who controlled practically all business but would now be forced to compete
with hustling American men of affairs; tall Sihks, much
employed by banks and business houses as watchmen, and
towering above the Filipinos who, with white camisas
(shirts) hanging outside their trousers, were swept along
in a current that already moved faster than before the
American advent.
Most of the Filipinos were barefoot. Now there are
few in Manila who go unshod. In that statement lies one
measure of the changes of twenty-seven years.
Down the Escolta, drawn by a pair of native ponies,
crept a toy tram and it was accompanied by diminutive
victorias, quilez, calesas, carromnatas, and carabao-gigs,




6


BULLETS AND BOLOS


buggies, covered vehicles, and water-buffalo carts. In
the little vehicles soldiers on leave sprawled their easy
lengths and, when necessary for comfort, projected their
legs to the driver's seat. In many of the more pretentious
victorias sat women of all nationalities, with but a single
thought-to relieve the soldiers of their pay, hard-earned
among popping Mauser rifles but easily lost, amid the
popping of corks, to the hetarae who followed the army
as sharks follow a vessel at sea. Money flowed as easily
as the turbid stream of the Pasig beneath the graceful
arches of the Bridge of Spain. There was no American
so worthless but that he could secure a job of some sort
with the army or the civil government.
For a month or two after my discharge I lived in a
"mess" in the Walled City —Manila proper. The old
nomenclature of the city will probably fall into disuse,
but in those days everyone knew the Walled City as
Manila, in contrast with other sections of the city such
as Quiapo, Tondo, Binondo, etc. Among a dozen of us
young fellows, products of the latest civilization dumped
down among the ruins of an Old World structure, were
two ex-soldiers like myself who hailed respectively from
Georgia and Kentucky. They were employed as clerks in
the "Office of the Commissary-General of Subsistence of
Prisoners," or some such imposing title. Owing to the
transfer of the Filipino prisoners to Guam, their work
ran out, but their pay continued; and those two youths
spent most of their time cooling their throats and searing
their stomachs with high-balls of rye and bourbon. The
superior merits of Scotch whisky as a drink for the
tropics were in I9oI unknown to most Americans. How



SOLDIER AND POLICEMAN


7


ever, when our national intelligence was focused on this
subject a full knowledge of the brew of Bonnie Scotland
was speedily acquired.
Anyhow, Smith and Brown, as we'll call them, stuck
to the liquor of their forefathers, spending their hundred
dollars or so a month apiece on what they would call "a
good old American drink, gentlemen-rye!" A hundred
dollars in gold meant about 250 of the Mexican silver
pesos current in the Philippines. A lot of whisky could
be purchased for that sum. They went at it hard for
weeks and by good team work avoided the provost guard.
However, one day I returned early from the office to find
Smith asleep and affectionately embracing an empty bottle
while a noise in the back of the building led me to the tiled
bath on the flat roof, where I found Brown scrabbling
around under the impression that he was pursued by a
gigantic lizard. And through the long thirsty years of
tropical life ahead of me, the thought of that naked youth
in the grip of delirium tremens often acted as a warning
when the whiskies and sodas or the gin pahits (cocktails)
were passed around too freely and too long.
Soon after the inauguration of civil government the
need of an insular police force became apparent. The
army, scattered throughout hundreds of small posts over
the archipelago, was still engaged in hunting down wandering bands of insurgents; but the insurrection had degenerated into guerilla warfare of a particularly irritating nature, which bade fair to drag on indefinitely.
The army had broken the backbone of resistance to
American authority; Aguinaldo and most of the principal
chiefs were captured, killed, or had surrendered; but




8


BULLETS AND BOLOS


scores of minor chieftains were in the field while the
long-established bands of those brigands, with which the
Philippines, like all Malay countries, was infested, had
fattened during the insurrection and were now ravishing
the fairest portions of the islands. For the army to hunt
down these small swift bands was like shooting snipe with
a rifle.
A native police force largely officered by Americans
was needed; in fact the army had already organized such
a force under the title of Philippine Scouts. But the rub
was that the civil government did not control the Scouts
and there was much friction between the civil and military
branches. The civil governor needed an armed force
under his direct supervision, so on August i, 1901o, Act
I75 of the Philippine Commission created the Philippine
Constabulary. Even now, thirteen years after my retirement from that little army, the name conjures up a flood
of tender memories-of fights and friendships from
Aparri to Bongao.
The Philippine Constabulary. Just two rather long
words to most people, but as I write them tears almost
come to my eyes as the thrill of loyalty to the old corps
still wakes an echo in my mind; and I see through the
mist of time and years the epic and the drama which we
youths were to play in the cultivated lowlands and in the
wild mountain jungles of those myriad tropic isles.
The Manila newspapers gave full accounts of the new
organization which was to stamp out brigandage; we
saw fledgling officers strutting around in all the glory of
their red- and gold-trimmed uniforms; several of my best
friends obtained commissions as inspectors and urged me




SOLDIER AND POLICEMAN


9


to join. But at first I hesitated. The Constabulary was
ridiculed by many army men and from what I saw of its
first halting steps I doubted whether the service would
be attractive. However, the longing for further adventure decided me, and on October I8, I9OI, I found my
way through the narrow streets of old Manila to the first
headquarters of the Philippine Constabulary on Calle
Anda.
Behind a big narra table sat an army officer in civilian
clothes: Captain Henry T. Allen of the United States
Cavalry, detailed as Chief of Constabulary with the rank
and pay of brigadier-general in the regular army. A few
minutes' interview with him, a look at my discharge from
the army and other papers, and, lo, I was changed from a
mere civilian to Third Class Inspector John Roberts
White, P.C. My salary was to be $9oo United States currency per annum, which in my mind was quickly translated into its equivalent in Mexican pesos per mensis. I was
promised an early opportunity to chase ladrones (brigands) in the Philippine bosques (jungles) and told where
I could purchase a uniform of gray linen or caciamo cloth,
the gilt buttons, and the broad red shoulder-straps with
gold bars which were to adorn my youthful shoulders. I
had just passed my twenty-second birthday and when I
had donned those red shoulder-straps the world seemed a
very pleasant place.
Our uniform was gray caiamo cloth because in those
early days it was thought better that it should not too
closely resemble the uniform of the regular army. Much
water was to run into Manila Bay before the jealousy
between the army and the upstart Constabulary would be




IO


BULLETS AND BOLOS


wiped out by memories of many a combined campaign in
the swamps of Mindanao and the jungles of bloody
Samar. In I903 the Constabulary adopted a uniform similar to that of the regular army and with the same insignia
of rank.
But instead of the promised excitement of outlaw hunting my first work was humdrum in the extreme. For
several days I addressed the little books of instruction for
the corps, "The Manual of the Philippine Constabulary,"
which from a pamphlet of few leaves grew within a few
years to a substantial volume in which a Constabulary
officer might find information on any subject, from filling
out a requisition for kerosene to shooting a runaway
prisoner.
Within a few days I graduated from this subordinate
position to that of clerk for the Chief, whose civilian
amanuensis was sick. My two or three weeks at this
work gave me splendid opportunity to see the inside
workings of the new organization. Some Spanish papers
which the Chief gave me to translate compelled me to
brush up on the Castilian language, the rudiments of
which I had mastered a few weeks earlier by visits to a
Spanish Agustinian friar who lived in the massive monastery that fronts Manila Bay.




CHAPTER II


PAYMASTER OR FIGHTING MAN?
How interesting always are the first experiences, the first
steps that count so much. Those were fascinating days in
the office of the Chief of the Philippine Constabulary. In
and out passed the heterogeneous population of Manila:
ex-soldiers and officers of the volunteer and regular armies seeking commissions; Filipino politicians establishing relations with the new branch of the government or
forwarding the interests of Filipino members of the insular army; secret service agents with reports of new katipunans (secret societies) or the whereabouts of badly
wanted brigand chiefs; army officers of high rank with
complaints of usurpation of authority by agents of the
civil government; Spaniards of all degrees, men and
women, backwash from a wave that had spent its force,
and who were now looking for employment or for passage back to Spain.
Early in the history of the civil government the Constabulary became a dumping ground for all work not
clearly allotted by law to a particular bureau. All of these
people the Chief urbanely met while at the same time
supervising the task of organization with the distribution of men, supplies, arms, and ammunition throughout
the forty-seven provinces of the archipelago.
II




12


BULLETS AND BOLOS


The Constabulary was organized by provinces; a senior
inspector commanded in each province from, fifty to three
hundred men with the corresponding number of officers.
Within his province the senior inspector controlled the
police and campaign work under the supervision of a district chief. There were five districts each commanded by
an assistant chief with rank of colonel and within his
district the assistant chief had the authority vested in the
Chief of Constabulary to see that brigandage, unlawful
assemblies, and breaches of the peace were suppressed and
law and order maintained.
With some minor changes this organization of the
Constabulary continues to this day and has worked satisfactorily. The principal modification has been the organization within provinces of companies of forty-six men
each. This has facilitated supply, mobility, and keeping
of records.
For a time yet I was to be retained in Manila, although
I frequently requested the Chief to let me go to the provinces and take part in field work. Every morning's mail
brought to the Chief's desk scores of telegrams and letters reporting fights with outlaw or insurgent bands. As
I read and distributed them, a great longing to get into
the game again surged over me. I was eager to be
doing things-not indexing and filing reports about those
who did them.
One telegram would tell of a desperate fight in which
the Constabulary came out victorious, killing many outlaws and capturing rifles, bolos (machetes), and ammunition. Another brief wire might say that Inspector So-andSo, perhaps commissioned a few days earlier, was shot




PAYMASTER OR FIGHTING MAN? I3


or bolo-ed to death while fighting against odds. Yet another would tell of outlaw raids on the rich sugar haciendas (plantations) of some island far to the south and of
Constabulary pursuit over mountains, up rivers, and
through jungle. That was a fascinating mail bag, and it
was a poor morning that did not report the capture or
death of a score of outlaws.
With the inauguration of civil government, legislative
alchemy had transmuted all insurgents into "outlaws,"
and woe to the officer who reported "insurgent bands";
but by whatever name, they gave the Constabulary many
a good chase and sporting fight. We felt little or none of
that hatred of the enemy bred by propaganda and trench
warfare during the World War. Rather we felt, after we
had chased an outlaw chief for a few months through
the jungle, a spirit of not unfriendly competition. But I
am getting ahead of my story. These accounts of fighting
and adventure awakened previous experience of war's
alarms, so that with all the ardor of youth I longed to be
beside the gallant fellows who were almost daily meeting
death.
One day a telegram came which read something like
this:
Indang, Cavite, Nov. 20, I90I.
Chief of Constabulary,
Manila.
While riding from Dasmarinas to Silang with two men I
was attacked by band of six outlaws armed with rifles and
bolos. We killed all six. Sent back detachment from Silang
to bury outlaws.                    KNAUBER,
2nd Class Inspector.




I4


BULLETS AND BOLOS


Knauber got a Medal for Valor for that. Such deeds
soon gave the Constabulary needed prestige and made
the red shoulder-straps of its officers respected by all
classes of Americans and Filipinos throughout that green
string of islands that stretches from Formosa on the
north to Borneo at the south-athwart a thousand miles
of sapphire seas.
The Chief's stenographer returned. My request for
provincial service was met with the remark that, "We
have plenty of men who can hike and fight but few who
can be trusted to do clerical work." So I was made assistant to the quartermaster, a young lawyer, Herbert D.
Gale, who later rose to be Judge of the Court of First
Instance. For a few weeks I ran around Manila buying
supplies and acquiring intimate knowledge of the price
and whereabouts of lamps, blankets, leather goods, dried
fish, rice, and the thousand and one articles needed by
the Quartermaster, Ordnance, and Commissary Departments. It was interesting enough to dicker with the Chinese, Spanish, and other merchants while visiting out-ofthe-way corners of the city on a hunt for needed equipment. A job lot we got. Most of it was scrapped within
a few months. But it served to tide us over until systematic orders for supplies could be placed in the United
States.
That purchasing job brought a few temptations in my
way. With pay of about eighty dollars a month, the extravagances of life in Manila during the Empire Days
made extensive demands on my slim purse. Often I found
handsome presents from Chinese merchants-a case of
whisky, a bed, a settee or other useful article —at my




PAYMASTER OR FIGHTING MAN? iS


quarters; but my recollection is that I returned practically
all of the presents. Memory is, however, dim about the
whisky. There was in the Philippines to tempt our officials an inheritance of native Oriental venality, as well as
the imported Spanish variety.
About the close of i9oi the Chief called me to his
office saying that he intended to make me paymaster of
the First District. Vainly I expostulated that I knew
nothing of accounts. I could learn, said he. As sop to my
vanity, promotion to the grade of Second Class Inspector
was thrown in and for a very small mess of pottage I
yielded. Promotion gave me one more gold bar and ten
dollars a month additional pay.
That morning I awoke wondering where I could borrow a few dollars to tide me over until pay-day. That
night I had a bank account of some eighty thousand
pesos, with a safe in my office containing some thousands
more of pesos in silver, all done up in sacks of matting.
Not strange, indeed, that during the early days of our
Philippine venture some young American disbursing
officers went astray.
It was about that time that one young Constabulary
officer situated like myself put a hundred-pound sack of
government silver pesos in a carromata and boldly drove
off down to the red-light district. Of course he ended in
Bilibid Prison, as did a score or so more Constabulary supply officers, provincial treasurers, and other disbursing officers of the government. The Spanish law
applied to these crimes. The penalty for embezzlement
of government funds was about fourteen years, one
month, and a day-rather a long period in which to




i6


BULLETS AND BOLOS


atone for one night's strolling down an apparently
primrose path.
It was a great pity that more care was not exercised
in the selection of officers entrusted with money responsibility, for the Filipinos got the idea that we were no better than the venal Spanish officials with whom they had
hitherto dealt. Yet there was this difference: the Spaniards went back rich to Spain; the Americans returned to
the United States in the holds of our transports after
serving some years of imprisonment in Bilibid.
Often in after years when visiting that same prison I
would see American convicts about their daily tasks and
think, "There, but for the grace of God, goes John
White."
My experiences as a disbursing officer were sufficiently
interesting, for at the start I did not know the difference
between a voucher and an account current. Indeed, my
financial experience had hitherto been limited to the
simple process of filling my pockets with money and
emptying them again as soon as possible. But now I
found a desk with wire baskets full of imposing papers
which a friendly brother officer told me were vouchers
waiting to be paid. It was a tall pile of vouchers left by
my predecessor, who had himself absconded for parts unknown, taking with him as many Mexican pesos and
United States bills as he could secure.
Hopefully, yet not without trepidation, I tackled that
pile of vouchers. In after years the wall of many a Moro
fort looked less high to me than that pile of vouchers,
which came from every part of the island of Luzon, north
of Manila. One voucher called for payment of fifty sacks








MORO AND KATIANGA )NON-CMMISIONED (TFICIERS
IN THlT CTINSTABULARY




PAYMASTER OR FIGHTING MAN? I7


of rice; the next was a pay-roll for a provincial Constabulary; yet another showed that an officer had hired a horse
for a month at two pesos daily, and so on. Regulations
governing expenditures I had none; or if I did have, I
did not know where to look for them. But I had a checkbook, almost unlimited credit, and the knowledge that
poor devils of officers and men, sweating over the hills
after outlaws, needed money and food. So I buckled to
the job.
I disbursed funds for about three months; and for
about three years after my transfer I was kept busy explaining to the auditor for the Philippine Archipelagoa title as forbidding to us youngsters as it was resounding-just where the half-million pesos or so that I disbursed had disappeared. If a voucher came in stating on
the face of it, "Horse hire, $50," I paid it. And that unreasonable auditor wanted to know where the horse was
hired, for what purpose, and I know not what details
omitted by the officer who had rented the native pony.
Sometimes I was tempted to ask if the auditor did not
want to know the age, sex, date of birth of the animal,
together with its color, marks, and pedigree.
After I had left Manila and was campaigning against
the babaylanes (fanatical outlaws) in Negros, I received
from the auditor my first list of suspensions. It was for
more than $5o,ooo, Mexican currency. Then for night
after night, following strenuous days in the field, I was
kept busy with atlas and papers making up journeys for
officers and men whom I had paid months before in northern Luzon. Thus I came to have accurate knowledge of
that part of the islands long before I visited it; for the




BULLETS AND BOLOS


auditor was so insistent as to dates, places, and facts, that
often I had to supply them from an imagination keyed by
taking part in similar scenes, and with the help of an atlas
of the Philippines. How I blessed the Jesuit priests who
compiled that atlas! Without it I might have been in
Bilibid Prison.
More experienced brother officers to whom I shall ever
be indebted helped me and instructed me in the rudiments
of bookkeeping. But after a few weeks I was ready to
resign; so I respectfully told the Chief as frequently as
possible that he had promised to let me go to the provinces. At last he listened to my plea.
One day he took from his desk a bundle of papers and
walked across the room to a map hanging on the opposite wall. It was a blue-print of the island of Negros, one
of the Visayas group, about three hundred miles south
of Manila and noted for its big sugar plantations. Papers
in hand and often referring to them, General Allen
pointed out the centers of brigandage, spoke of raids on
haciendas by bands of outlaws known in Negros as babaylanes, said that it was one of the most serious problems
confronting the Constabulary, and that organization in
the province of Negros Occidental was just beginning.
Then he ended by saying that I was to go down there to
assist Major Orwig, the Senior Inspector of the Province,
and that he expected that I would take active part in suppressing the outlaws and thus justify my relief as disbursing officer.
Treading on air, I left the Chief's office. I was to become at least a supernumerary on the colorful stage of
the Philippines, its properties the weapons of guerilla




PAYMASTER OR FIGHTING MAN? i9
warfare, and its drop curtain often death. As I threaded
the maze of the Walled City back to my room overlooking the Agustinian monastery, the gray city wall, and
Manila Bay, never had the streets seemed so full of
happy people, the weathered tiles of the buildings so restfully red, and the tropic sky above those tiles so brilliantly
blue.
I was young and off on a great adventure.




CHAPTER III


TASTES AND ODORS OF THE TROPICS
A FEW days after my interview with the Chief I handed
over to my successor my balance of government funds,
together with my blessing and a heap of unpaid vouchers.
Whether the money responsibility or accounts were too
much for him or what, I do not know, but within a few
months my successor died; and I have often felt that a
few more weeks of that financial strain might have killed
me, while the bolos and bullets of the babaylanes and
Moros passed me by.
Then one day I packed my humble belongings in a
tampipe (straw suit-case), strapped a heavy Colt singleaction.45 revolver around my waist, took a.44 Winchester repeating rifle in my hand, and started south.
That Winchester was to shoot my way through many a
tight hole. As I write it hangs on the wall, reminder of a
score of jungle fights, and on the stock are several notches
which, boylike, I made when outlaw chiefs fell before it.
Those who were not chiefs went unnotched.
I was off for the southern Philippines. First came the
steamer voyage to Iloilo. Some old-timers may remember
the good ship Francisco Pleguezelo, which in those days
linked Manila with the Visayas Islands to the south. We
were not then as critical of transportation as American
supervision of the inter-island steamers has since made
20




TASTES AND ODORS OF THE TROPICS 21


us, or we would have complained of the accommodations
more bitterly and resultantly than we did. She was a
craft of some four hundred tons burden and-indescribably dirty. To sleep in her cabins was an adventure. Huge
cockroaches, inches long, black, greasy, and evil-smelling,
infested walls and bedding. At night they roamed over
the somnolent voyager, and until he learned to go to bed
with his socks on, they browsed between his toe-nails, so
that paradoxically enough sore feet often resulted from
a steamer voyage.
Although it was hot meandering down between the
islands at a speed of from seven to eight knots an hour,
yet the only way to get a bath was to arise early, stand
on deck arrayed in short cotton drawers, and bribe a sailor
to draw buckets of water from the ocean to slosh over a
body fevered by a night in a stuffy cabin and irritated by
the attacks of militant and mephitic vermin. True, those
Spanish boats had bathrooms, because the ships had been
constructed in Scotch or English shipyards. But unhappy
days had fallen on those bathrooms; they were now used
for storing vegetables.'
The discomforts of travel, however, might readily be
forgotten while studying the interesting passengers. Two
Spanish Recolleto friars, tonsured and white-robed, were
returning under American auspices to the little Visayan
villages whence they had been driven by insurgents a year
IMany years later I sailed from Liverpool, England, on the Spanish steamer Alicante of the Transatlantic Line. As we steamed down
the Mersey it was a cold, gray December day; but as soon as I
sought the bathroom I knew I was on my way home to the PhilipPines, for there were the sacks of potatoes, the unctuous cockroaches
crawling over them, and the other abundant indications that the
bath had been long in disuse.




22


BULLETS AND BOLOS


before-and very lucky to escape with their lives. What
tales those priests told me and how their conversation
was sandwiched with epithets about the Visayan natives, particularly about the insurgent leaders! Chungos
(monkeys) was their habitual reference to that class of
Filipinos. There were fat Chinese mestizos (half-breeds),
business men, and hacenderos of Panay and Negros,
always discussing the price of sugar per picul or telling
of haciendas ruined by outlaw raids.
A few American business men of the sutler type that
follows an army and whose principal samples were
brands of beer or whisky, held to themselves on deck or
retired to their cabins to discuss their samples. Half a
dozen well-to-do Filipinos, some of them ex-insurgent
officers, and politicians all, were returning from interviews with high officials of the new gobierno cizil. They
were voluble in their appreciation of the Constabulary
that was to take the place of the army, which would resemble the old Guardia Civil of Spanish days, and would
(so they hoped) rapidly suppress outlawry in their native
provinces. From the Filipinos I learned much of provincial conditions, of the causes of outlawry and cattle
stealing, and of the means to take for their suppression.
Before the voyage was over I had exhausted my small
stock of Spanish, but had added many new words to my
vocabulary. I began to realize that I was embarking on a
strange life; and that only by a working knowledge of
Spanish and the native dialects could I come to an understanding of the world around me and the problems of a
Constabulary officer's life.
At meals we gathered round a long table on the after




TASTES AND ODORS OF THE TROPICS 23


deck protected by double awnings from the sun; and there,
cooled by the northeast monsoon and with a panoramic
vista of palm-fringed islands slipping by, we ate the sopa
de arroz (rice soup), the cocido (dish) of meat and vegetables, the biftek and pescado frito (fried fish), which
made up the usual fare on inter-island craft. The fish was
always served after the meat course. All was washed
down with a good grade of Spanish Rioja wine, and the
meal finished with Edam cheese served in its red cannonballs, guava jelly in flat tins, bananas and other fruits,
and coffee. To a hungry youth those meals more than
atoned for the cockroaches in bed and the potatoes in the
bath.
When the jolly Gallego captain was feeling particularly happy he would invite certain of the passengers to
drink a cocktail, so called. An American bartender would
have shuddered at the mixture which a Filipino majordomo placed in octagonal tumblers holding more than a
half pint. It consisted of gin and water in equal parts,
flavored by a liberal dash of Angostura bitters, with a
tablespoonful of sugar and all beaten to a froth with
an instrument that resembled a miniature broom. But
mighty good those cocktails were. The taste of them
still lingers in my mouth, conjuring up the mixed crowd
on the steamer, the warm smell of the southern sea, the
dancing water of the' narrow straits between islands
verdure-clad from beaches of golden sand to rocky summits piercing the blue bowl of heaven. All the "call of the
East" seems sometimes held in those cocktails mixed on
the old Pleguezelo and other ships on the waters of that
fascinating eastern archipelago.




24


BULLETS AND BOLOS


However, despite cockroaches and cocktails, fortyeight hours after leaving Manila we steamed between
islets through the narrow straits that mark the entrance
to Iloilo harbor. There I transferred to a diminutive
steamer that plied between Iloilo on Panay Island and
Silay on Negros Island. Soon I had opportunity to observe that comfort is always comparative; for the craft
was no more than a top-heavy launch, laden to the gunwales with a mass of native passengers, chickens in baskets, dried fish in bales, guinamous, which is venerable
fish in liquid state, in earthenware jars, live carabao and
oxen, and merchandise of every description.
The variety of evil smells on that launch equaled the
number of brands of pickles put up by a famous house.
The old Pleguezelo was by comparison a holystoned
yacht. For several hours I stifled in a crowd of Filipinos,
Chinos, and mestizos, while, wobbling in the swell set up
by a stiff northeast monsoon, we crossed the straits to
Negros.
Soon the passengers became actively and enthusiastically seasick, giving me opportunity to make the interesting observation that a mestizo is always more violently
nauseated than a pure-blooded native. The reason for this
I cannot even surmise, but must leave to the explanations
of trained ethnologists. It was indeed a pleasant little
voyage.
Yet, but for the smells, the sickness of fellow passengers, and the combinations of both, indeed despite it all,
I enjoyed the crossing. Air and sea sparkled under the
cooling influence of the northerly winds which make the
Philippine climate delightful for three or four months of




TASTES AND ODORS OF THE TROPICS 25


the year. We passed scores of white-winged lorchas
(small schooners) and paraos (outrigger canoes), laden
with sugar for Iloilo and leaping over the foaming combers. It was the season of the sugar-cane harvest and long
before we reached the Negros shore the smoke of haciendas rose against the green fields which sloped up toward
the mountain jungles and crags.
At last we ran alongside a crazy bamboo wharf at
Silay. Strong wharves are not built along the open coasts
of Negros, because of the destructive typhoons; while a
bamboo structure is as easily replaced as it is swept away.
Disembarking, I stumbled along the creaking, swaying
pantalan (wharf) and hired a carromata with two horses
for the drive along the coast road to Bacolod, the capital
of the province of Negros Occidental, where I was to report to the senior inspector for duty.
It was the dry cool season which lasts from December
to April or even May and the roads were soft with white
dust that also lay heavy on the fields of sugar-cane which
bordered them. We drove beneath groves of coco palms
or crossed shallow streams where carabbao were cooling
after the day's toil in the cane fields, and at each crossing
a ruined bridge testified to the wave of insurrection and
disorder that had recently whelmed the province; although
Negros suffered less from the insurrection and more from
subsequent brigandage than any other island. Negros is
one of the wealthiest islands of the Philippine group, with
rich volcanic soil. The World War so increased the price
of sugar that many of the hace~nderos must have made
great fortunes.
I was astonished at the progressive appearance of the




26          BULLETS AND BOLOS
country, the substantial houses on the haciendas and in
the village of Talisay through which we passed. When
sugar was at five pesos the picul or more the hacenderos
bought diamonds for their daughters or built fine houses
of beautiful hardwoods, the mahogany of the islands,
molave, ipil, and narra. When sugar dropped they pawned
the diamonds and mortgaged the houses.
A swollen orb sank blood-red behind the mountains of
Panay beyond the straits, leaving its glory of gold and
topaz to light the brief twilight of those latitudes. The
air was heavy with the never-to-be-forgotten fragrance
of sugar cooking from the vats of the hacienda mills.




CHAPTER IV


A BALL-AND SOME REFLECTIONS
IT was dusk when the carromata containing the big,
young, and very green Constabulary officer rattled down
the streets of the capital of Negros Occidental. From
the massive church in the center of the plaza, dominating
in Spanish custom the pueblo and its surroundings, rang
the measured monotone of the vesper bell. From house
to house buzzed the hum of evening prayer, and through
the low windows of the poorer dwellings or nipc (palm)
shacks could be seen lighted candles or wicks floating in
cups of coco oil faintly illuminating pictures of the
saints or images of the Virgin before which women
made their evening orisons.
From a tienda (store) at the corner of the plaza
sounded the click of billiard balls; around little tables in
the open air sat the distinguidos of the town, sipping
their aperitifs of gin or beer. There were army officers,
Filipino and American provincial officials, a Spaniard or
two, and other Filipinos whom I later learned to know as
prominent lawyers and merchants of the province.
Tied to posts stood several stocky ponies, heads drooping to the dusty road, flanks still wet with the sweat of
the gallop in from near-by haciendas; for your well-to-do
Filipino rarely rides his horse except at top speed.
27




28


BULLETS AND BOLOS


The assemblage looked curiously at the passing arrival.
I caught the glint of Constabulary shoulder-straps. A
young officer came forward to halt my carromata and
offer his services in locating me for bed and board. At
his invitation I joined the group for a drink that washed
away the dust of ten miles. He had introduced himself
as Third Class Inspector Walter A. Smith, the supply
officer of the Constabulary of Negros Occidental, a somewhat imposing title which the organization and achievements of the Constabulary scarcely yet warranted. After
the drink we went across the plaza to the office of
the senior inspector, and I reported to Major Orwig for
duty.
Orwig had been major in a volunteer regiment and so
had been given the responsible job of organizing the Constabulary of this outlaw-ridden province. He was an
energetic and likable man. But just now he was busy and
could only greet me, for the governor-general of the
Philippines, with a large party of high officials including
our own Chief, had arrived on the gubernatorial yacht
direct from Manila just as this very dusty subordinate
officer of the government was crawling up the Silay road
humbly to enter the town by the back entrance.
The governor-general had been received on the beach
with music and banners. No music greeted me, but I got
a bottle of beer from Smith at the tienda; and if my welcome was less extravagant, it was none the less hearty,
for Smith had said: "I'm mighty glad to see you. Things
are in a devil of a mess down south and we've had no
officer to send there."
Nevertheless I've always amiably held it against the




A BALL-AND SOME REFLECTIONS 29


Chief of Constabulary that he did not contrive me passage on the governor-general's boat direct to Bacolod; for
it left Manila within a few hours of my own departure
on the dusty Pleguezelo. I rather think that in those days
the spirit of camaraderie had not been developed in the
civil service and that some of the higher officials thought
themselves-as they doubtless were-aa cut above the exsoldiers who constituted the hard-working and all-risking
rank and file of provincial administration. The bond of
fellowship was yet to be created by the work of the years
to come: those years when the ladronism of centuries was
wiped out; when American health officers made the death
rate in unsanitary pueblos drop twenty, thirty, and even
fifty or more per cent; when an ever-growing spider's
web of permanent public roads and railroads crept over
the provinces while American officers in cooperation with
Filipinos worked by the hundreds, day and night, and
died by the score, of bugs, bolos, and bullets.
And all for what? In the thankless task of making the
Philippines safe, healthy, and prosperous. How could we,
then little versed in history or philosophy, know that happiness would not follow? And that the Filipino people-or
that element among them strongest-lunged-would rather
be unsafe, unhealthy, and poverty-stricken under their
own flag than everything that was good under the StarSpangled Banner? And yet the task was not thankless. It
was worth while if only for the satisfaction it gave to
racial pride and for the comradeship established both with
Americans and Filipinos.
But that is of the perspiring years ahead. This is of
Bacolod that night in March, I902. There was to be the




30


BULLETS AND BOLOS


usual baile (dance) in the provincial building to celebrate
the arrival of the governor-general. So, pulling a somewhat crumpled uniform   from  my tampipe, with light
steps I accompanied Inspector Smith across the plaza to
the official reception and ball. It was the first time in
many years that I had attended a dance, for a soldier of
Uncle Sam in the Philippines had all too few opportunities for wholesome social pleasure.
Different indeed was the treatment of soldiers in '98
from that given them during the World War. No Y. M.
C. A.'s and society canteen girls for us in those days;
only social ostracism for the enlisted man. From now on,
however, bailes were to be as much a part of my life as
expeditions against the babaylanes. The people of Negros
delighted in dancing. Rarely a week passed in any pueblo
but that a baptism or a birthday offered excuse to get together a few guitars or a more pretentious orchestra,
clear the polished hardwood saka (hall) of some house,
and tread a maze of waltzes, polkas, and rigodons (square
dances) from 9 P. M. to daybreak.
But now this first baile held for me absorbing interest.
The long sala of the provincial building was as brilliantly
lighted as could be managed with all the oil lamps in
town, while palms and colored lanterns adorned stairs
and approaches. On chairs around the sala the Filipina
and mestiza belles of northern Negros literally blossomed
to the full. Their glossy black tresses were set with buds
of fragrant ylang-ylang, gardenias, frangipani, or other
heavy-scented flowers.
Later, when the: room heated up with perspiring
couples, the fragrance would be so sickly sweet as to comrn



A BALL-AND SOME REFLECTIONS 3I


pel an unaccustomed American to, seek the open windows
where a fresh night breeze blew down from the mountains to the sea. Even by American standards the girls
of Negros were indisputably pretty; many there were
whose features and complexion would not have been out
of place in southern Europe; while a dash of Chinese
blood in some faces, with the heightened cheek-bones and
slightly slanting eyes that looked so well above the sheltering fan, gave further piquancy of expression. The darker
beauty of the daughters of the soil set off the fairer
charm of a score or so of American women, wives of
army officers, or provincial officials. The white-and-gold
uniforms of the officers gave another touch to the room.
It was all fascinating to one who had but recently been
a soldier of Uncle Sam, good for fighting but not for
Society with a large S.
Soon the governor-general's party appeared and the
receiving line was formed. When my turn came I was
rapidly shot along the line of American and Filipino officials and their wives; passed from the colonel commanding the Sixth Infantry to the Filipino governor of the
province; on to the massive governor-general with Presidential aspirations just whispering in his brain; then on
down the line of commissioners and minor officials, including our own Chief, until I was flipped off the end of
the line to eddy with other guests in groups about the
sala.
The reception over, the ball opened with a rigodon, a
stately Spanish square dance that seems in some way to
typify the social intercourse of the people as the two-step
of those days might have been held to measure the easier




32


BULLETS AND BOLOS


manners of our world. The three-hundred-pound American governor-general led off with the ninety-pound wife
of the Filipino governor.
The dance was on; and under Smith's tuition I was
soon learning the Filipino dances, not so different, after
all, from those of other peoples. The vcase was merely a
waltz in quicker time, the polka a jerky two-step, while
the square dances all had figures which recalled boyhood
efforts in a cooler clime. The Filipina girls made graceful and obliging partners; many of them already spoke a
little English which pieced out my broken Spanish.
The official party left the ball early for a consultation
between the governor-general and the provincial officials
relative to measures to quash the outlawry which threatened to stop sugar production in Negros. Major Orwig
told me to come to his office after the conference and receive instructions for the morrow. I gathered that at the
meeting of the chiefs they would principally discuss the
possibilities of enlisting a Constabulary sufficiently strong
to suppress the outlaws and relieve the Regulars and
Scouts now engaged in that uncongenial task.
Long after midnight I found the major at a table
covered with blue-print maps of Negros. For an hour or
more he sketched to me the political and police situation
in the province. Soon my brain was muddled by a medley
of names of places and outlaw chiefs. As he spoke his
finger moved rapidly over the map:
"Here is Mount Canlaon, the eight-thousand-foot
active volcano that you could see over from Iloilo. In the
forests on its slopes are the bands of Dalmacio the Negrito and 'Gobernador' Francisco Abilo. They have about




GIRlS OF THE SO-CALLDFl) 'ILD TRIBES, AFTER THE A ERICAN
SCIIOOL SYSTEM IAD TOUCHIED THEM
NSTAEUJRLARY (JFICES INiRO1iCED SPORTS TO TAE TE PLACE
or            S      g zgg 0@0 E 0~~X2 wz IM 2<




t:
I; 
I




A BALL-AND SOME REFLECTIONS 33


fifty men and operate chiefly on the haciendas between
La Castellana and La Carlota, though they sometimes
drop down over the other side of the mountains to the
east coast and raid Escalante or San Carlos." His finger
traced the babaylanes' trails.
"Here, further south, is the valley of the Binalbagan
River, the richest sugar-producing district in the island.
This range of mountains to the east and south of the
valley is the haunt of Papa Isio, the fanatical pope of the
babaylanes. He is the 'papa' or pope of the mountain folk,
who are mostly criminals and ex-insurgents, though there
are still numbers of the Bukidnons, the harmless wild
tribes of the mountains on whom the babaylanes also prey
and whom the Constabulary must protect.
"Papa Isio has probably two hundred men and forty
good rifles. His principal generals in the south are Iping
Daco, Iping Diutay, and Aguacil Cito. Rufo, one of his
subordinate chiefs, recently surrendered to Colonel
Kennon of the Sixth Infantry and now lives at Sipalay in
the extreme south of the province, where we have a small
Constabulary post. We have another detachment at
Himamaylan, on the coast near the Binalbagan Valley;
but we have no men in the valley. It has been policed by
a company of Infantry at Isabela and the Scouts at La
Castellana. But now the governor-general wants us to
take over that part of the province, so I'm going to send
you to Himamaylan with twenty additional men. You
will command the post there, recruit more men, drill and
instruct your detachment, and get into touch with Colonel
Kennon at Isabela. Co6perate with him, and when he is
ready you will receive orders to relieve the Sixth In



34


BULLETS AND BOLOS


fantry and control the military and police situation in the
whole southern half of the province."
I listened with both ears. Possibilities and responsibilities were unfolding before me; I was to command an
independent detachment and uphold law and order over
a broad section of Negros. I was impatient to be up and
doing, so thought it no hardship when Major Orwig
closed with:
"You'd better get an hour or two of sleep before daybreak, as you will start early for Himamaylan. It is forty
miles south of here. You can hike it in less than two days
going easy. Smith will provide you with a horse. Your
men will foot it. You will purchase rations on the road.
Further supplies will be sent you by parao when Smith
makes his bimonthly pay-trip. Good-by and good luck!
Don't be too rash"-he glanced at my red hair-"and
don't let the babaylanes get you. You get them, when
the time comes."




CHAPTER V


A MODERN DON QUIXOTE
IT seemed that I had barely tumbled onto the canvas cot
in Smith's quarters before that genial officer, responsive
himself to an alarm clock, routed me out with: "Time to
start for Himamaylan, White! Six o'clock, and your outfit is ready and waiting."
A few minutes later I was surveying my first command of Filipino soldiers, twenty weak, drawn up
alongside the road. A small but wiry pony was held in
waiting for el capitayn, who was myself; for the Filipinos,
accustomed to Spanish military titles in the Guardia Civil,
did not wait for the orders which, a few months later,
changed our appellations from inspectors to lieutenants,
captains, etc.
A Constabulary officer of to-day with his neatly clad
and uniformly equipped troops would hold up hands in
horror at the appearance of my first command; nevertheless I was as proud as if in command of a squadron of
United States Cavalry. But it certainly was a nondescript
detachment; uniforms were of several grades of cafiamo
(linen) cloth, made by local tailors after a general pattern to suit personal preferences; leggins the soldados
had none; some were shod and some went barefoot; some
35




36


BULLETS AND BOLOS


wore blue flannel shirts, others caicamo blouses; hats and
caps were of various kinds, favor being shown a widebrim straw with red hat-cord.
Most of the men were armed with the single barrel
Remington shot-gun, a weapon frightfully ineffective
against outlaws possessed of high-powered modern rifles.
Only a few had Mauser or Remington rifles, relics of the
Spanish Army. Ammunition was carried in pockets or
in home-made belts of light duck; haversacks, also homemade, were stuffed to overflowing with all manner of
non-uniform articles. Cooking utensils dangled from
shoulders or belts; and in the latter, bolos were stuck
with a rakish, brigandish effect. The one really uniform
article of equipment was the scarlet blanket which each
man carried in a roll over his shoulder. Altogether they
looked as pretty a bunch of ladrones as could well be
imagined and it was to be hoped that if we met any Regulars or Scouts they would see me first-otherwise they
would surely open fire on my detachment. We doubtless
resembled the soldiery of a Central American republic.
But through the spectacles of youth and the telescope
of opportunity I saw no flaws in my command, although
it was with some misgivings that I bestrode the native
pony. I am considerably over six feet in height; the little
stallion was perhaps thirteen hands. I almost walked into
the saddle and my feet dangled within an inch of the
ground. Beside me Don Quixote on Rosinante would
have appeared the knightly figure that his disordered
brain conceived. However, with a farewell word of
thanks to Smith, and a promise from him to bring needed
funds and equipment to Himamaylan as soon as might




A MODERN DON QUIXOTE


37


be, I gave the word of command-"Detachment-attenshun! For-r-r-ward-march!"
The column swung unevenly into line. Feet padded the
dusty road; mixed accoutrements clattered and jingled
a marching tune; a few sleepy-eyed Filipinos came to the
shell-framed windows of their houses. I urged my fiery
little brute to the head of the line, and we started south.
I sized up my men; and it is pretty certain that they
sized up me. From now on what mattered most was the
degree of confidence with which I could inspire them.
Lack of arms and ammunition, improper uniforms, inadequate food and supplies, all mattered little as long as
those small brown men believed in el capitan.
Many of the soldiers had seen service in the Spanish
days, either in the Guardia Civil or in the various forces
of native troops with which the Spaniards controlled, or
failed to control, the Philippines. Some, however, were
mere boys, enlisting for the fun of the thing-much like
their commander, though, needless to say, the ensuing
years sobered me down. I soon took due pride in the constructive work that we of the Philippine Civil Service
were doing in America's interest in the Far East.
My sergeant, Melquiades Basubas, was a pock-marked
Tagalo with a record of twenty years in the Guardia
Civil. A corporal, Tomas Villanueva, promptly constituted himself my body servant and cook, turning out to
be as amiable and useful a scoundrel as one might wish
to encounter —or avoid. Tomas could always scrape up a
meal for his chief. When more sophisticated in the ways
and walks of Filipino soldiers I learned that it was not
always well to investigate the manner of the scraping.




38


BULLETS AND BOLOS


Let it now suffice to say that the pesos with which I
furnished Tomas to purchase the chicken, eggs, rice, and
bananas that were the staples of provincial diet usually
remained, at least in part, in his pocket; while he fully
enlarged on the rank, influence, and terrible wrath-to-beinvoked of his innocent commander to procure the necessary delicacies from browbeaten but perhaps slightly
honored civilians.
Soon I learned to appreciate the cheerfulness of my
men under the irritations of travel. They trudged
through the dust which rose yellow underfoot; rapidly
driven quilez and carromatas passed, swirling up clouds
that choked nostrils and eyes; the sun rose scorchingly
above a fringe of coco palms bordering the coast road;
but the men swung on, cracking jokes with passers-by,
ogling soft-skinned girls pounding out palay (unhulled
rice) under the palm-thatched verandas of peasants' huts
or treading the road, straight and shapely, with market
baskets of fruit and vegetables skilfully balanced on
their heads.
When steps dragged some soldier would unswing a
guitar to twang a brisk air that put new life into lagging
feet. To help along the most heavily laden I dismounted
from my Lilliputian steed and hung blanket rolls, haversacks, and miscellaneous accoutrements from the saddle;
then footed it along with my men.
That noon we siestaed in the casac popular, or townhall, of Valladolid, a considerable pueblo with many substantial stone and hardwood houses. There I was surprised to find two American women teachers, advance
guard of that host of pedagogical Argonauts which,




A MODERN DON QUIXOTE


39


within a few years, was to make English the common
tongue of those islands of Babeldom. One teacher was a
young and rather pretty girl already monopolized by an
army officer who had ridden a score of miles to pay a
call; the other, a sweet-faced, ringleted old maid, made
me welcome in a cool room facing the plaza. How out of
place she seemed amid those exotic surroundings-the
heat, the luxuriant palms, and warm hibiscus beneath the
window, the barefoot Filipino boys softly moving over
the polished floor, carrying their lesson books and making good-bys in broken English. Rather she conjured up
some cool New England village with old stone buildings
and fences, with oaks and elms and a little white schoolhouse at the cross-roads. What a spirit she had, and hundreds more like her, crossing continents and oceans,
braving the dangers of insurrection and outlawry, to
broadcast American ideas and education along our latest
frontier.
The necessary rations for my men I purchased from
Chinese storekeepers by means of vales. The vale, or
1. 0. U., was the Constabulary officer's right arm; it
purchased anything from a horse to a ganta of rice, or
even obtained cash to pay a detachment of men and meet
an officer's personal expenses. It is good to relate that
the Chinaman's trusting confidence was not often misplaced. Sometimes an unscrupulous officer was transferred to another province or dismissed from the service
without liquidating his vales; but usually he took them
up when pay-day came, or the supply officer on his bimonthly trips would pay them if clearly issued for government supplies. I believe, however, that the Chinos,




40


BULLETS AND BOLOS


accustomed under a previous regime to greasing official
palms, were often surprised when American officers took
up their vales. Those Chinese merchants of the provinces
were our best friends. They stood for that law and order
under which their business prospered and soon recognized the Constabulary as the most powerful agency in
its enforcement.
Although the Chinos were often married to Visayan
women, yet they lived in such manner that in each store
and house there was a decided flavor of that oldest
Orient —the Mongolian Empire. Occasionally a Chinaman would be met who had accepted the Roman Catholic
faith, cut off his queue, and identified himself closely
with the life of his town. But such cases were comparatively rare, notwithstanding that Chinese blood ran in
the veins of many of the leading families. Indeed, their
names showed it; for the common Negros surnames
such as Lacson, Locsin, Tiongco, etc., were merely the
Chinese Lak-sung, Lok-sing, Ti-ong-ko easily adapted
from ideographs to Roman letters.
The upper-class provincial population was divided into
three groups, fairly distinct yet often merging through
intermarriage: the pure Visayas, among whom were
few wealthy families, the Spanish mestizos, and the Chinese mestizos. The latter was by far the most substantial
class and early ranged itself in hearty support of the
American Government. Its members were largely merchants and hacenderos. The Spanish mestizos furnished
most of the lawyers, doctors, and other professional
classes-including the politicians. As a rule they were
less friendly to Americans. This was natural, as they were




A MODERN DON QUIXOTE


4I


of the class which lost most prestige by the change of
government. In the Spanish days a dash of Castilian
blood ranged a man with the imperial race that held the
islands, while his children were sought in marriage by
Spaniards, either peninsulares, as those born in Spain
were called, or by creoles, born in the Philippines.
If American control of the Philippines is early released the population would probably divide along the
above lines. It is possible that the split would mean no
more than political differences and struggles for ascendency; but it is likely that bloodshed and disorder would
often result. Certain it is that the longer American control is exercised the greater will be the fusion of classes
brought about by improved communications, by the public-school system, and by common friendly participation
in government enforced by Uncle Sam. Whether we
have any business burning our fingers while pulling
Philippine racial chestnuts out of the exceedingly hot fire
of Asiatic politics is entirely another question.
In Valladolid I met a Spaniard horribly scarred in face
and body by cuts from   bolos of raiding babaylanes.
Within the past few weeks his hacienda had been assaulted by a band of Papa Isio's outlaws, his buildings
burned, his cattle driven to the mountains, the younger
women of his household carried off to be concubines for
babaylan chiefs; while he had been left for dead. The
sight of this man made my blood boil; so that when I
heard rumors that a band of babaylanes was at that
moment raiding between La Castellana and La Carlota,
pueblos of the interior a few miles from Valladolid, I
decided to interpret liberally my instructions to proceed




42


BULLETS AND BOLOS


to Himamaylan and, instead of holding to the direct
road along the coast, I swung my detachment inland and
reached the pueblo of La Carlota at sunset. It was a
good twenty-mile hike to start my provincial career. The
soldiers were foot-sore and very tired; but they smelled
a possible encounter with the babaylanes and seemed
eager to be put to the test. I was mightily pleased with
them; and they seemed pleased with me.
At La Carlota we camped in the casa popular, the men
curling up in blankets on the floor, while my superior
rank procured a cot sent over by an American sergeant
in charge of a small detachment of soldiers stationed
there. The Constabulary was as yet unknown in La CarIota. Later on, when our reputations were made, the best
houses of Filipinos and Spaniards in the town were
thrown open to our officers.
I learned that the raiding band had been driven away
by the Scouts stationed at La Castellana; but, as we were
now inland, I determined to keep on south through the
Binalbagan Valley and descend to the coast again at
Himamaylan. My curiosity to see the famous valley
which Chief Allen in Manila had pointed out as the
"playground of the babaylanes" overcame any scruples
about strict interpretation of orders to "proceed to
fRimamaylan"-the road being not clearly defined.
Before daybreak we were on the trail. Our way now led
over rough cart tracks through sugar plantations with
many a short cut over rolling hills covered with dense
cogon grass. These green   foot-hills are  such a
feature of Philippine physiography and Constabulary
expeditions that a few words in explanation are due. A




A MODERN DON QUIXOTE


43


description of Negros will fairly well apply to other
islands of the archipelago.
The backbone of Negros is a rugged chain of mountains running north and south, culminating in the center
of the island in the eight-thousand-foot active volcano,
Mount Canlaon. This cordillera (chain) is several thousand feet high, and densely forested, with but one or two
passes at lower elevations. On the lower slopes a primeval
forest thins out into bamboo jungle with occasional caingins, or clearings, where the hill folk have felled and
burned timber to plant palay and camotes (sweet potatoes). Lower still are cogon-clad foot-hills billowing down
to the coastal plain with its fat plantations of sugar and
rice, where little whitewashed, galvanized-iron roofed
pueblos, and haciendas dot green fields. The cogon grass
of the foot-hills is from knee- to breast- high, though in
sheltered gullies it may be over a tall man's head, more
of a cane-brake than a grassy sward. Winding up and
down through the cogon, crossing rocky streams which
issue from forest slopes above or diving into thickets of
bamboo, wild guavas, or tigbao cane, are the trails leading from the plains to the mountains. It was down these
trails that the outlaw wolves descended and up which the
Constabulary hounds sweated in pursuit.
And now every turn of the trail opened pictures of
Philippine country life. We passed through a hacienda:
first the fields of ripe cane, arching overhead to cut unguarded face or hands, for the sugar-cane like the taller
cogon and tigbao grass will wound a careless wayfarer;
then, nearer the central buildings, men were cutting the
cane and piling it on carts drawn by carabao or oxen.




44


BULLETS AND BOLOS


My little army wound between the carts, its barefoot
members picking their way carefully over the sharp stubs
of cane left in the ground. At the mill where the cane
was pressed through rollers and the juice ran into boiling
vats, the smell of cooking sugar savored the air and a
generous Spanish mill-foreman gave us quantites of
candy that women were pulling from the cooked sugarlong, toffeelike twists that I sucked as appreciatively as
my men. We tramped over the mulch of cane which,
after passing through the rollers, was spread over the
yard to dry in the sun before feeding the furnace; then,
out through more cane-fields and into the cogon hills
again, twisting, turning, tramping along, always south
toward the Binalbagan Valley.
But on the haciendas not always did we pass through
scenes of busy activity. More than once we came to blackened ruins where prosperous farms had stood. If there
had been no other signs, we knew by this destruction
that we were in the haunts of the dreaded babaylanes.
From passing taos (laborers) or at little bamboo hamlets
tucked away in the more fertile corners of the foot-hills
my men sought news of the outlaws. But evasive answers
came; for the peasants of the hills dreaded more the
wrath of the babaylanes than the arm of the law, then
neither long nor imposing as represented by my dusty, illequipped detachment which must have appeared to the
country-folk only less to be dreaded than the babaylanes
themselves. Indeed, we often met men and women, the
former carrying long spears and the latter heavy baskets
of camotes and palay, who fled at our approach. Like
rabbits they dived into thick cogon which quickly hid




A MODERN DON QUIXOTE


45


their passage. My men jeered derisively that we were
"Constabularios," not babaylanes. Sometimes the fugitives would return, shamefaced and trembling; but often
they were stones cast in a pool, leaving but a ripple in the
cogon to show where they dived. Sometimes we would
find their baskets in the trail; and I doubt not that behind my back the soldiers would abstract a few camotes
or ubis (yams) as provender by the way. Certainly, when
we halted for lunch alongside a brook beneath a grove
of bamboo, an extraordinary number of tubers was produced to roast in the ashes of our fires.
That afternoon we topped a steep cogon hill to see
spread out below the small and almost ruined pueblo of
La Castellana, while beyond stretched green and smiling
the broad valley of the Binalbagan, dotted with haciendas
as yet unburned, encircled by dark-blue mountains, and
with the winding ribbon of its river showing silver and
gold under the slanting rays of a westering sun.
Wearily we dragged our feet across the plaza to the
apology for a municipal building which we knew as such
only by its position fronting the plaza and by the sign
"Casa Popular" on a crooked lintel above ruined steps.
My men were too tired to find fault with their quarters:
yet I was relieved when an American officer of Scouts
issued from a nipa (palm) house and invited me to pass
the night with him. While eating a hearty supper of
good army commissary rations I learned much about conditions in the neighborhood and about the comparatively
large army post at Isabela, ten miles further south, where
the officer commanding the District of Southern Negros
had his headquarters.




46            BULLETS AND BOLOS
The Scout officer told me that a few weeks previously
the babaylanes had raided La Castellana, surprising the
Scout garrison under his predecessor, killing several soldiers, and capturing fifteen or twenty Springfield rifles
which went to swell the armament of Papa Isio.
What with the devastated haciendas, the scarred Spaniard at Valladolid, and now the officer's tales of actual
service against the babaylanes, it seemed that I was very
close to the campaign. So before turning in for the night
I inspected my men's sleeping quarters, placed them as
securely as possible, and made sure that the sentries
were alert.




CHAPTER VI


GENRE PICTURES OF THE TRAIL
NEXT morning the Scout officer bade me farewell.
"Hope we get out on the hike together soon," he said.
"I don't envy you going up against the babaylanes with
that outfit-if you ever want real guns and ammunition
I'll help you if I can."
Poor fellow! He died by his own hand a few years
later in the swamps of Mindanao and I was not far from
him at the time. He was a good officer and showed none
of the petty jealousy that some officers of the Scouts
showed toward the Constabulary. But, as with many
others, too much tropics, too much hiking, too much
isolation, and too much responsibility, finally struck discord in a nervous system attuned only for more normal
life.
From La Castellana we dropped through hacienda
after hacienda into the heart of the Binalbagan Valley;
and after thirteen years it still seems to me the fairest
part of those fair islands. Nowhere else was the soil so
fat beneath the plowshares, the sugar-cane and rice so
tall, the girls so pretty, the hacenderos so prosperous, and
the peasants so apparently happy. The swift Binalbagan,
issuing cool from the slopes of giant Canlaon, ran its
silver thread through an emerald field. Purling brooks
rushed down to meet their mother and cooled our feet as
47




48


BULLETS AND BOLOS


we hiked along the trail. One hacienda followed another;
and where the torch of the babaylanes had spared we
found hearty welcome from the Spanish, Swiss, German,
or Filipino hacenderos.
Who were we? "The Constabulary? Oh, yes." They
had heard of the new corps which was to take the place
of the Guardia Civil of other days. The Spaniards particularly were enthusiastic about our future and pledged
me with many a gin cocktail and bottle of warm beerterrors of the trail that did up as many young American
officers as the outlaws' bullets. Advice I had a-plenty.
"Ah! sefior capitan, it is necessary to set a ladrone to
catch a ladrone. You must enlist some babaylanes; that is
how the Guardia Civil handled these curs-these lobos
who come from the mountains to steal and burn. Los
soldados americanos? They are good-they are noble
men! But they are not trained for fighting like this, in
which one must creep through the bosque (jungle) for
days to kill perhaps one babaylan. And they come and go,
los soldados americanos. They belong not here but in
America. You? You will be of us, and soon you will
know the mountain trails better than the babaylanes themselves. And your men, they are Filipinos who will know
the tricks of the ladrones. Gracias d Dios, that you have
come, for it is no longer safe to raise sugar in Negros.
And with the price of sugar so low. Barely five pesos the
picul-it is ruination if our cattle are driven off and our
taos afraid to work in the fields."
All this over the cocktails; or, when we happened on
a hacienda at meal-times, over plates of sopa de polio
(chicken soup), cocido of meat, bananas, and garbanzos




GENRE PICTURES OF THE TRAIL 49


(chick-peas), with other dishes that savored well to a
hungry traveler. Then, after the meal, a siesta; on a canewoven bed, with just a sheet stretched tight and two
bolster pillows; but, after the hot glare of the trail, how
cool and comfortable it was behind the louvered windows
of a hacienda bedroom.
And so we slowly wended our way through the valley
until the white walls and galvanized roofs of Isabela rose
above the cane fields. This pueblo in which I was soon to
pass many happy months was situated at the very foot of
the mountains that ringed the valley. Steep behind the
town rose forbidding slopes of forest jungle. It was easy
to see why Isabela was the garrison town; for, standing
on a slight eminence, it dominated the haciendas below so
that raiding outlaw bands coming from the south or west
must pass close to the town before reaching their prey.
Isabela was the usual provincial pueblo: a plaza and a
church; a casa popular for municipal officials and a
cuartel (barracks) for the garrison; a few pretentious
houses of stone or hardwood with tin roofs around the
plaza, tiendas on the ground floor, residences above; for
the rest, a scattering of less substantial houses of bamboo, coco, and nipa, radiating out to fields of rice and
cane on three sides of the town, and on the other up the
foot-hills to the jungle.
But beyond other Philippine pueblos that I have known
Isabela possessed a distinctive flavor; whether it was the
carelessness engendered by the proximity of constant
danger or because of the large number of mestizos and
Europeans on near-by haciendas I cannot say, but Isabela
was always gay. The babaylanes might be raiding the




50


BULLETS AND BOLOS


haciendas by day; but there would be a baile at night. Despite many years of insurrection and outlawry there was
plenty of money in circulation. Let the price of sugar rise
ever so little and the haciendas fairly ground out wealth
from the black volcanic soil. Did the babaylanes burn the
buildings? There was abundant bamboo in the foot-hills
to be rafted down the river, and a calmarine (storehouse)
could be erected in a day or two.
A happy town was Isabela and full of happy people
who so endeared themselves to me that after many years
I write of them with affection and hope some day again
to see the smiling valley with old Canlaon towering to
the skies and brooding over all.
As we neared the town I knew that I must explain to
the military officer in command the reason for my trespass on his preserves. As Major Orwig had told me,
there was an arrangement by which the army controlled
the interior of Negros, while the Constabulary recruited
and organized on the coast. Yet here I was, carelessly
voyaging through the heart of the military territory.
It was therefore with no little fear that I drew up my
pitiful command in the plaza, flicking the dust from
caiamo uniform never too presentable but now stained
and sweated, the despair of any laundryman. My poise
was not steadied by the joking remarks of American soldiers lounging in the plaza who were critically surveying
the arms and equipment of my detachment.
However, on presenting myself to Captain Atkinson
of the Sixth United States Infantry with request for a
night's lodging for myself and men, I met with a hearty
if quizzical welcome. He smiled at my explanations of




(50)


Figures in brackets given by Colonel Lyman V. Kennon,
Sixth U. S. Infantry, as number of Constabulary to
control southern Negroes and stop babaylan raids








GENRE PICTURES OF THE TRAIL 51


how I found myself in Isabela instead of Himamaylan
and, as he handed out a telegram that was awaiting me,
said: "You'll see plenty of the babaylanes before long,
young man-and without bending orders too badly, either.
Better read that telegram."
I did not find the officer commanding the District of
Southern Negros wildly indignant at my trespass; indeed, I suspect that he regarded me with good-humored,
if disparaging, tolerance. The army did not take the Constabulary very seriously in those days. But Colonel Kennon
told me that the Sixth Infantry expected to leave Negros
as soon as the Constabulary could be whipped into shape
to relieve them. He estimated that to control a situation
which now taxed a company of infantry and another of
Scouts I would need considerably more men and better
supplies than I had in my callow detachment of twenty;
and he gave me a good idea of conditions, stating that
Papa Isio still controlled more than two hundred fighting
men with forty or fifty rifles, but that he was hopeful of
negotiating the pope's surrender before the Sixth Infantry was withdrawn.
I have among my few Philippine papers a pencil sketch
which Colonel Kennon drew for me that night to show
that to keep the babaylanes out of the Binalbagan Valley
and protect the haciendas when American troops were
withdrawn, I would need more than one hundred men in
three or four stations. I regard that sketch with pride
because my original detachment of twenty men was but
little augmented before the Constabulary smashed the
babayiwnes some fierce blows and made the Binalbagan
Valley the safest region in the island.




52


BULLETS AND BOLOS


From  Colonel Kennon and other sources I learned
more about the outlaws of the mountains and of the remarkable old Visayan talo at their head, Papa Isio, who
had been in the mountains for years before the American
occupation of the Philippines, and had given the Guardia
Civil many a hard chase. Originally a laborer in the lowlands, Dionicio Papa, as he signed himself, fled to the
hills after committing a crime which was now wrapped
in the hoary mystery of the years. Although an uneducated man, he must have possessed character: for he
quickly gathered a band of cutthroats before whom, by
reason of a little dog-Latin picked up while sacristan of
his village church, he posed as the head of a new religion.
This was a clever scheme. The growing hatred of the
Filipinos for the friars gave him recruits from among
the discontented, while every fugitive from justice found
welcome in his band.
Papa Isio posed as the friend of the oppressed. Of
course he knew nothing of English history or he might
have called himself the Robin Hood of the Philippines.
During Spanish days the hacienda laborers were often
unjustly treated by their masters and could be imprisoned
for debt or required to work it out for the creditor.
Among an improvident people, this law resulted in a
mild sort of slavery from which escape was always possible by flight to the ever-waiting mountains. These conditions obtained more or less throughout the Philippines;
but as the haciendas in Negros were larger and more
prosperous than elsewhere, the "debt slavery" question
was more aggravated. Indeed, during my time in Negros,
I was often called up to rescue taos from the clutches of




GENRE PICTURES OF THE TRAIL 53


their creditors or release them from unlawful imprisonment by municipal officials.
Now, if Papa Isio's bands had consisted only of such
fugitives from debt and oppression there would have been
some sympathy among Americans for the babaylanes.
But every scoundrel from the lowlands escaping from
the wages of crime or too lazy to earn an honest living
found easy refuge with the outlaws. The bands, also,
were not content with laying tribute on the rich; they
burned and pillaged where they listed; and often they inflicted unmentionable tortures on victims suspected of
aiding the forces of law and order.
Such were the babaylanes and such was the problem
which, so it seemed, I should assume the responsibility of
solving. My interview with Colonel Kennon sobered me.
The following morning I took my detachment over the
rice fields and cogon flats to Himamaylan, resolving to
so drill and discipline my men that when the time came
the Constabulary should prove no unworthy successor to
the United States Army in the valley of the Binalbagan.
As I looked at my cheerful, sturdy, if uninstructed, soldiers, I knew that the right spirit was there, and fancied
that lack of arms, ammunition, and supplies would matter
little if the spark were in me to kindle that spirit into
flame.




CHAPTER VII


A PROVINCIAL IDYL
HIMAMAYLAN is a small pueblo strung along a sandy
beach under shady coco palms. The Himamaylan River,
little more than a lagoon, throws into the straits that lie
between Negros and Panay a crescent sand-bar behind
which shelter fishing bancas (canoes), trading paraos,
or occasional sugar lorchas (small schooners) from
Iloilo. An eighteenth-century stone church with a connecting monastery fronts the sea. The monastery, known
as the convento, furnished quarters for myself and men.
The Spanish Recoleto friars had been driven away during the insurrection and had not yet returned. The building had been looted, but there remaind a few articles of
solid furniture. Until recently Inspector Smith had occupied the quarters and had left there a detachment of five
soldiers who now went to swell my foot-sore score.
An American teacher also lived in the convent-which
was big enough to shelter a dozen men and give each
separate quarters-but he was a reserved individual who
preferred to live and eat alone rather than pool with the
only other American present. Smith had told me that the
school-teacher knew the price of eggs, chicken, and rice
better than a Filipino and boasted of living on twenty
centavos a day. How we Constabulary officers laughed at
54




A PROVINCIAL IDYL


55S


the parsimonious pedagogues! Like the ex-soldiers that we
were, we scattered our money right and left; the schoolteachers, fresh from the economies of life in small American towns, saved three fourths of their pay. They were the
wise virgins, even if their stinginess did occasion unfavorable comment among the Filipinos. It was not good to see
an American living and eating like a tao. Harsh criticism
we of the Constabulary thought and voiced at that time;
yet, now that the mellowing years have passed, I can see
that those teachers were not necessarily avaricious. Who
knows what debts and mortgages on little farms back in
Iowa and Kansas were paid off? Their pesos were hard
enough earned, God wot, for they ran risks of death by
disease and outlawry without the compensating excitement of the chase that we had. Maestros, we called the
teachers; and the female of the species was known as a
maestra.
The presidente (mayor) of Himamaylan was a young
Filipino with a dash of Spanish and Chinese blood, by
name Serafin Gatuslao. From the beginning he was the
best friend of the Constabulary in southern Negros. At
his house I took my meals; from him I quickly learned
of all the malhechores (offenders) in and around the
pueblo. Although married and father of several children,
Serafin was little older than myself. During the intervals
between drilling and instructing my detachment I found
him a boon companion. Together we went shooting to
near-by rice paddies and ponds and loaded the little
brown boys who were our retrievers with duck, teal, snipe,
parrots, cockatoo>, and I know not what other strange
tropical birds.




BULLETS AND BOLOS


On these expeditions we would talk intimately of provincial politics, of the babaylanes in the mountains, and
of the cattle-stealing gangs in the lowlands which were
beginning to be a more serious problem even than the
bbabaylanes. Serafin was an exception in that I rarely
found his counsels interested. The wealthier provincial
Filipinos have so many parientes (relatives) and friends
that their advice on conditions in their own localities
must often be discounted. But although Serafin administered a hacienda a mile or two from town, he had few
political ties in the south; his relatives and friends were
in northern Negros, and mariage to a girl of Himamaylan had brought him there to administer his wife's property. He had first been made presidente by the military
authorities and later was elected by the people as a tribute to his honest administration.
Sometimes we would go on a picnic-a sunsuman, as
the Visayas call it-up a river to Serafin's hacienda. The
presidente's wife, some pretty girls from neighboring
haciendas, a few youths, Serafin, and myself, made up
the party. Embarking in bancas, we were paddled by
Visayan boatmen up an estero (tidal creek) under overhanging mangroves through narrow passages where nipa
palms fanned our faces. At the hacienda landing our
lunch was waiting, the piece de resistance a suckling pig
done up in banana leaves, all ready for the roast. Beyond
the landing we neared the hills; the estero became less
swampy and soon our boatmen poled us up a clear stream
that rippled over a rocky bed. We found a smooth spot
beneath a mango tree an there the suckling pig was
roasted whole. The liver was removed, pounded up with




A PROVINCIAL IDYL


57


the leaves of a bitter herb growing near the river, and
stewed into a sauce to pour over the roasted cracklings.
The taste of those cracklings can never entirely melt
away; and the scene after lunch is easily recalled: the
boatmen squatting in a circle around the remains of the
succulent porker, the Filipina girls showing shapely legs
as they paddled in the creek with many-colored skirts
drawn up to knees, the young Filipinos splashing and
flirting with the girls; beyond the bickering water a bamboo grove traced like giant maidenhair fern against a
cobalt sky over which fleecy cirrus clouds drove with the
steady northeast trades; a raucous-voiced, red-billed
kingfisher perched on a waving frond of bamboo or diving to a pool unheedful of the picnicking crowd. And
beneath the umbrageous mango Serafin and I, smoking
innumerable cigarettes, the cares of office not even lightly
resting on our brows.
It was at such times as these that I learned to know
the Filipinos and their kindly traits as one may only
know them by life in the provinces, isolated from other
Americans. A man might live twenty years in Manila
and know less about the Filipinos than by a few weeks'
residence in Himamaylan. Yet living in Himamaylan he
must be simpatico-he must have sympathy with the life
of the people. That Spanish word simpatico is hardly
translated by its English equivalent "sympathetic." When
a Filipino says of an American that he is simpatico it
means that he does not strike false notes in dealing with
people of other races. A man might be sympathetic, yet
full of race prejudice; but if simpatico he is free from it;
a Filipino can give an American no higher praise. A man




BULLETS AND BOLOS


may be able, honest, hard-working, and full of assorted
other virtues, yet quite unable to get along with the Filipinos, if lacking in that touch of humanity which enables
one to
Be to their virtues very kind,
Be to their faults a little blind.
Often in after years I thought what a pity it was that
some American officials I came to know could not have
had the privilege of enjoying a sunsuman picnic with
Serafin at Himamaylan. It might have made them simpatico-which they surely were not.
To describe the qualities that a Caucasian must possess for successful dealing with Asiatics, travelers and
historians have used up a good many adjectives. There
are not wanting even those who claim a measure of aloofness on the part of a Caucasian as an essential quality of
success; yet I cannot believe that where two men are
gifted with the possibility of intercourse by means of
language and intelligence, barriers are necessary. It seems
to me that all the necessary virtues may be summed up
in that one Spanish word that is almost a phrase-simpatico. And that, after all, is the Golden Rule in one word.
But a distinction must be made between weakness,
sensuality, and the capacity for being simpatico. It is
possible, though it may not be easy, for an American to
maintain his own racial standard of conduct and living,
and at the same time be tolerant, understanding, and
without arrogance of race toward the Filipinos, or other
people of widely different race. It is possible, but it is not




A PROVINCIAL IDYL


59


easy. The easier course for the American of sympathetic
nature was to acquire, by marriage or otherwise, what
the Spaniard called a "sleeping dictionary," and then he
would gradually be wafted over the gulf between the
Malay and Caucasian races until within a few months or
years his backbone changed from steel to rubber and his
ideal existence was in pajamas and slippers. The Caucasian in the tropics cannot do as the darker-skinned races,
immunized by the centuries, do.
Of course life at Himamaylan was not all spent in
learning the art of sympathy, if that can be learned.
There were hours and hours, and then more hours, spent
literally in sweating my detachment into shape. Up and
down the hot narrow court in front of the convento I
marched those devoted brown soldiers, teaching them to
throw out their chests and pull in their chins and bring
down their feet with the regularity of a German goosestep. I taught them to handle their shot-guns and the one
or two old Mauser and Remington rifles that we had
somehow acquired. Scraping together a little ammunition,
we went to the hills outside the pueblo, and there, to the
imminent risk of passing taos and grazing cattle, we held
target practice. Before long my men could hit the bull'seye with a Remington at two hundred yards or pepper a
paper square with buckshot at thirty. That is, if the singlebarreled Remington shot-guns went off. They were rotten
arms, sofmiewhat more dangerous to the possessor than to
the prospective enemy, and must have been a job-lot manufactured for some Central American republic by a kindhearted American firearms company. I never saw a
ladrone killed by one of those shot-guns, though during




60


BULLETS AND BOLOS


the early days several Constabulary soldiers were killed
or injured by bursting breeches. It was up to us to capture our own firearms from the outlaws.
Gradually my men worked into shape. They began to
have confidence in themselves and their commander. I
was itching to put them in the field against the babaylanes whose raids on the hMaciendas continued. But Colonel
Kennon was negotiating the surrender of Papa Isio, and
Major Orwig bombarded me with instructions to "sit
tight and wait."
One day there was a little excitement. My bedroom
faced the sea and at daybreak I heard a great hullabaloo
on the beach. Thinking the babaylanes had raided the
town, I jump up. But the cause of the rumpus was a
crocodile entangled in the bamboo fish corrals that spread
fanlike over the shallow waters of the lagoon. Half the
town was down to watch fishermen spear and rope the
giant saurian, and just as the brute was hauled up on the
sand I joined the yelling throng. The crocodile, entangled
in ropes, bled from a score of wounds. It was as long as
one of the bancas that had hauled it ashore; later I
measured it-eighteen feet three-inches from tip of blunt
snout to end of crenelated tail. When it was clear of the
water a fisherman jumped on the broad back to drive a
sharp maul into its spine. Then the crocodile's death flurries burst encircling ropes and its threshing tail knocked
over and badly bruised some of the bystanders. When
the last convulsive movements had ceased, the brute's
jaws were propped open by a stick of wood, and a tenyear-old Filipino boy stood upright between them. There
was great rejoicing in the pueblo, for the crocodile was a




A PROVINCIAL IDYL


61


well-known man-eater that had taken many victims in
the Himamaylan River.
At times I would mount two or three soldiers on borrowed ponies and ride out into the hills behind Himamaylan to become acquainted with the trails and surrounding country. While returning one hot afternoon
from such a trip, a terrific thunder-storm broke a long
spell of dry weather. Clinging, wet to our saddles, we
rode into Himamaylan between rows of cocos and bamboo flailing wildly before wind and rain. As I drippingly
dismounted at the convent door Inspector Smith came
down the broad stairway to greet me. He had come from
Bacolod in a sailing parao, bringing with him also a Mr.
and Mrs. Hopper, school-teachers en route to Cabancalan, a pueblo a few miles further south.
Upstairs I found the new school-teachers; and what a
surprise it was to see a California girl in that old convent! The Hoppers were new types of pedagogues, bringing with them to war-worn Negros something of the sunlight and cheer of their own Golden State beyond the
Pacific. That night we had a jolly party for supperfour Americans gathered around the scarred narra
(Philippine mahogany) table in the half-ruined convent,
where white-robed friars had been more in keeping with
surroundings. We were all young, and all intensely interested in the fascinating book of the tropics opening before us; in Negros with its Old World Spanish-Malayan
civilization just receiving a few first dents from
American ideas carried by the army, by the Constabulary, and now by the pedagogues who were to attempt
to compress into ten years the education of centuries.




62          BULLETS AND BOLOS
Smith paid my men, left a few supplies and many
words of encouragement, then sailed off south along
the coast to Sipalay. The Hoppers went on to Cabancalan by bull-cart and carromata. I dropped back into the
routine of drill and post administration; but my first adventure with the babaylanes was at hand.




CHAPTER VIII


A NIGHT RAID BY OUTLAWS
ONE night when a silvery moon rode high above sleeping Negros I was awakened by Presidente Serafin, who
told me that a messenger had come flying from a
hacienda a few miles inland with news of a babaylan
raid. At ten o'clock, when the man left his hacienda,
the outlaws were robbing the buildings and mistreating the taos. While pulling on shoes and leggins I
learned that the raiding band was small-only a dozen
babaylanes with three or four rifles; further details
came as I buckled on revolver and snatched up carbine.
My men were already astir in their quarters beneath
the convent; so that within a few minutes of the messenger's arrival I was on the trail with ten men panting behind me and the brown back of the half-naked
guide basted with perspiration just ahead.
How we hit that trail inland! Half walking, half
running, we passed through the quiet streets of the
pueblo; under a grove of cocos where the ghostly light
traced queer patterns through fronded boughs; over
dried rice paddies where stubble crackled underfoot; up
steep grassy hills, between groves of bamboo never more
feathery and fernlike than when seen by moonlight. On,
on, at top speed, until cartridge-filled belts rasped sweaty
63




64


BULLETS AND BOLOS


bodies, so that a halt was necessary for readjustment.
Then on again with the lope of wolves on a hot trail,
always hoping that the babaylanes would not escape
before we could give them a volley and show that the
Constabulary was organized in southern Negros. Out
from the bamboo groves to the rolling plateau that lies
between Himamaylan and Isabela, until at last a dark
mass ahead and some flickering lights were pronounced
by the guide to be the Soledad hacienda where the babaylanes were at their midnight games.
To steady the men I halted the detachment and disposed my forces. I sent a sergeant with four men and
the guide to encircle the hacienda and block the trail
leading from it to the dark mountains for which the
babaylanes would break when disturbed. When the sergeant was in position I cautiously advanced toward the
lights and the noise that swelled as we drew nearer the
buildings.
Around the houses and camarines men and women held
resin torches which were scarcely needed in the bright
moonlight but had been lit as fancied protection against
those wild beasts of the night, the babaylanes. We crept
nearer, taking cover behind clumps of brush or sugarcane until we could make out figures and hear the conversation of the disturbed taos, buzzing like a nest of
bumblebees. Spears glinted in the torch-light and I had
to restrain my men from firing. Seeing no men with rifles,
I told one of the soldiers to challenge. Answer came that
the babaylanes had departed, taking with them two dalagas (young women) with much palay and sugar in bayone sacks of matting, some carabao and horses.




A NIGHT RAID BY OUTLAWS


We went forward and were immediately surrounded
by a gesticulating crowd of peasantry, anxious to relate
the happenings of the raid. The outlaws had left about
twenty minutes earlier, impressing a dozen taos to carry
their plunder. Weeping parents implored me to save their
daughters who had been carried off to become concubines of Papa Isio or his chiefs. Without waiting for details we dashed through the hacienda out to the mountain
trail. My force was swollen by several taos armed with
spears and long talibong (fighting bolos); so guides I
had in numbers to follow the outlaws' tracks.
Hot on the scent, we fairly tore along the trail where
breast-high cogon drenched us with dew that mattered
not, as we were long ago wet through with sweat. Ahead,
a pair of taos with spears ready poised set a pace that
taxed us to follow. Mile after mile thus passed; now we
dropped down to cross a stream and the cool mountain
water was grateful to our scalded feet; then up a steep
bank and on, always on, until the blue-black mountains
took shape and a few trees dotted the slopes up which we
toiled.
It was near daybreak when the foremost guide stumbled over something in the trail. It was a bayone of palay;
and thereafter we quickly passed more, for the babaylanes were dropping their plunder to seek safety in more
speedy flight. Forward! Forward! Ever more quickly
forward! A challenging but scared voice ahead, a few
dim forms, and behind me the soldiers rattled their guns
and cartridges snapped into breech-blocks.
"Unload! Wait for orders! Esperan ustedes, soldados!" I shouted. The forms ahead were the impressed




66


BULLETS AND BOLOS


laborers, who held up their hands, yelling words of friendship and beseechment.
The babaylanes were but a few minutes in front. So
now added caution was demanded, for from behind any
tree or bush or thicker clump of grass might come a rattle
of rifle fire. My guides bent almost to the ground, but
pushed bravely forward. More bayones of sugar and
palay were passed, and then some friendly taos holding
the carabao and horses which had been stolen a few hours
earlier. We had at all events made the babaylanes drop
their loot; but still there were the two dalagas to take
back to their wailing parents, and an accounting to be
made with Papa Isio's scoundrels.
Just at daybreak we dipped to a stream at the foot of
the steeper mountains. And there, quietly bathing their
feet, we found two ox-eyed peasant girls, neither the
worse for their adventure nor over-demonstrative at their
rescue. Perhaps the life of an outlaw's mistress held advantages over pounding out palay for stern parents on
the hacienda. Quien sabe?
But now my men were about exhausted. Since midnight we had come fifteen or twenty miles at breakneck
speed. We carried neither rations nor supplies for a more
extended expedition. We were on the edge of the forest
jungle, and although the babaylanes were but a few
minutes ahead, they were aware of pursuit, and could
easily scatter into the sheltering bosque. Reluctantly I
abandoned the chase and turned for home; not dissatisfied, however, at the results achieved, for we had recovered practically all the booty, and, it might be said,
the beauty also, for the harried maidens padded con



A NIGHT RAID BY OUTLAWS


67


tentedly along with my soldiers, who were not averse to
this opportunity to shine as rescuing heroes.
A few days later I received from my senior inspector
a letter that reproved me with some severity for making
an expedition against the babaylanes, who were, so the
letter said, negotiating with Colonel Kennon for surrender. I swore softly to myself and relieved my feelings
by writing a communication to the senior inspector in
which I stated that the babaylacnes showed their desire to
surrender in a queer way.
That little midnight hike was merely training exercise.
Papa Isio did not surrender, and there was much work
ahead for the Constabulary. Toward the end of April,
I902, Colonel Kennon called me to Isabela to confer
about Constabulary cooperation in a drive through the
mountains against the pope's headquarters, which was
reported to be at Macabong, three days' march through
the mountain jungle from Isabela. Two army and one
Constabulary expeditions were to start from Isabela by
different trails, converging on Macabong.
I was ordered to leave at midnight, April 22. Gathering together my best men from Himamaylan and from
the sub-post at Payao, recently established near the scene
of my first exploits against the babaylanes at Soledad
hacienda, I prepared to show that the Constabulary could
equal the army at hunting outlaws.
Indeed, the great truth was already dawning upon me
that the way to hunt outlaws in the jungle was not in the
army way of textbook strategy and tactics, of converging
columns and large, slow-moving expeditions which arrived always to find the bird flown from the nest. I was




68


BULLETS AND BOLOS


beginning to understand that to hunt outlaws, babaylanes, pulajanes (fanatical outlaws), Moros, or any other
malefactor of the hills and the jungles, it was necessary
to learn from the enemy and beat him at his own gamemobility and knowledge of the country. The time was to
come within a few months when I knew southern Negros,
plain, foot-hills, and mountains, as well as or better than
the outlaws; and when I could gauge with nicety just
how many men it would take to persuade them to stand
and fight rather than run away.
With no army commissary from which to draw supplies, I purchased in the tiendas of Isabela rice, dried
fish, canned goods, and a few bottles of "square-face" gin.
I am not a believer in too free use of alcohol, particularly
in the tropics; but my men were poorly equipped for cold
nights in the higher mountains, and I must say that a
swig of gin on reaching camp, wet and weary, often
pulled us together to make ourselves comfortable for the
night.
These supplies were done in sacks and bayones and
loaded on twenty cargadores, or porters. The soldiers carried guns, ammunition, haversacks, and blanket rolls. I
carried my Winchester carbine and a part of my own
spare kit, the same as the soldiers, and found that by so
doing I could get more out of them than if I hired special
cargadores for a lot of personal baggage; though as rations were consumed we all loaded our blankets and spare
accoutrements on the sturdy porters.
Our guide was an old Visayan named Julian. He was
reported to have been a babaylan whose daughter had
been taken by Papa Isio as an additional concubine, and




A NIGHT RAID BY OUTLAWS                 69
that Julian was now thirsting for vengeance. Certainly
he knew the mountain trails and took me safely over them
on this and many a subsequent expedition.
This was the first of scores of expeditions I was to
make in the mountains and swamps of the Philippines
during the next four or five years, until I was severely
wounded in the knee in Sulu in i906. In the equipment
and conduct of such an expedition there was a technique
as different from warfare on the regular army plan as
my barefoot constables were from a battery of horse
artillery.




CHAPTER IX


JUNGLE TRAILS
AT midnight we started from Isabela by the light of a
gibbous moon. Before dawn we entered the open bosque
of the foot-hills when an eclipse of the moon occurred,
causing us to halt while darkness spread over the earth.
It was ghostly to sit there in the long wet grass and watch
a black shadow steal over Diana's face. Soldiers and
cargadores were visibly disturbed; and perhaps considered it an evil omen until I remarked that just as the
moon's light was put out, so would the Constabulary blot
out babaylanism in Negros.
The eclipse passed. The short tropical dawn changed
into glaring day, and we pushed on. The comparatively
open foot-hills ran abruptly into a steep, densely-forested
mountainside up which our trail led through thickets of
bojo bamboo interlacing overhead. We were forced to
crawl along a trail more frequented by wild hogs than by
human beings, and out of the bojo thickets through a
grove of buttressed giant trees which my soldiers said
yielded almaciga. Indeed, during a halt, Julian dug from
between the roots a mass of that fossilized gum which is
the basis of varnish and shellac. Often we clambered up
slopes so steep that guns were slung over shoulders while
70




JUNGLE TRAILS


7I


we clung to the long rattan vines that grew everywhere.
Although the sun was now high, yet in the depth of the
forest all was cool and still, with the only sign of life an
occasional flock of giant hornbills noisily flapping from
our path, a wild hog dashing into the underbrush, or the
booming of a big balua pigeon from the tree-tops.
Over the mountain ridge we slid down into the narrow
canion of the Guintubjan River, which roared over a
boulder-strewn bed. After a late and hasty breakfast we
hiked up the river, jumping from rock to rock, wading
the pool, and always keenly on the watch for signs of the
babaylanes, for Julian assured me that any men we might
now see would be "gente de Papa Isio" —outlaws on the
trail for game or loot.
Once we sighted up a tributary creek three men with
spears. With two of my swiftest men I gave chase; but
the quarry leapt like mountain goat over the boulders, to
disappear in the ever-sheltering forest followed by a bullet or two from my Winchester. I was still ignorant of
the need of stealthy, catlike approach toward the outlaws.
Near sunset, when we were tired and sodden by hours
of hiking in the water, we came to a spot where the river
widened to form a sandy beach sheltered by an overhanging crag of rock. The ashes of many fires showed that
it was a camping place often used by the babaylanes; and
Julian said that the trail here left the river and that we
had better camp for the night. Soon fires were blazing,
clothes drying, rice washed and boiling, dried fish broiling, sweet potatoes roasting. The rice was cooked in hollow joints of bojo bamboo, quickly cut by cargadores
from near-by thickets. These natural cooking utensils




72


BULLETS AND BOLOS


were most interesting. A joint of bamboo, about three
feet long and two or three inches in diameter, was filled
with rice and water, the open end then plugged with a
wad of grass, and the bamboo placed on the fire; and when
the green bamboo was charred through, the rice was
cooked. It came out of the improvised pot a solid cylinder
of cereal with a flavor of bamboo that hungry soldiers
did not find objectionable. The rice, with a little dried
fish, and a few camotes, made my men an ample meal.
What an advantage in mobility this simple commissary
arrangement gave compared to the heavy cooking utensils, cans of hardtack, beef, beans, and other impedimenta
of a detachment of American soldiers!
How that night on the sand-bar creeps back along
memory's chain! The murmur of the rippling river and
beyond the water a dark mass of trees with cicadas and
bell-bugs stridulating their nightly song; fireflies flickering in the jungle; silver stars speckling the black velvet
sky above the trees; our fires under the rock making chiaroscuro of the camp; soldiers curled in blankets near the
warmth; a pile of packs with half-naked cargadores asleep
atop sacks of rice; motionless sentries above and below
the camp; and myself, with blanket over my shoulders,
watching all, unable at first to sleep for the novelty of a
scene which was to become as familiar to me during the
coming years as is a crush at Brooklyn Bridge to a New
York commuter.
At dawn we mz ere off again, over more mountains, following ill-defined trails through virgin forest. But Julian
unerringly sniffed his way along. I learned to love that
squat, bow-legged, gray-haired old brown man, shuffling




JUNGLE TRAILS


73


along just ahead of me, bolo in hand, slashing away at
overhanging vines and brush, always with every sense
attuned for danger. When in the jungle Julian was rather
a panther on the trail than a human being. At home in the
pueblo he was a mild and inoffensive old peasant.
After hours of such toilsome hiking Julian halted,
whispering that he heard voices ahead. With ten men I
crept to the edge of a caingin, which could be nothing but
a lair of the babaylanes. We snaked through the undergrowth until within sight of two huts in the center of a
clearing where corn, palay, and camotes were growing between fallen and burnt trees. Before we could surround
the huts three men bolted into the forest, their flight accelerated by loads of buckshot from my excited soldiers,
who in a yelling skirmish line led by Julian and myself,
and all slipping and jumping from log to log, closed on
the huts. Bloody tracks showed that one babaylan was
wounded. Inside the shacks we found palay, camotes, and
other foodstuffs with several spears and bolos as well as
documents proving that the occupants were babaylanes.
Julian said that the caingin was known as Cabantaiang
and was one of Papa Isio's outposts.
The rest of my detachment and the cargadores came
tumbling into the clearing; soldiers and cargadores dug
up camotes or filled their packs with heads of corn, all
very happy at the pitiful loot as soldiers have always been
and always will be
Till the war-drum throbs no longer, and the battle flags are
furled,
In the Parliament of Man, the Federation of the World.




74


BULLETS AND BOLOS


Often it went against the grain to destroy those mountain clearings hardly won by men from the ever-encroaching jungles; but if outlawry was to be stamped out, there
was nothing else to do; each clearing was a refuge for
the babaylanes, and honest folk could find land a-plenty
in the lowlands, without rivaling the eagles to place such
aeries in the mountains. Also I suppose there are those
who would criticize us for firing at fleeing men. Yet it is
necessary to remember that those fugitives were criminals whom justice could reach by no other process than
the bullet-swift warrant, subpoena, judge, and jury all
in one. When we came to clearings of the mountain aborigines, the Bukidnon, we scrupulously respected their
belongings or, if necessary to levy to satisfy our hunger,
we paid in full for everything taken. On these first expeditions I did not visit any Bukidnon villages, but on
later hikes found many of these attractive wild tribesmen with whom we made friends, and who, when the
Constabulary showed stronger than the babaylanes, aided
us with information against the latter.
And as far as the babaylanes were concerned, they had
every advantage in the game. I understand that hunting
out a wounded tiger in a nullah is dangerous sport; but
it must be as tiddle-de-winks to football compared with
chasing outlaws in the Philippine mountains, where they
have every superioriety of cover, knowledge of terrain, and
opportunity to strike the first blow. Let any critic try the
nerve-racking sport of hunting well-armed babaytanes,
pulajanes, Moros, or "common or garden" ladrones before he censures the Constabulary for firing quickly-and
to kill.




JUNGLE TRAILS


75


Refreshed by the outlaws' provender, we again swung
on through the mountains; and after a time came out of
the forests on the edge of a precipice. Hundreds of feet
below was a large ccingitn with several huts scattered
along a rivulet. Old Julian confessed that for once he had
lost his bearings and thought that we had better capture
a guide. Forms could be seen around the huts; but between us and them was the almost perpendicular cliff.
Hand over hand, at imminent risk to life and limb, we
scrambled down; and when we dropped into the valley I
would not have made the descent again to capture Papa
Isio himself.
Thick underbrush along the rivulet enabled us to approach within two hundred yards of the first hut before
the babaylanses got our scent. Then five men and one
woman harlequined through a window and leapt for the
forest. My soldiers shouted that if they stopped they
would not be hurt, but our yells only served to make their
flight more swift. Opening fire, we pursued. The men
escaped, but the woman received a slight buckshot wound
in her calf and fell, lustily screaming. Nothing could be
gleaned from her as to our whereabouts; and when I
dressed her wound with first-aid bandages, she howled
the louder.
Julian thought that if we went on down the valley we
would strike a trail with which he would be familiar, so
we made the woman comfortable in one of the huts and
proceeded. After several hours' hard hiking in the river
bed we found a faint trace leading from the canfon, which
ended, however, in an abandoned caingin with a ruined
hunt and overgrown camote patch. There we camped for




76


BULLETS AND BOLOS


the night, and the next morning wearily retraced our
steps to the clearing where we had left the wounded
woman.
It was clear that we must capture a man of the mountains for a guide, so I adopted a ruse which proved successful. When within a mile or so of the caingin, I picked
out five husky cargadores who had shown themselves particularly hardy and venturesome. Promising a reward and
arming them with captured lances and talibongs, I sent
them ahead with instructions to approach the caingin,
shouting that they were soldiers of Papa Isio. With their
spears and bolos they certainly looked tough enough to be
mistaken for babaylanes. They went on. We followed;
and when near the clearing heard a great hullabaloo.
Dashing forward, we found the ruse successful. The five
cargadores were holding a struggling disarmed mountaineer. Seven more armed babaylanes, who were making
to rescue their comrade, fled at our approach.
From the prisoner I learned that the clearing was called
Tugas, and was a camote patch to supply Papa Isio's
main camp at Macabong, which, after persuasion, he said
was six hours' hard hiking north. Of course he did not
define time by hours, but pointed to where the sun would
be when we reached Macabong.
Now we had a guide who could supplement Julian's
knowledge of the trails and take us into the heart of the
babaylan country. The prisoner confessed himself a subject of Papa Isio, but not one of his soldiers; he had,
however, been in the mountains for many years. I did not
inquire into the circumstances of his flight from the lowlands, but treated him well and promised substantial re



JUNGLE TRAILS


77


ward for faithful service. We took the precaution of
binding his arms securely behind with ropes of green
rattan, though, and Julian took the leading rope when we
started again.
Our prisoner confidently led us on a trail which, after
traversing a few miles of mountain jungle, came out at
a clearing on the western slope of a high mountain. There
we fired at the disappearing babaylanes and rushed into
the caingin, to emerge, for the first time in days, from
encircling forests. Before us stretched miles and miles of
mountains, sloping down to a strip of glorious blue sea,
four thousand feet below; and beyond the sea was another island, gray-blue through the heat haze. We had
crossed Negros; the sea was the Straits of Tanon and
the distant island Cebu.
Now Julian got his bearings and said that we were not
far from Macabong. Retracing our steps, we crossed
another high mountain and camped for the night in a
gorge on the other side.
Next morning we passed clearing after clearing, generally deserted by the babaylanes, who now knew that
we were on their trail. But in one caingin we surprised
several armed men and killed one of them, capturing also
a boy of about seven years, whom we took along with us.
He was a typical child of the mountains-only a G-string
clothing his brown body. After being with our column
several days he declared that he did not want to stay in
the mountains. He attached himself to me so faithfully'
that I took him to the lowlands, where he became a loyal
member of my household. Celedonio, as was his name,
remained with me for nearly ten years; in fact, until I




78


BULLETS AND BOLOS


was married, when he went to live with another ex-dependent of mine near Manila.
Burying the dead babaylan, we continued on to Macabong. We were now on a rolling plateau and the blanketing forest sometimes opened out into glades of grass and
brush-second growth where ca-ingins had been burned.
Ahead was the smoke of a burning hut and on approaching it we saw a large body of armed men. Thinking it
might be the main body of Papa Isio come out to give
battle, I hastily formed a skirmish line; but the blue shirts
and Stetson hats of a mixed detachment of American
soldiers and Scouts showed up and soon we were fraternizing and exchanging experiences. The army detachment, fifty strong, was commanded by a corporal of the
Sixth Infantry, as the officer who started with the expedition and had fallen sick and returned to Isabela. They had
as guide an ex-colonel of babaylanes, Marcelo. He said
we were but an hour from Macabong, so, joining forces,
we pressed on to Papa Isio's stronghold.
We came to the foot of a steep hill up which led a narrow trail; on either side was the almost impenetrable
jungle. Marcelo said that Macabong was just on the
other side of the hill, and his knees trembled as he spoke.
It was clear that we might expect a fight, so with twenty
men of both forces I clambered up the trail, the soldiers
following in single file. There was no sound but the labored breathing of the men behind and the thumping of
my own heart. Up, step by step, every moment expecting
a volley from above. The forest thinned out; a skyline
appeared-we must be nearing the b1abay1an trenches. Still
no shots. A last crouching upward spring! I was out on




CAPTAIN JOHN R. WHITE AND A DETACHMENT OF MORO
CONSTABULARY AT COTABATO MINDANAO, 1904
A    OHN i lR WHITE AT I  1-ABELA SiA, l I 1902, WITHI
__IpONRO TIft bl dI I B  I CA TUR  IN THE - NTAINS
*~i~c~~c l~-~~21~Cjl  (17 ~,~P11l~  _iI1~f J~T~I" I~








JUNGLE TRAILS


79


top and with a skirmish line of men streaming on either
side swept into the little plateau, where refuged the pope
of the mountains. Macabong was deserted: there were
twoscore houses, a wooden church, and a large palmthatched barracks, but only one babaylan, evidently left
as outpost, who dropped from a house and made good
his flight despite the rattle of bullets that followed him
into the forest.
The pope had well chosen his pontifical seat. It commanded a magnificent prospect over the east coast of
Negros, the sea, and Cebu Island; while immediately below snuggled a valley, hemmed in by mountains and
dotted with caingins which supplied the babaylanes with
food. It was their granary; and we were the rats to destroy it.
That evening just before dusk Lieutenant Young of
the Sixth Infantry arrived with the third expedition,
three days out from La Castellana. That night over a
roaring fire, made of material from the babaylan houses,
we swopped experiences of the trail. Next morning we
sent out mixed detachments to destroy the babaylanes'
food supplies in near-by clearings and in the valley below.
At daybreak the following morning we burned Macabong, church, cuartel, and village, then gaily turned for
home. Young and I set a hard pace, each eager to show
that his men could outhike the other's. We made the
thirty or forty miles to Isabela over steep mountain trails
in thirty-six hours. I reported to Colonel Kennon the
Constabulary's share of the round-up, telegraphed the
results to the senior inspector, and hiked my men on to
Himamaylan, well satisfied that they had kept the pace




80          BULLETS AND BOLOS
with Regulars and Scouts. And I had begun my apprenticeship in man-hunting in the jungle. It was dawning on
me that in order to get a fight out of the outlaws it was
necessary to proportion the expedition to the job in hand
and not scare the bird by an unwieldy snare.
In an old report of that expedition that lies before me
I find that I ended thus:
The conduct of the detachment under my command was
excellent, and they bore the hardships of the expedition
without a murmur. Many of the men's feet were badly cut
on the sharp rocks. At night the thin blankets were poor protection against the drizzling mountain mists. We ran short
of rations, and were obliged to eke them out with roots,
camotes, and corn. The distance traveled in the eight days I
would estimate at one hundred and fifty miles, all over mountain trails of the worst possible description.




CHAPTER X


A DESPERATE VENTURE
SOON after our combined expedition to Macabong the
Sixth Infantry was withdrawn from Isabela and returned to the United States for a well-earned rest after
more than two years' service against insurgents and briggands. The Philippine Scouts were withdrawn from
Castellana and I was ordered to assume responsibility for
law and order in southern Negros, about 2500 square
miles. With much regret at leaving Presidente Serafin I
abandoned the station at Himamaylan and transferred
my detachment of twenty-five men to Isabela. They were
still improperly equipped; but they were now well drilled
and disciplined. Nevertheless, with my few Filipino soldiers it seemed difficult at first to substitute the American
troops, whose superior organization and equipment gave
them the prestige that we lacked. And to any armed force,
particularly to a military-police force, prestige is worth
more than numbers.
Now, although the people of Isabela received me cordially enough, they made plain their doubt that the Constabulary could police the valley and give protection
against the babaylanes. Indeed, before the troops were
withdrawn, many round-robin protests had been sent to
Bacolod and even to the governor-general of the Philip



82


BULLETS AND BOLOS


pines. So it seemed that I must immediately attempt some
blow at the babaylanes that would give the Constabulary
proper standing. Moreover, if Colonel Kennon's estimate
of the numbers and arms of Papa Isio's bands was correct-which I had no reason to doubt-only bold action
on my part would keep them from taking immediate advantage of the withdrawal of the troops.
I took station at Isabela about the middle of May. Ten
days later, on May 26, 1902, to be precise, the Constabulary struck Papa Isio a blow from which he never recovered, for we fought him to a finish in his own mountain stronghold, five thousand feet up in the clouds.
After the previous expedition it became clear that the
pope must have some lair in the mountains more secure
and better fortified than Macabong, where he had never
intended to make a stand; for although Macabong was
conveniently situated near rich caingins, where the babaylanes could obtain supplies of cam.otes, maiz (corn), and
palay, it was too open for easy defense. However, there
were scores of peaks along the Negros cordilleras any
one of which might be made into an almost inaccessible
camp. In Himamaylan Presidente Serafin had told me
that there were rumors of Papa Isio's headquarters on
the summit of a high mountain, so strongly fortified that
the babylanes reckoned it impregnable; and often when
riding between Himamaylan and Isabela I had surveyed
the dark brooding mountains to the south and east and
wondered which of the clear-cut peaks that rose above
forested slopes held the aery of the pope. So no sooner
were we settled in Isabela than I sent for my old guide,
Julian Enserna. At dusk one evening he came shuffling




A DESPERATE VENTURE


83


up the wooden steps of my nipa house fronting the plaza.
"Now, Julian," I began, "where did Papa Isio go from
Macabong?" The directness of question was foolish; but
I had not then learned that the way to get information
from a man of Malayan blood is to start a long way from
the objective and close in gradually by concentric circles
of thought. The old tao moved uneasily, fumbling with
bare toes at the split-bamboo floor, and it took much direct
and indirect questioning to get out of him the information that I felt sure he possessed.
But when he was thoroughly convinced of my intention to hunt out the pope he broke silence, saying that he
knew the stronghold but had not told me about it because
he did not want me to be killed. Then he told me the name
of the mountain on the summit of which the fortified
camp was situated; it was Mansalanao, one of the highest
peaks south of Canlaon; but he was quite emphatic about
the utter impossibility of capturing Papa Isio's cuartelgeneral. Had he been there? Yes, he had been to the
mountain years ago, gathering bejuco (rattan), but had
never been to the top, as it was very steep-just like that,
and he put up his hand almost perpendicularly. However,
some Bukidnon friends of his had been to the summit,
carrying supplies for Papa Isio, and they had told him
about the babaylanes' trenches on the mountaintop, and
how the approach was straight up to the trenches, and
that all timber and brush had been cleared away to give
open fire from above; indeed, it was so steep that ladders
of bejuco were let down from the trenches to the trail
beneath. Moreover, within the fortifications were piles of
stones and sharpened hardwood, double-pointed throwing




84


BULLETS AND BOLOS


spears called planquetas, all ready to throw down on
an attacking force. Also there were huge rocks as much
as twelve men could move, poised on the parapet wall and
held by ropes of rattan so that the slash of a bolo would
send the boulders crashing down the mountain; while, as
the final dissentient, Julian lamented that there was only
one trail up Mansalanao, and that one was narrow and
sown with man-traps-suyacs (sharp pointed stakes)
underfoot and balatigs (spring-traps) in the brush.
Furthermore he informed me there were many houses on
top of the mountain-which from his description I imagined to be an old volcanic crater-and many women
and children, and that there were outposts down the
mountain so that it was impossible to surprise the babaylanes; and as good measure, they had good rifles and
plenty of ammunition.
Altogether it was not a cheering prospect and, as the
narrative will show, every detail was correct. Julian
begged me not to attempt to take Mansalanao; but assuming the greatest confidence, I told him to return to Payao
and say nothing, but be ready to go with me when I sent
for him. Also I impressed him with the belief that I had
an anting-anting (amulet or charm) stronger than Papa
Isio's.
The Visayans are great believers in the virtues of
anting-anting, which are no more than amulets to ward
off the Evil One and preserve the wearer from bolos,
bullets, or other misfortune. Papa Isio was strong on the
dispensation of these charms, giving one to each of his
followers which usually took the form of a scrap of
paper covered with crude writing and figures, a cross, a




A DESPERATE VENTURE


few Ave Marias, some dog-Latin and the impress of a
wooden seal, "Gobierno Revolucionairio de Negros," or
some other high-sounding title. The bit of paper was
sewn into a bag and suspended from the neck in locket
fashion. Sometimes a bullet or even a colored stone was
the anting-anting; or, for that matter, a bit of dried snake
or lizard in a little bottle, or a piece of colored glass; and
on one occasion I took from the neck of a dead bcabaylan
the glass stopper of a bottle.
Poor, deluded folk of the mountains! How often have
I seen their still bodies with anting-antings pierced by bullets. The mystery was how, with our frequent killing of
the babaylanes, Papa Isio managed to sustain the prestige
of his charms; but somehow or another he kept up the
delusion, for we never killed a babaylan without finding
the little bag around his neck, generally with the scrap of
paper and Papa Isio's scrawling signature, "Dionicio
Papa."
Quietly I prepared for the expedition to Mansalanao.
But it is useless to pretend that I relished the job ahead.
I did not, I was scared to death, and know that the chances
against success were about a hundred to one. But pride
of race and corps drove; while I knew that if I could
defeat Papa Isio in his stronghold, the Constabulary
would thereafter have a comparatively easy time. Moreover, it is usually sound strategy to attack first. The
assumption of confidence has won many a fight against
odds.
One night toward the end of May we left Payao, a
village three miles from Isabela, at moonrise, about nine
o'clock: seventeen soldiers, old Julian, fourteen picked




86


BULLETS AND BOLOS


cargadores, and myself. In Payao and Isabela I had given
out that we were again headed for Macabong; and for
several hours after leaving Payao we marched in a direction opposite to our objective. It was fairly certain
that Papa Isio had spies in the pueblos and that news of
our departure would speed through the mountains in the
telepathetic manner that word is conveyed among semicivilized peoples. By moonlight we crossed the rice paddies beyond Payao, forded two rivers waist-deep, and at
daybreak were out of the cogon foot-hills and in the
depths of the forest. Then we left the Macabong trail to
cut our way by compass course through bojo-bamboo
thickets along a steep hogback-although Julian scarcely
needed the compass to find the trail that led from Payao
to Mansalanao. As the sun rose we suffered terribly from
want of water. Canteens as yet formed no part of the
Constabulary equipment, and as we had omitted to provide ourselves with bamboo tubes of water, we had drunk
nothing since leaving the river overnight. After hours of
hiking we finally emerged from the forest on a grassy upland where Julian found water in a little gully just as we
were about exhausted; in fact, one of the soldiers, Private
Cayetano Amar, had succumbed from fatigue and thirst,
being carried the last mile to water.
But when our thirst was slaked we were soon revived
by the cooler air of the plateau. We were now some two
thousand feet above the Binalbagan Valley, whose smiling
fields of green sugar-cane and rice, dotted with little
white pueblos, glittered under a high sun. Ahead stretched
the cogon upland, shimmering under the heat haze through
which we saw a line of dark forest into which we must




A DESPERATE VENTURE


87


later plunge; while beyond and above the forest a mountain peak silhouetted clear against an azure sky. Julian
grunted, "Mansalanao," and a quiver of excitement ran
through my men. The mountain was twenty miles away
in a bee-line and that meant two or three days, hard hiking
through the jungles over intervening ridges and ravines.
But there was Mansalanao, our goal or our grave or, perhaps, both. I marveled that I had never guessed that that
particular mountain was Papa Isio's headquarters. It was
plainly visible from Isabela and was the highest peak
south of Canlaon, probably between five and six thousand
feet in height. Shaped like a cone truncated just below
the apex, it plainly showed ancient volcanic action, and
that it had at some remote period "blown its head off."
As one fascinated I gazed at it: how clear and commanding it rose above lesser peaks, how steep its slopes! Could
we hope to win up there against great odds? I looked at
my men. They looked at me. Then I smiled a confident
smile that was perfect dissimulation of my feelings. "Ha!
mis soldados," I laughed in broken Spanish, "el Papa
teme mucho los Constabularios! Miran Ustedea como se
escode en los montes mas altos." (The Pope is much
afraid of the Constabulary. See how he hides on the highest mountains.)
The contagion of my forced spirits ran through the
easily influenced soldiers, though I noticed that one or
two of the older Guardia Civil non-coms shook their
heads in doubt. For this desperate expedition I had carefully chosen my men, picking the youngest and most daredevil soldiers, but including one or two old non-commissioned officers as ballast; and this tale will tell how youth




88


BULLETS AND BOLOS


won the fight, while age, with which comes too careful
weighing of chances, lagged behind.
We siestaed beneath some giant rocks that cropped up
hoary-headed above the cogon. Then up and on over a
rolling plateau of country that was like a park, in sharp
contrast with the dank jungles we had left behind. Tree
ferns filled shady hollows and thorn trees dotted the
cogon, which was nowhere tall enough to impede our passage. Now and then a frightened deer dashed off at our
approach. It was a pleasant bit of trail. But ahead lay the
gloomy forests.
Suddenly we came out on a broad, hard-beaten path,
cutting a swath through the cogon, and curving ahead
until lost in the forests in the direction of Mansalanao.
"Camino Real de los babaylanes," cried a soldier, and
the others laughed at his joke. A camino real is the Spanish "royal road"-a highway. It was a fine broad trail,
showing that there was much unsuspected traffic between
Papa Isio's headquarters and the lowland pueblos. Julian
grinned. The old scoundrel had long known this trail.
But for months he had taken army expeditions in every
direction except the one that led to the pope's real headquarters. However, not much blame was his; for he
doubtless fully believed that by attacking Mansalanao we
went to certain death-unless my anting-anting was
stronger than that of Papa Isio.
We pressed forward across the plateau; the wall of
forest loomed nearer; at last the trees sheltered us from
the setting sun. Behind lay the sun-washed cogon plateau; ahead loomed the dark, damp jungle forest. There
was something forbidding in the contrast, something




A DESPERATE VENTURE


89


ominous in the shadowed depths into which we must
plunge.
Julian ran over to where a giant bamboo drooped
gracefully outward from the forest wall, and with a welldirected slash of the talibong bolo cut down a thirty-foot
stem, while with a few more strokes he made a sharpedged stick about two feet long. I asked him for what it
was intended.
"Limatuk, po!" (Leeches, sir), he answered. We were
to enter a belt of forest infested with these blood-sucking
pests, so the soldiers and cargadores also cut bamboo
scrapers with which to remove them from bare limbs.
Then we dived into the forest.
The hard dry trail of the cogon was ended, and now
underfoot was dank leafy mold with rattan and other
vines crisscrossing the path, festooning trees, climbing up
toward the life-giving sun that never penetrated the forest
depths; and in the mold, on every twig and leaf underfoot, alongside or hanging from above, were the wretched
limatuks, which, though scarcely longer and thicker than
a pin, would after a few minutes' adhesion to human skin
swell to the size of a man's little finger. Every little while
I called a halt, to let the cargadores scrape limatuks from
their skin, while the soldiers and myself removed our
shoes, often to find leeches that had wormed through eyelet holes or between folds of clothing. That is, some of
the soldiers removed their shoes, for others were still
barefooted. Nothing kept the leech pests entirely out,
though when the Constabulary adopted woolen puttees
we found them almost complete protection. I discovered,
too, that salt liberally rubbed on socks was a specific; but




90           BULLETS AND BOLOS
as mountain hiking involved wading of rivers the salt
soon washed off.
If the leeches got into nose, eyes, or ear, they were
really dangerous. Their bite anywhere on the body, if not
rendered aseptic, might result in a frightful tropical ulcer
as big as a dollar and eating to the bone. I have doctored
many such sores on soldiers and on brother officers.
On one expedition I was followed by a dog, but never
repeated the experiment; the poor beast was so attacked
by leeches as to be entirely blinded. They fastened on his
eyeballs, and the first intimation of their attacks was that
the animal wobbled helplessly from side to side, scraping
his head along the ground. From his eyes we removed at
least a dozen bloated leeches. His sight was ruined.




CHAPTER XI


DEEPER IN THE JUNGLE
FOR two days we hiked through the forest; down one
mountain, up another; across rushing rivers; along steep
hogbacks; through thickets of bojo-bamboo-the steady,
slogging hiking that tires body and soddens soul. Always
the towering tree trunks were around us like cathedral
columns, while verdure vaulted overhead so that we
rarely saw the sun. We passed no clearings. At night we
camped in the jungles. The men cut bamboo and leaves of
the anaiaja palm with which to erect fragile sleeping shelters. At dawn we rose, stiff and damp; at dusk we
camped, tired and wet.
On the morning of the third day we were resting at a
place where our trail turned from a river bed into the
forest. Julian had advanced a few yards to make certain
of the trail. Suddenly he ran quickly back and, with finger
to lips, whispered that he heard men coming through the
forest. Babaylanes they must be; for we were now within
a few hours of Mansalanao. Enjoining silence, I advanced
up the trail with a few men, posted them in the brush and
behind trees, and took similar shelter myself. With Julian
by my side, I crouched behind a bush, whence I could see
a few yards up the trail. All was still; only the iterative
cicada broke the silence of the jungle. Like Roderick
9'




92


BULLETS AND BOLOS


Dhu's rebels we awaited the babaylanes who would soon
find that..every tuft of broom gives life
To plaided warriors armed for strife,
though, to be sure, my poor, half-equipped handful of
Constabularios was less romantic than Roderick's "full
five hundred men."
Soon there was a distant rustle in the jungle, a low
hum of voices coming nearer, a grunt as of a man bearing a burden; and then through the trees he came, padding heavily. Naked save for a breech-clout, he was carrying an enormous load of bejuco. Sweat ran down his
copper skin; yet in his right hand and serving as a staff
was a long broad-bladed spear, while by a string around
his naked waist hung a vicious talibong. Behind him followed a boy and another man, similarly laden and armed.
They grunted under their burdens. But they grunted
louder when I shoved the muzzle of my Winchester into
the foremost man's face, while Julian and the soldiers
quickly disarmed and secured all three before they could
get the loads off their backs.
Other men, coming down the trail, heard the slight
scuffle and fled up the mountainside. I sent five men after
them. Several shots were fired. One babaylan was killed
and another wounded. We had surprised a "trade convoy" of Papa Isio's. Our prisoners were some of his
Bukidnon cargadores taking bejuco to Payao and escorted by two babaylan soldiers, one of whom we killed.
The prisoners confessed that they were "gente de Papa




DEEPER IN THE JUNGLE


93


Isio" on their way to Payao, ostensibly to vend bejuco
but actually to obtain salt and other items of which the
pope stood in need. At the same time they were to spy
out the situation in the lowlands and size up the Constabulary forces at Payao and Isabela. In a trice the
prisoners' arms were bound behind with rattan from
their own bundles. We carried them along, unwilling
guides, for they would be extremely useful when we
approached Mansalanao and had to dodge the man-traps
with which the trail was reputed to be sown. It was only
to be hoped that the escaping babaylanes would not reach
Mansalanao before us to give the alarm. To avoid this
we quickly took to the trail again.
Down the mountain, from where our river issued from
Maansalanao's bosom, echoed the roar of a waterfall.
ifter crossing yet another mountain we descended into the
aiion of a considerable river; and as, knee-deep in water,
tve hiked up-stream the canion opened out. The banks be-:ame less precipitous and clothed with giant tigbao
(cane) grass instead of forest growth. We splashed
iround a bend. And then the cone of Mansalanao was in
full view, now quite close and towering straight up from
a strip of level land that here bordered the river.
Standing in the stream with water swirling between
my legs, I straightened out my straggling column. Then
the Bukidnon showed us where a trail led up the river
bank, but hidden by the giant tigbao grass, twenty or
thirty feet high and with stalks resembling sugar-cane.
He said that we were near babaylan houses, so, creeping
along a natural tunnel under the tigbao, we cautiously
approached a pretty clearing with two huts. As it was




94


BULLETS AND BOLOS


visible from the summit of Mansalanao, I kept my men
under cover of tigbao and brush. The huts were deserted.
The Bukidnon said that all the people of the clearing had
gone to Papa Isio's camp for a fiesta.
From where we sought shelter Mansalanao stood out
like a lone pine on a ridge at sunset. A few hundred
yards' distant the foot of the peak ran into comparatively
level land along the river, but above the mountain rose
at an angle of forty-five degrees. It was heavily covered
with forest and jungle growth to within a couple of hundred feet of the summit or crater. On the rim of the!
crater were several huts which, so the Bukidnon said,
were shelters at the trenches. The village was further
back, over the rim. Among the huts moved antlike human
forms who must be the babaylanes, and one of them
might even be Papa Isio himself. We were near the end
of our journey-perhaps in more senses than one.
Through my field-glasses I studied the mountain, the
summit of which appeared about 2,500 feet above our
resting-place. It was clear that the jungle-clad slopes offered no opportunity for approach except along the babaylanes' own trail, winding up a ridge which to the naked
eye appeared a mere furrow down the mountain, but
which the glasses revealed as a precipitous hogback,
flanked by gullies hundreds of feet in depth.
* It was late forenoon on May 26, I902. I ordered the
men to make a meal of the cooked rice and dried fish that
had been prepared in the morning. I sat alone on a blackened log that had resisted the fires of many dry-season
burnings and thought out my scheme of attack. Private
Fernandez, who served as my cook and butler, brought




DEEPER IN THE JUNGLE


95


a handful of cooked rice in a banana leaf, with a piece
of red Spanish sausage-Chorizo de Viuda. With my
thoughts on the bloody work ahead I ate but little; even
I felt slightly sick at the stomach, as I have: often felt
before going into great danger. It was not the impending
fight against odds that mattered so much as the lack of
medical care for such wounded as we were sure to haveincluding myself. We were days distant over mountain
trails from any assistance and everything depended on
my own safety. If I were wounded or killed my recruits
might stampede. Yet I must expose myself in order to
carry them forward and win the day. The horns of the
dilemma were equally sharp.
It is easy to be brave when the contagion of courage is
fostered by martial array and good comrades by one's
side, as well as by the consoling thought of doctors and
ambulances in the rear. But to put a man day-deep in the
jungle, far from his own kind, and facing the prospects
of horrible wounds and death, is some test of manhood.
Yet by the score young officers in the Philippine Constabulary have stood that test.
The soldiers finished a scanty meal, sprawled around
smoking their cigarillos, and frequently cast glances up
at Mansalanao, where a thin column of white smoke rose
from the babaylan trenches. That column of smoke fascinated me. The men there had every advantage of position. They even had better arms than the Constabulary.
Was it any use to lead my men to almost certain death
and possible torture?
But those were no thoughts for a Constabulary officer!
My usual buoyant optimism, drowned for the moment by




96


BULLETS AND BOLOS


the fatigue of three days' hiking, reasserted itself. After
all, the babaylanes were mighty poor shots, and my men
would follow me to the death. Then the lust for physical
combat strong within every healthy young male surged
over me like strong drink and I snapped out an order.
The soldiers gave their haversacks and all extra equipment to the cargadores. With rifle and belt alone we stood
ready for the attack.
I looked at the sun-for my watch had stopped when
we forded a neck-deep river-and saw that it was just
past the meridian. Three hours, I figured, would bring us
to the fort, and that would leave several hours of daylight
to decide issues with our friends aloft. "Alisto na!" The
men shuffled into line; in front went Julian and a Bukidnon guide; then Privates Fernandez and Montino, both
good shots and daring youths, just in front of me, while
behind me were Sergeant Basubas and six of my best
men; then the tagrag-and-bobtail and the cargadores
brought up the rear.




CHAPTER XII


A FIGHT ON A MOUNTAINTOP
THUS we began the ascent of Mansalanao and soon found
the trail so steep that in places the babaylanes had cut
steps in the yellow earth; and from these steps Julian
scraped away mold and leaves which hid many suyacssharp pointed bamboo caltrops which would have pierced
naked feet or even my own shoes, now soft and rotted by
days of hiking in the water. The Bukidnon prisoner,
arms bound behind, stepped gingerly along and showed
us all the traps, some of which he had doubtless helped
set; and on a whispered word Julian halted us by raising
his bolo; then, gliding into the brush, he slashed at withes
that held a long sharpened stake to a bent sapling; the
balatig spear (sharpened hardwood spring trap) was designed to dart across our path at the height of a man's
breast. These traps were arranged to be sprung by our
feet tripping on withes laid across the trail in natural
manner.
In places the trail was only a foot or two broad, deep
canons yawning on each side. In such spots our progress
suggested the idea of walking up a knife-edge canted to
forty-five degrees. At a score of places the babaylanes
could have made a determined stand, but they were evidently relying on their trenches and pendent rocks above.
At times I could see the winding column of our cargadores toiling up hundreds of feet below. It was a stiff
97




98


BULLETS AND BOLOS


climb to cap our three days' hike —and the immediate
prospects of a rest on top seemed far from good.
About three o'clock Julian made a sign that he saw
something ahead. The Bukidnon was dirty gray with
fear, and trembled like the fronds of a coco palm under
a north monsoon. Pushing past Fernandez and Montino, I
saw on a ledge of overhanging rock almost immediately
above me a little roofed platform, undoubtedly the
enemy's outlook, but apparently unoccupied. The trail
wound steeply around the rock and as we clambered up I
began to think that we were going to take Mansalanao by
surprise. But suddenly from far above came a challenge
in the Visayan dialect. About two hundred feet beyond
and above us I saw several heads, peering over the edge
of a trench. As the challenge was repeated and the babaylanes showed that they recognized us, I took a shot at one
of them.
Wild yells split the air. Pandemonium broke loose on
the mountain and a hail of stones and rocks hurtled down
on our heads. I scurried behind the roots of a blessed big
tree, Fernandez and Montino shouldering me close on
each side. Julian and the Bukidnon had vanished as if by
wings, while Sergeant Basubas and the other men were
behind the big outpost rock immediately below us. The
babaylamnes cut loose their boulders, which crashed past
down the mountain, carrying all before them. One smashed
by within two feet of me, tearing down a stout tree as
though it had been a twig. What with the yelling babaylanes and the soldiers' cries, the falling rocks, the crashing boulders, the rending of trees and rattle of rifle fire,
it was terrifying enough. But the very narrowness of the




A FIGHT ON A MOUNTAINTOP


99


trail saved us, for most of the boulders rolled harmlessly
into the canfons on either side and reverberated down the
mountain.
The babaylanes were in two lines of trenches, the first
about two hundred feet above us, and the second on the
rim of the crater, perhaps a hundred feet above the first.
Upward, all herbage had been cleaned off, trees felled
and rolled into canions; but the trail broadened out a little
and there were a few rocks and stumps for shelter.
From the comparative protection of our lucky stump,
we potted at the heads in the first trench so successfully
that within a few minutes the babaylanes had scrambled
out to their upper breastworks. To aim better at the
climbing figures we showed ourselves for a moment.
Remingtons and Mausers cracked from the upper trench.
But the babaylanes were poor shots and could not hit us
at three hundred feet. On the other hand we killed at
least one babaylan. When shot he rolled at first as though
he would tumble on top of us, but after vain clutchings
at the rattan and other jungle vines, he tumbled like the
boulders into the yawning canion.
I called down to Sergeant Basubas that we must make
a rush for the first trench and use it as our defense from
the fire above. Exhorting my men by name, I yelled,
"Sube! Sube! Avance!" and clambered from my protecting stump up, up the mountain, dodging from stump to
rock and from rock to stump through a hail of stones and
spears, until I reached shelter behind the wall of the first
trench. Fernandez and Montino were close behind me
during that hazardous climb; and three other soldiersPresquito, Lores, and Cabo-gained the trench soon after




100


BULLETS AND BOLOS


us. We were all badly cut by spears or bruised by rocks.
There we lay for more than an hour while rocks, plan,
queta spears, and bullets passed in a continuous stream
overhead. My voice scarcely reached the soldiers below, as
the din of falling rocks, cracking rifles, and agun (gongs)
beaten in the upper trench drowned all.
But the trench above was clear cut against the sky and
every time a head showed we fired; and once or twice a
stricken babaylan leapt up, perhaps to get another bullet
through the body. It was pretty shooting and took a quick
eye.
The babaylazes continually derided us. My men told
me that they said we could never get up and would all be
killed. This seemed likely, as they had all the best of the
argument. Papa Isio's voice urged them to resist and
prayed for our defeat. But the five soldiers with me were
not slow in responding with all manner of taunts and
threats; and as the minutes winged away without serious
casualties on our side they grew bolder.
After an hour or more of such fighting and shouting
we were no nearer the top. Although many babaylanes
must have been killed and wounded, there were plenty
more to take their places and the situation was becoming
desperate, for with five men I could hardly hope to storm
the fort, and the other soldiers would not leave their protecting rock. So I climbed out of the sheltering trench
and stood on top of it, where my men below could see me.
Then, between dodging rocks and spears, I berated them
by name for cowards; individually and collectively I went
into their ancestry and uncovered their pedigrees, exhausting my stock of expletives, in English, Spanish, and




A FIGHT ON A MOUNTAINTOP IOI


Visayan. Nevertheless, fear overcame shame and the men
below stuck fast. Rifles cracked merrily from the babayman trench, and one bullet went through my shirt. Every
bullet should have found a billet in my body at that distance-a hundred feet; but the rocks and spears were
worse, and between exhortation and threats to my reluctant soldiers I dodged and twisted to escape the shower.
Despite much show of agility, I was soon bruised and
scratched in many places. The five soldiers lying beneath
me in the trench wanted to come out with me, but I bade
them lie low and keep down the babaylanes' fire by potting heads as soon as they appeared.
At last I began joking with the white-livered gentlemen behind the big rock. I told them that I was like Papa
Isio and that rifle balls would not touch me. I enlarged
on the virtues of an anting-cnting that I possessed; and
asked them what they were afraid of and if they wanted
to go back to Isabela to have their women sneer at them
while they would adore Fernandez, Lores, et al, who,
needless to say, between their shots at the babaylanes,
gave me ample vocal assistance.
It was a case for psychological treatment to overcome
physical obstacles which appeared insuperable. I worked
harder with my voice than with my rifle. Indeed, although
I started the fight with two belts of ammunition, I was
already running short of cartridges.
Once a rock about the size of a man's fist caught me
full in the chest and knocked me from my perch, making
me spit blood, and then a yell of delight went up from
the ba-baylanes; but I was up again in a moment and the
game of dodging and yelling went on.




I02


BULLETS AND BOLOS


At last my epithets and persuasions took effect. Sergeant Basubas timorously emerged with several men,
who in the open became brave enough. I saw that the
supreme moment had come. So for the thousandth time I
yelled "Sube! Sube! Avance! Viva los Estados Unidos!"
The men joined in one wild fighting chorus and followed
me madly up the steep mountainside. Then the shower of
rocks from above ceased, the lull after a fierce storm.
Nevertheless, the slope was so sheer and slippery that it
was several minutes before we gained the hundred feet
or so to the uppermost trench; and in places we hauled
ourselves up by ropes and ladders of rattan hung down
for the purpose and which the babaylanes in their hasty
flight omitted to cut. Had Papa Isio's men kept their
nerve, we could never have won to the summit without
losing half the detachment.
Fernandez was first on top. As I crawled over the edge
I saw him brandishing a long spear which he plunged
several times into the body of a dead babaylan whom
Lores-himself an ex-babaylan whom I had enlistedturned over with the muzzle of his carbine to recognize as
Aguacil-cito, one of the pope's most noted fighting chiefs.
The trench was a sickly sight. It was full of blood and
muck, but only two dead men, both shot through the head.
Another dead babaylan lay in the brush near the trench
and yet another dying near by, while trails of blood leading from the trench showed where those killed and
wounded earlier in the fight had been carried off by their
women. As the fight had lasted now for two or three
hours, they had had ample time to remove the dead and
wounded.




A FIGHT ON A MOUNTAINTOP 103


Beyond the trench there opened up a pretty little concave plateau, dotted with houses and gardens, on the
further side of which, some four hundred yards away,
many babaylanes were scurrying into the forest, carrying
several wounded men. We gave them a volley and another
babaylcan dropped; while the rest, leaving their wounded,
fled the faster. But we were now too exhausted to pursue.
Moreover, our ammunition was low and I was suffering
from the effects of severe bruises. However, I sent Sergeant Basubas with a few unwounded soldiers to make a
round of the plateau, gather up the wounded, and clear
out any lurking babaylanes, although I believed that they
had received a drubbing that would keep them going.
We followed the trails of blood to the huts in the center
of the plateau, where I called the roll in front of Papa
Isio's residence. Miraculous to relate, not one of my men
was seriously injured. Seven had nasty cuts and contusions about head and shoulders, but after a little rest
would be fit for the trail. With first-aid packages I bandaged the soldiers' cuts and my own; then turned my
attention to the wounded babaylanes whom Basubas
brought in. There were several of these; and the job of
bandaging up your enemy's wounds, when every nerve
and fiber of your own system called for rest, was not an
unusual ending to a Constabulary officer's day.
The cargadores came up and we all quartered in the
pope's mansion, which was supplied with running water,
piped in bamboo tubes from a spring further up the plateau. There was food and loot for all, as the houses were
full of the babaylanes' plunder from half the haciendas
of Negros-mirrors, women's dresses, china dishes, pots




I04


BULLETS AND BOLOS


and pans, and I know not what, household truck and
farming implements. In the sweet-potato patches pigs
were rooting. A couple of fat porkers soon rooted no
more, but were roasting whole over the coals of our
camp-fire. It was sunset. Chickens were flying to roost on
the ridge poles of the huts whence my men ingeniously
removed them by means of a long pole with a crosspiece
at one end. This they would slowly push up under a roosting fowl, which, irritated at the disturbance, transferred
its perch to the crosspiece, whence it was drawn gradually
down the roof to within reach of a soldier's grasping
hands. The gardens yielded fresh ears of corn with camotes, ubis, melons, and other fruits and vegetables.
What a meal that was! And how the soldiers gathered
around the fire afterward, puffing cigars made from the
pope's choicest leaf tobacco that we found hanging under
the eaves of his house, and sipping pangassi rice wine
from his great earthernware jars!
White mists wreathing up the mountain before sunset
hid the magnificent view of Negros which was to open
on the morrow. At that altitude it was now quite chilly
and the assorted bedclothes found in the babaylan houses
were distributed among the soldiers. The Constabuiarios
stretched around the blazing fire, recounting with many
gestures the incidents of the fight; but soon fatigue and
full stomachs drove them to sleep. I passed the night on
a slatted floor, covered for additional warmth with an
assorted lot of women's dresses; and despite the groans
of wounded babaylanes beneath the house, my slumbers
were those of a man with a good day's work accomplished.




A FIGHT ON A MOUNTAINTOP Io5


The following morning when the sun melted the mists,
a panorama of Negros opened many thousand feet beneath us. Isabela and the little towns of the Binalbagan
Valley were white dots on a green carpet; the coast line
of Negros was a ribbon unrolled for our inspection;
Guimaras Island and much of Panay were in view beyond
the blue straits; and even the summit of King Canlaon,
forty miles to the north, seemed little higher than were
we. I can think of few happier hours than those spent that
morning on the summit of Mansalanao, smoking the
pope's cigars, eating his roast suckling pig and sweet potatoes, breathing the cool mountain air, surveying lazily
and contentedly a large slice of this glorious old earth of
ours, and contemplating with all due gratitude to an inscrutable providence the sheer joy of being alive.
We buried the dead babaylanes and spent the day loafing on the plateau, healing up our wounds, and preparing
for the return hike to Isabela. I was prodigiously pleased
with the results of the expedition, for although Papa Isio
had escaped we had dealt him a blow from which he
would be long in recovering; and we had established the
prestige of the Constabulary in Negros for all time. The
captured babaylanes said that the pope himself had been
wounded and that that was why their resistance had
broken. Two babaylanr leaders had fallen, Aguacil-cito
and Felipe Dacu, while it was safe to estimate their total
killed at a dozen.
Some years later, when I was superintendent of the
Iwahig Penal Colony, I went to see Papa Isio, then a
prisoner in Bilibid Prison, Manila. The old scoundrel had
remained in the mountains until my successor in Negros,




io6


BULLETS AND BOLOS


Captain Bowers, by clever work obtained his surrender.
I had a long talk with the pope, but got little from him,
for he posed as very stupid. However, I managed to get
his shirt off, to see whether there was a trace. on his
leather skin of a bullet from my Winchester. I could
find no scar. But the plight of the old brigand chief,
cooped in his narrow cell after so many years of sweeping free through the mountains, excited my sympathy. I
felt no animosity; rather the friendly feeling that may
be had for an antagonist who has brought forth one's
best efforts; so I gave him some little luxuries and, soon,
in conversation with the then governor-general of the
Philippines, James F. Smith, took occasion to say a good
word for the pope, who was under sentence of death.
General Smith had once commanded in Negros, and knew
the history of Papa Isio and his babaylanes. He commuted the death sentence to life imprisonment. But the
prisoned eagle pined in confinement and soon died. He
was a very old man of pure Malayan type, with nothing in
his appearance to show the reason for his previous high
estate.
On the morning of May 28 we left Mansalanao, first
burning all the houses-except one for the wounded
bcbaylcanes-and with all the plunder that we could not
carry away. The manner in which those soldiers and cargadores loaded themselves with loot was astonishing. One
cargadore had a large mirror on top of a pack that of itself must have weighed Ioo pounds. We destroyed many
tons of palay, sugar, and other foodstuffs, leaving the
pretty plateau a burned and scarred sore on the mountain.
That was hard but necessary, for we did not want the job




A FIGHT ON A MOUNTAINTOP 107


of taking Mansalanao again. As it was, I went back a few
months later, on news that the babaylanes had returned.
But it was a false alarm. The clearing was still a waste,
although Nature, so generous in the tropics, had covered
all scars with her mantle of green. The babaylanes, like
wild animals, rarely returned to a lair where they had
been disturbed.
Despite wounds and stiffness, it was a joyful column
that wound down the mountain. On the afternoon of the
second day we reached the cogon upland beyond the leech
belt, as a typhoon gathered over Negros and black driving
clouds swept through the mountains; soon torrential
rains descended. With a few of the best hikers I pushed
on to Payao, wading over miles of rice paddies knee- and
waist-deep in water and mud and finally reaching the village at midnight in the middle of a terrific storm that was
a theatrical wind-up to the expedition. The cargadores and
the rest of the column did not arrive until the following
morning. The storm, as is so often the case in the Philippines, was followed by a glorious sunny day, so that we
marched into Isabela with leaping hearts. The populace
turned out to greet us, incredulous at first that we had
captured the babaylanes' stronghold. But our loot was the
best evidence, and the townsfolk picked out belongings
lost many months or years before. They gave us a baile
to celebrate our victory and there were no more requests
for the return of the regular army.
And from the day we took Mansalanao there were no
more haciendas burned by the babaylanes in the valley of
the Binalbagan.




CHAPTER XIII


MURDER, MERRIMENT, AND MORALS
THE result of the Mansalanao expedition was so farreaching in establishing Constabulary prestige in southern Negros and in awing the lawless classes that presumably I should have considered my lucky star in the
ascendant. But I have noticed that lucky stars rise in a
man's particular heaven only when he pulls the strings of
his own solar system. Of course I was lucky, in one sense
of the word. But no amount of good fortune could have
made up for lack of care in drilling and disciplining my
men; while slogging through the bosque and up Mansalanao seemed more a matter of endurance than chance.
Be that as it may, the Constabulary in southern Negros
was by that one achievement lifted to an assured position.
It was almost laughable to see the effect on my men.
Their uniforms and equipments were still none too presentable; but they now bore themselves with a kick and a
swagger which plainly said: "See who we are! The army
and Scouts tried for months to find Papa Isio's cuartel
general. We found it-we did!" The effect might be noted
also in the good-looking girls who joined the Constabulary forces, now being easily picked up by my young
bucks. Some of them were married in the iglesia
108




MURDER, MERRIMENT, AND MORALS IO9


(church); some were hitched up by the Juez de Paz;
while others neglected any formalities whatever. It did
not do to be too particular about the marriage lines; and
for that matter a soldier's querida (mistress) was often
as faithful as any wife might be.
However, the Mansalanao victory did not mean rest
for the Constabulary, although it staggered the babaylanes so that during my six months in Isabela they neither
raided a hacienda nor committed other outrage in the
lowlands. Papa Isio must have had a lot of anting-antings
to explain away and his subtle old brain had to scheme
and plan means for reorganizing his bands. Nevertheless
there were constant rumors of babaylanes to run down,
trails to patrol, Bukidnon tribesmen to interview, maps
to piece out, with all the local crimes to ferret out over
several hundred square miles of territory.
It was not unusual for me to awake uneasily from a
sound sleep at any hour of the night with my muchacho's
(servant's) low whisper in my ear-"Capitan! Capitan!
Cap-i-tan!"-sounding so faintly that it was loud in my
subconscious dreams before my waking self caught the
meaning of the interruption. It is a Malayan superstition
that to awaken one suddenly is dangerous because the
evil spirits always awaiting opportunity to enter a human
body may slip in before the awakened person's own respectable soul can get back from wherever it may have
gone during the sleeping hours. When my soul finally returned, and my eyelids were propped open, out of the
black night would come an excited municipal official or a
hacendero with his story of murder, robbery, or what not,
which meant work for the Constabulary. At that time




IIO


BULLETS AND BOLOS


practically all crime was investigated by us or went unpunished; it was years before the municipal police, under
Constabulary supervision, was brought to the point of
accomplishing real work in the suppression of crime.
From a comfortable bed to the saddle was then a business of five minutes; though, as I got my non-cons
trained, they relieved me of much of the detail work of
investigations.
The Chinos, as I have said, were our good friends; but
one day we caught one up in the hills peddling with the
babaylanes and locked him up in the Constabulary guardhouse. That night I was awakened to hear that the Chino
had committed suicide, or nearly so. He had broken the
china plate on which his supper was served and with the
jagged edge had almost sawed his throat in two; his breath
whistled through the hole he had made and he lay in a
pool of blood. With the help of a Filipino practicainte, or
barber-surgeon I sewed up the gap with a needle and
thread borrowed from a soldier's wife. The Chinaman
recovered.
Murder! Rape! Arson! The very words taste badly in
the mouth of a person living in a civilized, law-abiding
community, yet to me in disordered Negros they sounded
as commonplace as "Yes, I take both sugar and cream,
please." Old Sergeant Basubas would come over to the
house, climb the uncertain wooden steps, cross the shaky
split-bamboo veranda, and stand at the open door to my
combination bedroom and office.
"Que hay, sargento?" (What is it, sergeant?) I would
rap out.
"Asesino, po! Hombre aqui viene de Magallon. Dice




MURDER, MERRIMENT, AND MORALS I I 


dalaga patay," (Murder, sir! Man here from Magallon
says a girl has been killed) answered the sergeant in the
mixed Spanish and vernacular that most of the soldiers
spoke.
A few questions to the messenger would show whether
the murder was a simple or a complex one. A simple
murder, by our Constabulary standards, was one in which
a peasant killed a peasant, while a complex one was when
a peasant was killed by a distinguido, or one in which a
wealthy citizen was in any way concerned. If two peasants
quarreled and one killed the other, that was a simple
problem; the laborer-murderer was so poor that there was
none to do him reverence and the scales of justice were
easily and quickly adjusted. But if a prominent Filipino
was mixed in the case as principal or abettor it might take
a long time to get those scales on the balance-false oaths
and affidavits, disappearing witnesses, false alibis, and
many other chicaneries being thrown against the measured
weights of justice.
Let a hacendero beat a laborer to death and it would
take every ounce of a Constabulary officer's intelligence
and energy to get a conviction. I remember one such case.
A hacienda laborer was driving a carabavo cart laden with
sacks of raw sugar from the mill to the coast where it
was to be loaded aboard a parao or lorcha for Iloilo. It
was midday. The carabao was faint for want of water
and a mud bath; for the water-buffalo of the East is a
semi-amphibious creature which must wallow in water
or mud several times daily or dry up and die. So the tao
unhitched beneath a shady tree, turned the carabao into
one of those wallows which dot the waysides and fields of




I I 2


BULLETS AND BOLOS


the islands, and composed himself to slumber on the green
turf beneath his cart. Of course he took no count of the
immutable laws which cause the revolutions of this sphere
and the apparent rise and setting of our sun. Noon passed,
and the shadow of the tree withdrew from the cart, leaving the crude sugar exposed to the full heat of an overhead sun. Our driver, nicely sheltered beneath the cart,
slumbered on until the sugar, liquefied by heat, trickled
down upon his face, when he awoke with a start, crept
from under the oozing cart, and beheld, instead of his five
piculs of sugar, valued at as much as twenty-five pesos, a
cartful of valueless molasses.
Well, thinks the reader, here is no tragedy but a comedy: the besmeared sleeper surveying his changed cargo,
solid turned to liquid. But wait! Enter upon the scene the
foreman of the hacienda, a mestizo and a pariente (relative) to the tune of about tenth cousin to municipal and
provincial officials. The foreman carries in his hand a
palma-brava staff, a stout club made of the heaviest and
hardest wood found in the islands. All foremen carry
such a club, or did in those days. He sees the cart of
ruined sugar; he upbraids the luckless driver; and as he
tirades his rising anger feeds upon itself, until, blind with
rage, he falls upon the driver and beats him senseless.
The tao dies within a few hours. The municipal doctor,
himself a relative of the foreman, makes certificate that
the tao died of calentura, or fever. That certificate is
quite true-as far as it goes; the luckless carter had a
temperature of 4I centigrade, as a man may well have
when skull and ribs are driven in. Of course the doctor
knew that the man was beaten to death; but then the fore



MURDER, MERRIMENT, AND MORALS 113


man was his, the doctor's, relative, and a tao was only a
tao-and that sugar was worth twenty-five pesos if it was
worth a centavo, and it was completely ruined. So was
the tao, and buried. Everyone was satisfied except, perhaps, the old and worn mother of the unlucky carter, who
felt that the few pesos given her by the foreman scarcely
repaid the pain of bringing her boy into the world and of
rearing him to man's estate. Yet she knew full well the
futility of expecting that the foreman should be made to
pay the price for taking a life. Let her appeal to the
municipal president or justice of the peace; were not both
also relatives of the foreman? And, in any case, could
the foreman not buy a dozen affidavits to prove that the
carter murderously attacked him, even if the doctor's
certificate should not prove defense enough?
So here the case might well have ended had not the
Constabulary somehow or another picked up a thread of
the tangled skein of crime. And the unraveling of that
skein cost me days of work. When, finally, the foreman
was sentenced to six years' imprisonment for homicide it
was only after I had succeeded in getting the provincial
doctor to exhume the body of the luckless carter and
prove that the fever was induced by a broken skull with
other assorted internal injuries inflicted by a certain
palma-brava club.
I would not, however, from the above example or
from anything that I may write, arraign the hacenderos
or wealthier Filipinos of Negros as a class of brutal,
overbearing tyrants. The conditions were somewhat those
of our own South before the war, when slavery fostered
brutality where it existed. The gulf in intelligence be



II4


BULLETS AND BOLOS


tween the hacendero and the peasant, with the consequent
semi-feudal system existing in the province, gave opportunity for many abuses which when possible the Constabulary, as the only impartial agent of the law, corrected.
There was much in life at Isabela to make up for hard
work and night alarums. The people were a happy,
pleasure-loving lot; dances and other entertainments followed my expeditions in the mountains. The one other
American in the town was the school-teacher, a Harvard
man of about my own youth, and just as willing to have
a good time. When no Filipino gave a dance we gave one
ourselves; and we were very much at home with the many
charming senoritas of Isabela and vicinity. When account
is taken of the fact that there were no American women
within a score of miles, and that those of our fellow
countrywomen whom we occasionally saw were mostly of
that angular variety that devotes itself to pedagogy, is it
to be wondered that the warm, soft charms of Encarnacion, Conchita, Consuela, Aurelia, Paz-the very names
of the girls carry a seductive lilt-seemed real and not at
all exotic to two youths whose hot young blood was
stimulated by climate, food, and drink? And really beautiful some of those Filipina and mestiza girls were, with
their soft olive skin, flashing black eyes, long glossy hair
with fragrant buds of white tropic flowers coquettishly
placed; their wide-sleeved, low-necked camisas of fine
woven fabrics of pineapple fiber or hemp slipping back
to show smooth, rounded neck and curve of bosom; their
saya skirts close around their supple hips; their dainty
feet encased in gaudy chinelas (heelless slippers); and the




MURDER, MERRIMENT, AND MORALS I I5


glow of youth, health, and passion flowing in a constant
stream from their graceful persons.
That was the temptation to which every American officer in the provinces was subjected, so small wonder that
many of them married Filipina girls; wonder, indeed,
that more did not. Without entering into a discussion of
the rights and wrongs of miscegenation, I may point out
that an unfortunate feature of the American-Filipino
marriages was that usually the American married a girl
of the lower classes, and that generally it was the lowerclass American who married.
But the maestro and I recked little of the temptations
to which we were exposed. We enjoyed them. Pleasant it
was on a night when the moon hung big and high to wander down the streets of Isabela to where some betel palms,
bathed in silver, marked the entrance to the domicile of
Seniorita Encarnacion de los Reyes; then on the wide
veranda, with the moonlight splashing through the
palms, to watch Encarnacion's slim fingers tinkle the
guitar or run across the harp, and hear her sing her
Spanish songs. Snatches of the verses come back: "Las
orillas del Pasig, donde nace el sol" or "San Pedro no
admite las mujeres al cielo." There were several verses
telling why St. Peter would not let women into heaven,
and there was a laugh for us in every one of them. For
by this time the maestro and I were pretty well acquainted
with the Castilian tongue. Commend me to a pretty girl
on a moonlit balcony as instructress in any language; by
that method a man might acquire Volapuk within a
month or so. To an American desirous of acquiring the
vernacular the Spaniards used to recommend a "sleeping




II6


BULLETS AND BOLOS


dictionary"; but the moonlit-balcony system was better
for a moral youth.
The presidente of Isabela, Sefior Cenon Rosado, was a
capable Visayan with a dash of Spanish blood in his
veins. From the beginning a good friend to Americans,
he gave me much information about babaylanes and cattle
thieves. He was about the first Filipino in Negros to become a Protestant, doubtless thinking that a necessary
first step in the adoption of republican ideals. He had
picked up a little English and a little less knowledge of
the United States. I remember that one night at a dance,
when the intoxication of the hour perhaps blended with
that of the refreshments, Cenon began a eulogy of
things American which ended by his raising a stout bumper of "square-face" Holland gin and ejaculating: "Come,
capitan, I drink-you drink-we drink-health Estados
Unidos! Great cun'ry, Estados Unidos-Pres'dent Roosevelt-Philadelphia-hooray!"
Many years later, in 19I4, when I was superintendent
of the Constabulary Academy at Baguio, organizing the
first class of Filipino cadets, I found, among the aspirants
for a Constabulary commission, Cenon's son, whom I remembered as a barefoot boy at Isabela. It gave me much
pleasure to write to my old friend, reporting the favorable
progress of his boy, who was later commissioned a third
lieutenant in the Constabulary.
The haciendas around Isabela kept open house for Constabulary officers, so that I often rode out to one or the
other for some snipe or duck shooting, for a supper or a
dance. Each hacienda was a community in itself-a feudal
community of which the hacendero was the overlord. The




MURDER, MERRIMENT, AND MORALS 117


hacendero's house, like a baron's fortress of the Middle
Ages, stood in the center of the buildings and dependents'
huts. Many miles of almost uninhabited country might
separate one hacienda from the next or from the nearest
pueblo. The oxen, carabco, and horses to be seen in the
fields or on the roads belonged to the kacendero; the
broad acres of sugar-cane and rice, the milch goats that
fed beside the hedgeless roads, the long galvanized iron
shed that housed the milling machinery, the paraos and
lorchas that loaded grass-sacks of crude sugar at the landing on the river, the bamboo and nipal huts of the laborers
-all were his. Even the laborers, men, women, and children, tanned to darkest bronze by toil in the paddies and
fields, might be said to belong to the hacendero, for they
were usually so deeply in his debt for clothing and food
advanced that escape was well-nigh impossible. And the
hacendero would tell you that unless the peasants were in
his debt they would not work. But this was an axiom of
Spanish administration that American experience exploded; for we soon found that under fair treatment the
Filipinos made satisfactory laborers.
In Negros the class of land-owning peasant farmers
found in many provinces of Luzon, notably among the
Ilocanos of the North and Bicols of the South, was lacking. Conditions in Negros approximate more closely to
those which have brought bloody revolution to Mexico
and Central American countries for so many years, for
the land has been alienated from the peasants and is held
in large parcels. This has brought about speedy development of the province and apparent prosperity; but it has
resulted in a social structure much less solid and safe than




IIS


BULLETS AND BOLOS


that of other provinces in the islands. Indeed, one of the
most hopeful aspects of the Philippine question as a
whole is the presence of such a large number of landowning farmers, a substantial middle class that should be
the backbone of every country.
The wealthy hacendero lived in state. Fast horses carried him in carromatac or quilez to the nearest town or to
Bacolod when occasion offered. His daughters often spoke
English or French, learned in a convent in Hongkong or
it might be Paris. His house was furnished with what
passed for European furniture, but which was probably
made in Hongkonk or Singapore; rococo pictures, vases,
and other ornaments abounded. Likely enough an orchestrion or other musical instrument of torture adorned his
sala; for the wealthy Filipino sometimes shows an almost
childlike fondness for large mechanical toys. The life was
a curious blend of Spanish and Malay customs. For instance, you might sit at a well-appointed dinner table, eating Spanish cookery off fine napery, drinking Rioja claret
and Frontera sherry or even dry champagne; you would
chat in Spanish, English, or French with your host's
daughters, recently from Paris, chic and attractive enough
to catch glances even on the boulevards; and if you had
been able to see through the wall that divided the diningroom from the kitchen you might have seen an old Visayan woman squatting on the floor, eating morisqueta
(cooked rice) with her fingers or smoking a black cigar
and chewing a red cud of betel. She was the mother of
the charming girls with whom you were dining. In youth
and maturity the wealthy Visayas are Europeanizedperhaps by now Americanized-but in old age they may




MURDER, MERRIMENT, AND MORALS i i9
revert to the more comfortable customs of their ancestors.
That picture, the old mother squatting on the floor in
the kitchen while the daughters drink champagne and talk
French, in a manner epitomizes the chaotic structure of
Negros society in I902.




CHAPTER XIV


CHOLERA IN THE CAMP
We've got the cholera in the camp, it's worse tha
forty fights;
We're dying in the wilderness the same as Isrulites;
It's before us and be'ind us, and we cannot get
away,
An' the doctor's just reported we've ten more
to-day.
So sings Rudyard Kipling, high priest of the AngloSaxon religio-commercial crusade for the governance and
reform of Oriental peoples.
This dreaded Asiatic disease struck Negros while I
was still at Isabela. We had marked its approach through
the islands, from Manila where the infection started,
brought doubtless by boat from Hongkong. It appeared
in Iloilo; and then of course it was a matter of time until
boats carried it from island to island. In later years strict
quarantine measures in some measure stopped the spread
of the disease. But the Philippine Bureau of Health had
not then attained the marvelous efficiency to be brought
about by the work of Dr. Victor G. Heiser of the United
States Marine Health and Quarantine Service.
A case or two of cholera appeared in Binalbagan, a
coast town a few miles from Isabela; and the Isabelefios
120




CHOLERA IN THE CAMP


121


laughed uneasily, calling it the cholerina or "little cholera"
induced by eating too heartily of green, half-cooked ears
of corn when they first come in season. But the disease
spread with appalling rapidity and the dreaded symptoms
of synchronous vomiting and diarrhoea were unmistakable. Vainly the Provincial Board of Health broadcast
circulars in English, Spanish, and Visayan telling the
people to take quarantine measures, to boil all water, and
to bury the dead in quicklime; as vainly the Constabulary
threw cordons across the province in the hope of stopping
the spread of the epidemic; for with inadequate forces
to combat the ignorance and superstition of the populace
the task was hopeless. In practically all towns drinking
and cooking water was secured from easily contaminated
streams and wells, while marketing was carried on in
numberless open-air stores where fruit and vegetables
were exposed to the deadly feet of flies from cholera
droppings. The people were apathetic, relying for assistance solely on San Roque, the patron saint of the sick.
In each barrio (hamlet) and pueblo pathetic little processions paraded the streets, bearing banners and battered
images of the saints and often headed by a band playing
such a popular air as "There'll be a hot time in the old
town to-night"-a tune perhaps more appropriate at the
deadly hour than was realized by the Filipino musicians.
San Roque shamefully neglected his job. For some
months-until, in fact, the heavy typhoon rains of August
and September washed the country-side clean-King
Cholera reigned supreme and took his toll of from ten to
twenty per cent. of the population. Owing to simple, sanitary measures such as boiling water and cooking vege



I22


BULLETS AND BOLOS


tables, the Constabulary in Isabela was comparatively immune; but with men on patrols and expeditions it was
impossible to be always on the watch and I lost one or two
soldiers. And once I had a bad scare myself.
I was riding alone from Himamaylan to Isabela on
a blazing hot day that parched me as dry as the proverbial
bone. As I had no canteen of water, I stopped at a solitary
hut beneath a shady mango tree, miles from other habitation. Before that occasion I had often stopped there to
slake my thirst; and whether the isolation of the hut,
force of habit, or the fatigue of the trail made me careless
I cannot say, but I asked the old peasant woman who
came to the door for a drink of water, which, with the
apathy of her class and race, she silently brought to me
in a goblet made from a hollowed cocoanut shell. Raging
thirst made me unheedful of the dirty receptacle, the questionable fingers that had dipped the water from an earthenware jar, and the source of the supply, so I gulped
down the fluid; then I watered my horse, and not till
then the thought of cholera uneasily crept into my brain
and I questioned the woman, "May cholera diri?" (Is
there any cholera here?) "0, po!" the answer came, "duha
ka-patay sa balay." (Yes, sir, there are two dead in the
house. )
Hastily I rode to Isabela and to cholera remedies.
Galloping through a hamlet, I saw some bottles of native
cholera mixture displayed on the bamboo shelf of an openair store. I bought a bottle, swallowed the contents down
to the last drop, galloped on again and, when I reached
home, brewed a quart or two of strong tea and took that
with a liberal dose of Dr. J. Collis Browne's Chlorodyne




CHOLERA IN THE CAMP


I23


and assorted other medicines. Fortunately there was work
enough on hand to take my mind off my own condition,
and the symptoms, expected and well earned, did not
appear; but after that experience I was decidedly more
careful.
However, one American officer in my district went
down with the cholera and (which was quite the exception) recovered. Inspector Warren of the Telegraph Division of the Constabulary arrived at Isabela to build a
telephone line that would link me up with the towns
further south and with a detachment of Constabulary at
Isio, a hamlet on the coast some thirty miles south of
Isabela. Warren went on south and from time to time
would ring me up to report progress in construction; he
was putting up a temporary line, mostly fastened to the
coco palms, plantations of which line the Negros coast.
For a week or two I did not hear from him; then one
day the telephone bell tinkled again and I took down the
receiver to hear a weak, thin voice say: "Is that you,
White? I'm in Cauayan-I've had the cholera!" Poor
Warren had been stricken in about the most disconsolate,
abandoned barrio in Negros with no fellow American
within twenty miles and, of course, quite unable to communicate with one of his own kind; but a native practicante (pharmacist) had treated him and, marvelous to
relate, had pulled him through. I saw Warren a day or
two later. He looked like a dead man and had dropped
from about 170 pounds to but little over 100, such was the
ravage of that disease, which seems, within a few hours,
to deplete the system of half its blood and brawn.
When cholera started in Isabela some of the residents




124


BULLETS AND BOLOS


wanted to put in the evenings praying to San Roque
instead of worshiping at the shrine of Terpsichore.
However, the teacher, the Presidente, and I determined
that cheerful spirits would supplement prayer as defense
against disease, so we gathered the girls and youths and
held a "Cholera Ball." Some of the seioritas and their
escorts were loath to come. We had to drive around to
their houses in carromatas and even in carabtao carts and
almost drag them from scenes of despondent prayer to
one of hopeful recreation. But despite all delays the dance
was a huge success. Perhaps there were more bottles of
"square-face" gin, aniseed liqueur, and Angostura bitters
consumed than was usual on such occasions. The gaiety,
at first forced, became spontaneous. I am sure that individual powers of resistance to the disease were strengthened by the spirits-both the bottled and the other kind.
In fact, the only one of the dancing set in Isabela who
succumbed was a girl whose parents absolutely refused to
let her attend our dances, which now occurred more frequently than ever. She died. The rest of us lived.
Once we danced five nights in succession, never finishing before daybreak. Morning after morning I went home
just as the first rays of the sun were gilding the summit
of old Canlaon. Some time afterward Major Orwig
asked me what time I arose in the morning at Isabela so
as to get my Constabulary 'work done. With a certain
amount of mental reservation I told him that I usually
saw the sun rise.




CHAPTER XV


FLOODS, AMPHIBIANS, AND EPIDEMICS
THE advent of the rainy season somewhat abated the
cholera epidemic, though it remained endemic for months
or years, and I was still to have a remarkable experience
with it in another part of the province.
The first heavy rain after months of complete drought
is practically the only seasonal demarcation in the Philippines. In the tropics there is no spring with balmy breath
and bursting buds; no autumn with first crisp frost to
sere leaves and make the garden flowers droop their heads;
there is only the quick transition from dust and drought
to mud and moisture. The change comes in a day. From
January to June the country is parched, the earth cracks,
the rivers fall lower and lower until they barely float the
fishermen's canoes; only in the sunless depths of the
mountain forests does any moisture persist. The islands
are athirst. Then one day clouds gather on the higher
mountains and roll lower and blacker, while flashes of
lightning shoot through and peals of thunder shake the
very earth that yawns for water. The rain comes. At first
big splashing drops are swallowed as they fall; follow
such pent-up torrents as the temperate zone never knows.
The dust in one's nostrils is replaced by that warm, conservatory smell of the hot earth after rain, when all
125




I26


BULLETS AND BOLOS


nature seems to exhale humid thanks for the breaking of
the drought.
Then the streams swell a thousandfold overnight and
the dreaded avenida-the freshet-wipes out rice fields
and villages. But the Constabulary must keep the trail,
wet season or dry. In the treacherous streams we have
lost a dozen officers and many men. There was poor
Manison returning on horseback alone, in a black night,
to Batangas. The rain had ceased. But the Batangas
River, just outside the town, was in flood; and across the
river were the lights of the army post from which strains
of music floated out through the darkness. It was "hop"
night- and Manison was young; so he took a chance
on the depth of the water, his horse stumbled, and he was
swept away in the flood.
Like other Constabulary officers I have taken my
chances on the flooded rivers-and was lucky. Between
Isabela and the foot-hills hamlet of Mampahubug was a
little stream, perhaps fifty feet wide, trickling between
bluff banks; a rough cart track cut steeply down through
the banks to a ford where, as a rule, the water barely
wetted a horse's fetlocks. One day in July, I 902, I reached
the ford with twenty men and as many cargadores on the
first leg of an expedition against the babaylanes. The little
streani was swollen to a turbid torrent running level with
the top of its banks, ten or twelve feet deep and bearing
along many snags, logs, and other debris. Either we had
to cross the flood or wait in a drenching rain for the end
of the freshet which might run for days; or we might
return to Isabela. I called for volunteers to cross the
stream. One of the cargadores said he could swim it, a








A DANC AMONG TIe KALIGAS OF NORTERN LUZON WITH
CONSTABULARY SOLDIERS ASSI STING
xi.~~195 ~~~m~~~~r  JOR'~~sR f ~sz-ijE L~




FLOODS, AMPHIBIANS, EPIDEMICS 127


dangerous proposition with the current boiling down at
least ten miles an hour, and the chance of being hit by
a log. A rope was brought from the nearest barrio and
the plucky cargadore safely carried it across the torrent,
landing, however, quite fifty yards down from a point
opposite his start. Then, with carbine and equipment
slung over my back, I hauled myself along the rope and
made the other shore. The soldiers followed.
Private Tobias, my company clerk, a pale-faced mestizo who had begged me to take him on an expedition, let
go his hold in midstream and disappeared under the yellow flood. Below our crossing the stream doubled on itself,
so with the soldiers already over I dashed across the neck
of land in the hope of saving Tobias when he was swept
around the bend; the river broadened here and was only a
few feet deep on our side. We joined hands and I
stood as far out in the torrent as was possible without
being taken off my legs; and round the bend Tobias came
hurtling down, turning over and over, vainly attempting
to swim. Nevertheless the few strokes he made brought
him nearer to us. I just managed to grab an arm, the
line of men held firm, and after a few struggles we all
got safely ashore. And now comes the most remarkable
part of the incident: the same ccargadore who had carried
the rope across volunteered to dive and recover Private
Tobias's carbine for five pesos. That fellow held his life
cheaply; but I told him that I would deduct the sum from
Tobias's next pay. So into the flood he went. Allowing
for the current, he dived many yards above the spot where
the carbine was dropped. We ran to the bend to pick him
out of the river. But the human muskrat caught an over



128


BULLETS AND BOLOS


hanging branch and hauled himself ashore. At the second
attempt he got the carbine. Never was five pesos better
earned.
Of course, the Visayan is a Malay, and that race is
semi-amphibious. In after years I saw remarkable feats
of swimming and diving amongst the Moro pearlers in
the Sulu Archipelago. But nothing equaled the courage
and skill shown by that cargcadore in groping for Private
Tobias's carbine along the bottom of the muddy millstream.
On another expedition, when we were deep in the mountains, we camped on a sand-bar in the canion of a considerable river. Behind us was a precipitous cliff; in front
the river, two or three feet deep. It was fine weather and
apparently no freshet was to be feared. But there must
have been a cloud-burst further up the mountain, for just
before dark we heard an ominous roar. The soldiers yelled,
"Avenida!" (flood). We gathered what we could of our
impedimenta and scrambled perilously up the steep rock
wall where lay our only safety. We lost in the flood some
sacks of rice and other food and had to spend a comfortless night among the rocks. The following morning the
river had returned to normal flow. We continued our hike
up-stream and re-supplied ourselves from the first outlaw
village that we assaulted.
But if the rains abated the cholera, the Fates still held
chastisement in store for the unhappy Philippines. On the
heels of man-disease came animal-disease. Epizo6tia of
cattle and carabao, surra and glanders of horses, now
swept the province, and carrying off within a few weeks
seventy-five per cent. of the farmers' livestock. The dead



FLOODS, AMPHIBIANS, EPIDEMICS I29


liness, the inevitability of the scourge may be imagined
when I say that of fourteen horses in the Constabulary
stables at Isabela I could not save one for my personal
use. We had gathered quite a nice lot of animals for a
mounted detachment that could patrol more country than
foot-soldiers; some of the horses were bought by the
government or by me personally (before the epidemic a
horse could be purchased for from twenty to fifty pesos),
while many we had recaptured from ba,baylanes and ladrones. All died within a few weeks. The plague killed
them almost mysteriously. There were few visible signs of
disease. The horse ran a little at the nose and sometimes
developed a protuberance on the belly, but he would eat
heartily till the moment of death.
The native horse doctors doped the beasts with all
kinds of decoctions and lit smudge fires of alleged medicinal leaves under their n6ses and sterns. If the smoke
had kept away the flies it might have had some effect, for
there is no doubt that the disease was spread by the
bite of horse-flies, like the tsetse of South Africa. When
the epizo6ti-surra-glanders first appeared I sent two favorite riding-horses to the foot-hills of Mampuhubug,
miles from other hoofed beasts, unless it were the wild
deer of the cogon hills. But, despite such precautions, the
animals died.
With my own horses gone I was forced to make inspection trips on hired stock or often astride the gray, greasy,
hairless hide of a ccarabao. Now, the water-buffalo is built
on substantial fair-fat-and-forty lines; it runs to breadth
and solidity of structure rather than to curves designed
for the rider's comfort. The camel, it is said, requires




130


BULLETS AND BOLOS


careful navigation and his saddle-action will reproduce a
fair imitation of a ship at sea, whence, I suppose, comes
his name, "the ship of the desert." But the carabao will
give all possible camel sensations of motion plus the exquisite experience of a circus rider who bestrides two
horses at the same time. Yet even the performer does not
attempt to sit down on two horses at once, as must he
who ventures aboard the broad back of a full-grown
female carabao a few months in calf.
Nevertheless the carabao navigated well in the rainy
season, when the dirt roads churned into quagmires and
the dry season short cuts across the rice fields were impassable to man and horse. Aboard his gray hulk one
could sail direct across country, splashing over rice
paddies, through mud-holes, and swimming rivers. Some
of the hacenderos trained trotting carabrtos for rainyseason work, and when I managed to secure such beasts
I made the inspection trips in comparative comfort.
This plague on the animals seemed yet another drop in
the already overflowing cup of the islands' miseries. Centuries of misrule, insurrection upon insurrection, internecine warfare, outlawry, and cattle stealing, agrarian
disorders, cholera, animal diseases-all had now afflicted
that archipelago so physically fair and favored. It is indeed a tribute to the natural resources of the Philippines,
and surely no less a tribute to constructive American
administration, that within a few brief years the islands
have been lifted from poverty and disorder to complete
peace and comparative plenty. And to have played even
a small part in such honorable reconstruction of a land
and people makes one thrill with not unjustifiable pride.




CHAPTER XVI


DISINTEGRATION AND RECONSTRUCTION
JOURNEYS Of inspection to the towns of my district occupied such time as could be spared from expeditions-and
dances. Mounted on a carabao or a horse that might die
under me before my destination was reached —once or
twice this happened-and accompanied by a soldier orderly, I rode from Isabela south, through Binalbagan, Himamaylan, Suay, Cabancalan, where there was a Scout
post and the Hoppers, and Himamaylan where Serafin always welcomed me. It was a depressing little string of
towns to visit. Grass-grown streets and plazas, tumbledown houses, unfinished churches with interior decorations and images left open to the weather; pariah dogs,
often with loathsome sores and mange, roaming at will
and howling at the passer-by; razor-backed swine rooting
up such parts of the roads as yet held firm or, beneath
every hut and house, performing the functions of a complete system of sewage disposal. After residence in the
tropics the Mohammedan prejudice against pork is easily
understood. The dogs, too, completed with the swine as
sanitarians.
The inhabitants seemed paralyzed by the successive
visitations of war and pestilence. They moved about their
daily tasks with apathy and hopelessness, quite different
from the attitude of the people on the hacienmas around
Isabela. The reason was to be found, I believe, in the
131




I32


BULLETS AND BOLOS


fact that some of these southern towns were artificial
populations gatflered by the Spanish friars around the
church, distant, perhaps, from the best arable lands. With
the departure of the friars the towns disintegrated, while
new barrios formed on the edge of the rice fields rather
than on strategic points of the coast or hills. The population regrouped itself on economic instead of theocratic
lines; and during the period of redistribution the churchformed towns were pitiable, semi-deserted spots.
This sudden withdrawal of the friars had more to do
with the chaotic condition in which we found the Philippines that has been generally supposed. It was the Spanish
priests who gathered the nomadic tribesmen in permanent communities; it was the priest who directed the
governance of the town even though the gobernadorcillo
might possess apparent powers; it was the priest who
easily swayed an ignorant populace by appeal to its superstition, and it was he who officiated at baptism, marriage,
and death-the only notable events in the colorless lives
of the peasantry.
Into such sloughs of despond as these pitiable pueblos,
American school-teachers, men, women, and girls, were
often thrust. The work they did in heartening the people,
instructing not alone the children in the three R's but also
the adults in the principles of organization and self-government, interpreting the laws and the municipal code,
pointing out the elementary principles of cleanliness and
sanitation, while applying them by practical example,
all that work of supererogation has never been appreciated in America, nor fully, I fear, by the Filipinos themselves.




DISINTEGRATION, RECONSTRUCTION 133


My own work was to inspect the municipal police, investigate grave crimes, and get a general line on the
politics and economics of the town and district as they
might affect public order. I took with me as orderly a
bright soldier or non-com and let him lounge around the
stores, drinking a glass or two of tuba and picking up the
town gossip, while I called on the municipal officials and
inspected the police. Such police they were! A few barefooted peasants clad in rags of uniforms, loafing around
the Casa Popular, to be more often used as servants for
the officials than in legitimate police work. To inspect
them was a disheartening task; and no immediate remedy
for such conditions was in my hands. The municipalities
were autonomous; inefficient they might be and were;
but the officials were exceedingly jealous of Constabulary
interference. Ten years passed before the continued
worthlessness of the municipal police stiffened the arm
of the provincial and insular governments so that the
Constabulary was given sufficient authority to produce
within a year well-uniformed, equipped, and instructed
police forces in every municipality of the islands.
In Cabancalan I usually stopped for drink or a meal
with the Scout officer stationed there. He was an exsergeant of the Regulars. His wife was with him, and
Judy O'Grady found some difficulty in living up to the
position of the Colonel's lady. They often quarreled violently. One day I arrived at their house to find Mrs. Z.
alone and only too willing to fill my ears with stories of
her husband's ill-treatment and unfaithfulness. She wept,
became hysterical, and, imploring assistance, fell upon my
shoulder. Now, I was neither very old nor very wise. But




I34        BULLETS AND       BOLOS
something whispered that it would be wisdom to keep
out of a family quarrel, so somehow I escaped and rode
on south. A few months later, when I was senior inspector at Bacolod, I received a telegram from a court-martial
at Iloilo summoning me as witness in the case of United
States vs. Lieutenant Z. I flung the telegram to Lieutenant Smith and told him to answer it, saying that I was
absent from Bacolod on an expedition. And so I was. I
left immediately for the mountains-out of range of the
telegraph.
I have already stated that the roads of Negros were
bad; indeed, they were bad enough to merit a few further
remarks on roads, good, bad, indifferent, impassable and
engulfing, as were those dreadful highways in that stricken land. Many years had passed since work had been
done to repair the Spanish turnpike along the coast. Yet
with a rainfall measured in inches daily instead of annually, constant supervision of roads was needed. But the
insular and provincial governments were not thoroughly
organized, and the municipalities, which could very well
have done something to keep up the roads, of course did
nothing. The municipal officials would daily walk around
the mud-holes in the main street of a town, would answer
"No hay dinero," (there is no money) if asked to fill the
holes, or would cut a few banana and coco trunks to
pitch into a cavity when even a carabao could not pull an
empty cart through it. More than once on the main coast
road of Negros Occidental I have seen a carabbao and
cart so engulfed in mud that only the head, horns, and
part of the neck of the animal were visible. At such
holes carts were unloaded and the contents packed by




DISINTEGRATION, RECONSTRUCTION I 35


drivers to the other side. The repetition of this process
a dozen times a day made transportation slow and hazardous. Through the lesser mud-holes I rode or led my
horse, coating myself above the knees, sometimes even to
the middle, with black viscosity; while at the larger ones
I detoured through the back yards of houses or out
into the rice fields.
That was in 1902, and the conditions so inadequately
described-inadequately because no words can paint the
awfulness of those roads-obtained throughout the Philippines. Yet by 1913 there were thousands of miles of
perfectly kept macadam highways that linked provincial
capitals with outlying pueblos and with Manila. That is
just one among many activities of which Americans may
be justly proud; and the chief credit is due Cameron
Forbes, who initiated a road program when he was secretary of commerce and police in charge of public works,
and continued it while he was governor-general, and until
he was rudely and ungratefully removed in 1913 by President Wilson.
Then on top of all this filth and mud, this disorganization and disintegration of the towns, this falling to
pieces of houses and of populace, was superimposed a
severe cholera epidemic when the ambitionless, moribund natives went down like grass before a scythe; when
the funeral bells tolled monotonously in the tumble-down
church towers; and when pathetic, dragging processions
to the cemeteries were scarcely ever absent from the roads.
Yet in the far-away barrio of Isio one night the people
offered me a dance, which, despite thirty miles in the
saddle and a score of mud-holes, I was nothing loath to




136         BULLETS AND BOLOS
accept. There were no modern houses in Isio. It was the
first time I had danced on a split bamboo floor. Moreover, the seoritas were barefoot, only one girl possessing
a pair of heelless slippers which were passed around to
my partner for the time being. The room was lit by lowhung kerosene lamps of small candle-power as well as by
night-lights, merely wicks floating in cups of coco oil.
The girls were brown, dark-brown, or chocolate; no mestizas in Isio but a pure Visayan strain. Nevertheless they
were young, buxom, and of a feline prettiness, so that
we danced late into the night. And let it not be thought
that from a Constabulary standpoint the time was wasted;
for during the intervals in the dance I drank gin with
the distinguidos or elders of the village, and thus, when
tongues were loosened, picked up many a hint on political
conditions or the whereabouts of outlaws.




CHAPTER XVII


A JUNGLE KILLING
EXPEDITION after expedition I made into the babaylanes'
country. We had many minor encounters but after the
Mansalanao lesson, they never attempted to stand. It was
now a case of still-hunting —quiet preparations for the
expedition, stealthy tracking through the jungle, the surprise of a clearing at dawn or dusk, and the capture of
occasional babaylanes in their beds or on the trails. It was
very much as Kipling sings in the "Ballad of Boh da
Thone:"
The word of a scout, a march by night,
A rush through the mist-a scattering fight...
Perhaps a few typical incidents of the trail will serve to
limn that strange life which, with all its risks, held much
of charm for any young American with sporting blood
in his veins. While living the sheltered life it seems a
rather awful thing to find "sport" in taking the life of
one's fellowman; yet no such qualms then upset our view
of things. It was kill or be killed, and it must again be
emphasized that the enemy had every advantage. The
137




I38


BULLETS AND BOLOS


following little morning's affair should make that point
clear.
We were hiking through the jungle on my second trip
to Macabong, Julian, as usual, just ahead of me. Following the rules of military expeditions, there should have
been a "point" of two or three soldiers ahead; but I
trusted so much to my own quick aim with Winchester or
revolver that I was accustomed to precede my men.
(Later, as I grew older, and consequently acquired the
usual paradoxical view that my life was increasing in
value, I threw out a point.) Julian bent forward, padding
along with his head half turned so as to catch any
suspicious sound. Suddenly he stopped and bent lower,
almost to the trail. I turned and halted, by holding up one
hand, the column of soldiers and cargadores behind me;
then with two soldiers crept on hands and knees toward
the sound of voices in the jungle. A few yards of crawling
brought into view a little rocky brook meandering through
the forest which hemmed it close at every turn. There,
squatting like frogs, were several Bukidnon men peeling
and stripping great lianas of rattan with which the jungle
was hereabouts interlaced even more thickly than usual.
As we were always ready to capture or interview any of
these wild hillsmen, we snaked cautiously nearer and
nearer. They were chattering and working so earnestly
that our approach passed unnoticed until we were some
fifty feet distant-when they took the alarm and rose
from their squatting posture, poised for flight. We sprang
forward; and at that moment from behind a large boulder
between us and the Bukidnon and a little to the left of
the trail rose a babaylan soldier, who discharged, at a dis



A JUNGLE KILLING


139


tance of perhaps twenty feet, a Remington rifle full in my
face. Scarcely had he fired when I put a.45 revolver bullet
into his chest.
By firing too quickly he missed me and paid the penalty.
It all happened so suddenly that a few seconds later I myself extracted the empty shell from his Remington rifle.
A remarkable feature of the incident-of itself an ordinary enough occurrence in Constabulary work-was that
the bullet pierced a large canting-anting suspended on the
babayla~n chest and consisting of a sheet of paper folded
many times and sewn in a waterproof bag. On the paper
was a scrawl in the Visayan dialect which my soldiers
deciphered. It was an absolution in full from Papa Isio
for a murder committed by the wearer in the lowlands.
Poetic justice, indeed, that the bullet pierced the false
instrument of pardon.
My soldiers recognized the babaylan as an ex-guard of
the provincial jail at Bacolod. It appeared that he had
been guarding a prisoner at work in a field but had allowed him to escape. Rather than submit to the penalty for
lack of vigilance, the guard shot an innocent peasant and
carried the body back to the jail, alleging that it was his
prisoner, shot while attempting to escape. Later, suspicion
fell on the guard, and he fled to the mountains.
That was the story as some soldier told it to me. I never
verified it; there were too many current crimes with
which to concern oneself. But a precisely similar incident that happened within my own cognizance years
later in Mindanao lends verisimilitude to the above story
of the life and death of one babaylan.
On that expedition we were intent on crossing the




140


BULLETS AND BOLOS


island of Negros to the east coast. We paid a visit to
Macabong, burned several babcylan clearings, and finally
found our way into a delightful series of Bukidnon villages stretching for miles down the eastern slopes of the
Negros cordilleras.
These pagan Bukidnon hillsmen are a race distinct from
the Visayas of the Negros lowlands; perhaps it would
be more accurate to say that they appeared to be of distinct race. Dr. N. M. Saleeby of Manila, who knows more
about the origin of the Malayan Filipinos than any living
man, divides the inhabitants of the Philippines into three
classes: (i) the pagans or hill tribes, (2) the Christian
Filipinos, (3) the Moros or Mohammedan Filipinos; and
shows how the islands were peopled by successive waves
of Malayan migration, coming from the Malay Peninsula, Sumatra, Java, Borneo, and the other Spice Islands
of the Eastern Archipelago.
Those Malays were the Anglo-Saxons of the East.
They had their Hengists and Horsas who sailed to conquest over the soft southern seas in their prahus, in ignorant rivalry of the Vikings who braved, in their shieldsided galleys, the icy waves of the Northern oceans.
The origin of the Filipinos is also traced by Dr. Saleeby
etymologically back to the Sanskrit; so that, after all, the
Filipinos and ourselves have a common origin on the plateaus of Central Asia. Dr. Barrows says, "Another possible explanation of the many Sanskrit terms that are
found in Philippine languages, is that the period of contact between Filipinos and Hindus occurred not in the
Philippines, but in Java and Sumatra, whence the ancestors of the Filipinos perhaps came."




A JUNGLE KILLING


I4I


It is indeed interesting to reflect on those human
streams issuing from the Roof of the World in the Pamir,
one flowing west, ever west, its members growing taller
and whiter among the mists and snows of the northland;
the other running south, ever south, its men becoming
smaller and darker under the Southern sun until at last
American and Filipino meet-and I chase babaylanes in
the Negros jungles or feast with Bukidnons in their
mountain homes.
The first time I feasted with the Bukidnons, I was an
uninvited and decidedly unwelcome guest at a marriage
festival. It was on this same expedition that I have for the
moment abandoned to chase an ethnological will-o'-thewisp. We had been in the mountains for about a week,
had run short of food, and had already eked out our rations with the ubud or edible pith of the rattan root. In
fact, that and a few sweet potatoes scratched from abandoned clearings had been our only food for forty-eight
hours. We always figured on supplying ourselves from
babaylan villages. But this time we reckoned without
taking into account our previous work in destroying those
sources of supply. In Macabong we found nothing, and
we plunged down the eastern slope of the mountains toward the Bukidnon villages that we knew lay between
us and the coast. We were hiking for our dinner. At last
we reached a bluff above a pretty valley where fields of
corn and sweet potatoes with plantations of coco palms,
coffee, cacao, and tapioca pushed back the jungle. A village of a few houses-brown mushrooms on a green field
-lay at our feet. Around the houses was gathered a
crowd of mountain folk. My hungry soldiers murmured




142


BULLETS AND BOLOS


"fiesta" (holiday celebration); and old Julian added,
"Seguro casamiento de Bukidnon" (a Bukidnon wedding).
Among the celebrants there appeared to be some armed
men: babaylcanes were attending the wedding. So we
formed a skirmish line and advanced down a log-strewn
clearing toward the village. But long before we reached
the houses the crowd disintegrated: the celebrants eddied
and circled for a moment, then incontinently fled. The
presence of the babaytlanes doubtless made the Bukidnon
feel that they were also tarred with the brush of outlawry. I sent a few men after the fugitives to clear out
any babaylanes and yell friendly greetings to the Bukidnon. Then, with the rest of the soldiers, I turned to the
marriage feast, spread out al fresco beneath a grove of
coco palms. It was, indeed, a sight for hungry soldiers:
there were two fat pigs roasting whole over a fire, just
turning to a succulent brown. A couple of soldiers took
the spits within a minute after they were deserted by the
Bukidnon cooks; there were roast sweet potatoes, ubis,
gabis (edible roots), and other tubers; there were stews of
chicken with vegetables and sili peppers; there were pots
and pots of rice, cooked, hot and steaming, covered with
banana leaves; and to cap the whole, there were two
enormous earthenware jars of pangassi-the rice beer of
primitive Malay society-each jar holding five or ten
gallons, ready to drink, and even provided with a number
of bamboo tubes through which to suck the intoxicating
liquor.
Picture a score of starving soldiers encountering, in the
depths of the jungle, such a feast as that! As guardians of




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A JUNGLE KILLING


143


the law, I suppose that before attacking the spread we
should have waited until we got permission from the
Bukidnon owners. But hungry stomachs know only the
law of appetite, and if the babaylanes had attacked us half
an hour later, they would have found us loggy with food
and drink. That pan gassi beer was strong stuff; I took a
few pulls through the bamboo tubes and all the fatigue of
a week's hiking vanished. My guides and a soldier or two
got too much, became hilarious, and were put in one of
the huts under restraint.
How good that roast pork was! The fat cracklings
crunched with great wedges of yellow yams, the handfuls
of scented mountain rice accompanied by slices of tender
melting fat, the great spoonfuls of stewed chicken, the
tang in the mountain air, the sunlight dappling through
the coco palms, together with the appetite above
all the appetite-that hiking and semi-starvation had
given us. It was good to be alive that day in the Negros
mountains.
The only inhabitant of the village whom we saw to
thank for our meal was the bride for whom the feast had
been prepared. This pretty mountain maid, soft, round,
and brown, was so encumbered by the wrappings of her
bridal finery that my soldiers found her in the junglef and
brought her to me. We treated her well, gave assurances
of our friendship for the Bukidnon and enmity toward
the babaylanes, then sent her into the jungle to bring
back her relatives and friends, who were doubtless watching us from every vantage-point. However, they evidently
feared to encounter men with such redoubtable appetites;
we saw no more of our involuntary hosts; and I still owe




144


BULLETS AND BOLOS


a Bukidnon chief-name forgotten-the price of a hearty
meal.
We were lucky in free meals on that expedition. From
the village of our repast, we dropped easily and slowly
down the eastern slopes of the Negros cordilleras, through
one picturesque Bukidnon settlement to another, over
grassy foot-hills and into the valley of a clear mountain
stream which we followed to where it met the sea, near
the town of Guiljungan, in the province of Negros Oriental. The town was celebrating its annual fiesta on the
day of its patron saint, so that people were gathered from
far and near, and there was a banquet just beginning in
the somewhat pretentious house of the presidente. The
people of Guiljungan had been not a little plagued by the
babaylanes, so they welcomed us as deliverers. Foot-sore
from the trail-I remember that my own shoes were falling from my feet and were only held together by strips
of raw rattan, while my men were all barefoot-I was
lodged in the place of honor at the presidente's right hand,
and washed down an excellent meal with several bottles of
warm beer, as well as a few glasses of claret. Truly, a
Constabulary officer on the trail in those days encountered
many dangers!
F~om Guiljungan we hiked up the coast to Valle Hermosa-the Beautiful Valley-where my expedition was
accommodated at the hospitable hacienda of Don Diego de
la Vina, an old Spanish mestizo and wealthy hacendero
with a heart of gold; a table groaning under good food;
a stable of fast horses, and the only caponized fowls I
have seen in the Philippines. Don Diego was a good friend
of the Constabulary and had often hospitably entertained




A JUNGLE KILLING


I45


its officers and men. Just now he was in trouble. The
municipal officials of Guiljungan, of which Valle Hermosa was a barrio, had so worked on the Filipino provincial governor and on the American Senior Inspector of the
Constabulary of Negros Oriental to obtain the revocation
of Don Diego's license to keep five rifles for the protection
of his hacienda.. He implored my assistance to obtain the
return of his arms. I promised my good offices, and later,
through the district chief, Colonel Taylor, so managed
matters with the powers-that-be that Don Diego's arms
were returned. The gratitude of the old gentleman knew
no bounds, and never thereafter did I visit Valle Hermosa
but that the fattest capons were killed and everything else
done to show his appreciation. Years later, when I was
severely wounded in Mindanao, I received sympathetic
telegrams from the old King of the Happy Valley; while
every step that I took upward in the Constabulary service
brought from him a letter of congratulation.
From Valle Hermosa to Isabela runs a trail which
crosses the only pass over the Negros cordilleras at a moderate elevation. Hiking along that trail, over open cogon
flats instead of through dense precipitous jungles, was by
comparison a pleasure journey. But, after nearly two
weeks' absence from Isabela, I was anxious to return to
headquarters; there was no further danger from babaylanes, so leaving the main body of the expedition, I hiked
fast with a few picked soldiers. I was in the pink of
physical condition, and as I swung forward faster and
faster man after man dropped behind until, at dusk, I
trudged into the barrio of Magallon, nine miles from Isabela, with only one or two soldiers tagging behind me.




146


BULLETS AND BOLOS


We had come more than thirty miles since daybreak, yet I
felt I could make the nine miles further to Isabela that
night; so leaving my now exhausted companions in the
village I pressed on alone.
Not far outside Magallon runs the Binalbagan River, a
hundred yards wide and two or three feet deep, with a
boulder-strewn bed. In the half-light I did not notice that
the river was higher than usual, but plunged into the
water, intent on reaching Isabela. Quite a freshet was running, and as I got further into the stream the water
swirled up to my middle. I slipped over a boulder and
was carried down by the swift current, with difficulty regaining my feet. And several times before I won to the
other side I slipped, fell, and recovered my footing there
in the cascading, hungry stream, fighting alone the waters
in the rapidly darkening tropic night. There was just
the matter of a boulder, a log in the freshet, or an inch
or two of water between me and death. It was a very
ordinary experience in a Constabulary officer's life.




CHAPTER XVIII


DALMACIO THE NEGRITO
MY sojourn at pleasant Isabela was now drawing to a
close. An opportunity was to be given me in a wider
theater of activities than the towns, hamlets, and jungles
of southern Negros. In October, I902, I received orders
from the District Chief to proceed to Bacolod and relieve
Major Orwig as Senior Inspector of the Province of
Negros Occidental. Lieutenant Bowers succeeded me in
command at Isabela and kept up the hiking reputation of
the Constabulary in southern Negros.
On October io, my twenty-third birthday, I assumed
command at Bacolod, a not inconsiderable command for
a youth of my years: sixteen stations, a dozen officers, and
two hundred or more men, scattered over a province
several thousand square miles in area. However, I don't
believe that I gave the responsibility a thought; there
was work to do, much work, too much work to permit
thinking about anything but the job immediately ahead.
Conditions in the province were bad; cholera and animal diseases had prostrated the people and further upset
economic conditions that had not yet recovered from the
insurrection. In the northern Negros mountains were
bands of babaylanes which were focuses to gather in the
discontented peasantry, while in the foot-hills were many
bands of cattle thieves. Fortunately I had not now to
147




I48


BULLETS AND BOLOS


worry about southern Negros. Rumors that Americans
were responsible for the cholera by poisoning the wells
and streams, were flying among the ignorant population.
Across the narrow straits to the east in Cebu, a wave of
fanatical pulaJcanism was gathering, which threatened to
be, and later became, the most serious disorder with which
the government was faced after the insurrection; across
the narrower straits to the west, Panay Island was seething with outlawry and fanaticism; and emissaries from
both islands came to Negros to foment trouble. That
Negros escaped in large measure the serious upheavals
that occurred in Panay and particularly in Cebu, during
the years I903-4, was at least partly due to a lucky coup
that the Constabulary made near Bacolod within a few
days after I became senior inspector.
Scarcely had I warmed the chair of office and become
acquainted with the Filipino and American provincial officials when most disquieting news reached me from Murcia, a town in the foot-hills, nine miles east of Bacolod, at
the base of Canlaon Volcano. The presidente of Murcia,
by great good luck, was an elder brother of my young
friend Presidente Serafin Gatuslao of Himamaylan.
On such little things do a man's reputation and career
sometimes hang. Serafin, of course, had written his
brother Antonio about me, so that from the first the
presidente of Murcia had confidence in my ability to control the situation which daily became more threatening;
and without his assistance and hearty cooperation I could
not have cast the dragnet and made the haul of outlaws
which quieted northern Negros a few days after I took
charge.




DELMACIO THE NEGRITO


I49


On the forested slopes of Canlaon Volcano behind
Murcia roamed Dalmacio the Negrito, the most courageous and consequently the most feared babaylan chief
in Negros. In the babaylan hierarchy he ranked next to Papa Isio; but his was a separate command and he terrorized
the northern half of Negros even more successfully than
the pope's captains terrorized the South. Dalmacio was
half Negrito. His mother was a woman of that rapidly
vanishing race of primitive negroid aborigines. The
dwarf, kinky-headed Negritos are the original inhabitants
of the Philippines, but successive waves of Malayan immigration have diminished their numbers and have driven
them further back into the mountains. They are now
found only in the most remote jungles of one or two
islands. In the mountains of Sagay in northern Negros a
tribe persisted, and Dalmacio's mother was doubtless a
semi-slave taken from the tribe, by coast Filipinos.
The army and Scouts had many times skirmished with
Dalmacio's band. Even in southern Negros I had heard
tales of his prowess and of his successful raids on the
towns of Sagay and Escalante; so I prepared myself and
the Constabulary for a stiff campaign.
I rode out to Murcia, interviewed Presidente Antonio,
went a few miles deeper into the foot-hills to get the lay
of the land, and made my plans. I was already becoming a
little tired of fruitless chasing through the mountains in
pursuit of the outlaws, for since we smashed Mansalanao
they would never make a stand. Dalmacio, however, was
bold. It seemed likely that he could be lured to destruction.
He was.
At Murcia there was a Constabulary station of a cor



I50


BULLETS AND BOLOS


poral and seven soldiers. To the corporal, Abasola, a trustworthy and intelligent Visayan, I gave orders to skirmish
inland against Dalmacio, who now emerged from the
deeper mountains to raid the foot-hill barrios of Murcia,
and rallied to his standard, day by day, more of the discontented and criminal element. It became for me a nice
calculation how far Dalmacio could be allowed to goor come. The longer I delayed a decisive blow the larger
his band became and the greater the haul of outlaws when
I cast my net. Corporal Abasola skirmished with Dalmacio almost daily. Following my instructions, he always
retreated, thus giving the babaykarnes the idea of easily
gained victories. The recent withdrawal of the American
troops from Negros also doubtless persuaded him that
the American Government was breaking down.
Presidente Antonio helped my plan by keeping his head,
steadying the peaceable inhabitants, and sending evasive
answers to Dalmacio's frequent notes demanding the
surrender of Murcia to the forces of the pope. Dalmacio
even addressed bombastic notes to other distinguished
citizens and to the provincial government. Rumor had it
that Papa Isio had joined forces with Dalmacio. Several
of the notes were signed by the pope, but if that dignitary
had fled from southernr Negros because I had made it too
hot for him, he was out of the frying-pan and into the
same fire.
This minor strategy went gaily on for some days until,
as Dalmacio grew stronger and bolder, Governor Locsin
and Judge Yusay of the Court of First Instance became
nervous and urged me to let them call on the governorgeneral for the assistance of the Scouts and Regulars to




DELMACIO THE NEGRITO


i5i


quell the uprising. Dalmacio was now reported to have
over two hundred men with a cannon and many rifles. My
total Constabulary force available was less than thirty
men. Nevertheless, with my past experience of the babaylanes, I felt it sufficient.
I quieted the fears of the provincial officials and awaited
the hour to strike. On October 29, Corporal Abasola
skirmished with Dalmacio only a mile or so outside Murcia, and Bacolod became full of alarming rumors. Lieutenant Frank of the Scouts, who had had personal experience of Dalmacio's prowess, came to me begging that I
would take some of his men to eke out my own scanty
forces. He even offered, to save my face, to let them be
dressed in Constabulary uniform and to say nothing about
it to the authorities. I thanked him, recognizing a very
real man whose Americanism was above petty jealousies,
but I felt quite confident of myself and my men.
Looking back at it now, I rather marvel at that confidence. My men were not the trusted and experienced
hikers of Isabela, but a new lot and comparatively inexperienced. However, I had one or two old faithfuls whom
I had brought from Isabela, and they had doubtless disseminated the idea of my luck and anting-anting. I always
believed in taking a soldier or two with me from one
station, province, or district to another; it was a cheap and
easy way to take advantage of an already earned reputation. Nevertheless. I was really over-confident, for on
learning that the babaylaies were so near Murcia I left
Bacolod at 4 P.M. on the twenty-ninth, with only six
men to swell Corporal Abasola's detachment of eight.
On the road to Murcia we met a stream of people




152


BULLETS AND BOLOS


escaping as they thought from the babaylanes, many of
them with all their household belongings on carabao carts.
It looked like a rout before an advancing and victorious
army. I sent back to Bacolod for Inspector Smith and
eight more men. I arrived at Murcia soon after dark;
Smith joined me at midnight. Presidente Antonio had a
fine supper prepared for us, but he was pretty nervous.
And well he might be, with two hundred babaylanes encamped on the outskirts of his town.
At daybreak on the thirtieth, Smith and I with twentytwo men and two volunteer armed guides, moved cautiously out of Murcia as the cocks were crowing; while
sleepy-eyed Filipinos who had sat up all night in terror
peered from the darkened interiors of their houses. The
babaylawes had passed the night in a hacienda whose
buildings actually joined the suburbs of the pueblo. As
we skirmished over the rice fields and gardens that surrounded the town, the outlaws fell back before us. The
country was rolling and, where not cultivated in rice
and sugar-cane fields, covered with long cogon grass. As
we topped one hill the babaylanes passed over the next,
just out of range.
Dalmacio was maneuvering for position. Within an
hour or so he took his stand on the further bank of the
Caliban River where a swift stream rushed between steep
banks, cut out to a depth of perhaps ten or fifteen feet.
There was brush on the further side to conceal the
enemy's already prepared trenches. Under an erratic fire
from the babaylanes, we advanced to within about two
hundred yards. Their little cannon boomed and dropped
almost at my feet a curious missile made of a piece of an




DELMACIO THE NEGRITO


153


old Standard Oil kerosene can and containing bits of iron,
nails, bolts, and so forth.
Their bullets picked at the trail and raised little spurts
of dust. We lay down behind a rise which gave us partial
protection and opened fire. The babaylanes, well sheltered,
gave us as much or more than we gave. Their yells of
defiance rose above the crackling of rifles and the occasional harmless boom of the little cannon.
They were so bold and defiant that I found it easy to
leave Corporal Abasola with a few men in front of them
to keep up a fire which would continue to engage their
attention while with Inspector Smith and the rest I cautiously withdrew a short distance. We made a considerable detour and crossed the river a few hundred feet below the scene of the fight at a ford pointed out by the two
guides who were natives of the bairrio of Iglaon which
here nestled by the river in a grove of bamboo. Unseen by
the babaylanes, we crawled through the long grass in their
rear, the bullets from Abasola's detachment clipping
viciously above our heads.
There was a little gully up which we crept and when
near enough we sprang to our feet and took the outlaws
completely by surprise. Smith, the two guides, and I were
the first to show above the gully. We were within fifty
feet of the babaylanes when they turned in their trenches
and opened fire on us. Their first shots killed the two
guides who were between Smith and me. One bullet struck
the muzzle of my carbine, almost knocking it from my
hand. But Smith and I pumped bullets into them, the soldiers came up, and the babaylanes started to run. Nevertheless, for a few minutes it was warm work. The grass




I54


BULLETS AND BOLOS


seemed alive with the outlaws, who fired in our faces before they fled. Even then their numbers were such that
had they boldly attacked us with their long fighting
machetes they must have won, for many of our men were
slow in getting into the fight. But the surprise had unnerved the outlaws.
The fight became a chase. Over the grassy flat beside
the river the outlaws sprang toward the hills, diving for
the gullies where the grass was longest and almost concealed them. The Constabulary split into small detachments and pursued. At about a hundred yards' distance
I saw two men making off and gave chase. They turned,
fired at me, and ran. I stopped, fired, and followed. Thus
passed a frenzied mile chase through the long grass, during which I distanced the soldiers who started with me.
I dropped one man, passed his body, and finally brought
the other down with a bullet through the leg. As I panted
toward him he was game and potted at me with a revolver
which missed fire, so he flung it away and, trailing his
broken leg behind him, pluckily squirmed toward me, bolo
in hand. I had him at my mercy and withheld my fire,
but kept him covered. When within a few yards he threw
down his bolo, threw up his hands, and cried for mercy.
Among his pleadings I distinguished the words "Aco —
Dalmacio!" (I am Dalmacio!)
What luck again! I had captured the dreaded outlaw
chief. The skirmish was over. I ordered some soldiers to
carry Dalmacio to the river bank and sounded the recall
for, the others who had pursued and slain for miles. Then
I counted the cost of the fight, when, needless to say, I
was astonished to find that not a Constabulary soldier was




DELMACIO THE NEGRITO


ISS5


killed or wounded. Only the two volunteer guides who
stood between Smith and me at the first assault had been
killed. It was a cheaply gained victory. Seven dead babacylanes were found near the river, including three wellknown and long-wanted leaders of outlaw bands. Later
we learned that the total number of babaylanes killed was
twenty-one, most of whom fell in the pursuit through the
long grass which hid their bodies. We captured some
rifles, the cannon, and a great collection of spears and
bolos.
The first news of the fight that reached Bacolod was a
note that I scrawled to Presidente Antonio, asking him
to send out two carts to carry in the dead outlaws. He
sent the note on to Governor Locsin. In after years the
jolly little provincial governor often joked me about the
carts for the bodies, and told what a relief it was for him
to learn that babaylan bodies and not Constabulary were
to be brought in.
The word of Dalmacio's capture spread like wild-fire.
In Murcia and on the way to Bacolod hundreds of people
flocked to see the noted bandit chief, who, a few weeks
later, was sentenced to death. He died in Bilibid Prison,
Manila, before the sentence could be executed.
Governor Locsin sent a eulogistic telegram to
Governor-General Taft, who replied by sending me a
telegram of congratulation and appreciation. The provincial board passed a resolution requesting my promotion
and retention in Negros. A few weeks later I was promoted to the grade of Captain, corresponding to the old
rating of First Class Inspector.




CHAPTER XIX


RACE PREJUDICE AND CATTLE STEALING
How lucky the capture of Dalmacio was I did not fully
realize at the time. Looking back a score of years or so, I
can now see that it released the Constabulary for the
work of suppressing the minor bands of cattle thieves,
which, although they sometimes acted in concert with the
babaylines, were often purely local organizations; that
it enabled us to patrol the pueblos and barrios instead of
spending weeks in the jungle; that it fired officers and men
with new enthusiasm and energy during the dark months
and years to come when the Visayan islands seethed with
fanaticism and discontent due to disturbed economic
conditions, to the aftermath of insurrection, and to the
readjustments that American Government made in the
heretofore hierarchically administered Philippines.
Of course the Constabulary could not take all credit
for the good conditions that obtained in Negros as compared with other islands. For one thing, Negros Occidental was exceptionally fortunate in the type of Filipino
officials at the head of the provincial government. Governor Leandro Locsin, elected by the people, was a Chinese
mestizo of character and ability, and a warm friend to
the American regime. Judge Estanislao Yusay, also a
Chinese mestizo and a relative of Governor Locsin, was
156




RACE PREJUDICE, CATTLE STEALING IS7


as able and honorable a man as could be found in the
length and breadth of the archipelago. If there was any
complaint to be found with either of them, it was rather
a matter of relationships than personal character.
Throughout the province they had so many relatives in
office and out of office that few cases entirely free from
nepotic features confronted them. In the Philippines the
tie of family holds stronger than with us, and is, perhaps, an inheritance from the comparatively recent feudal
days of the Malay chiefs. In America we quickly lose sight
of our second or third cousins. In the Philippines the
distant cousin seems to have a claim on the office-holder,
even if it may be only for a more liberal interpretation of
the law or government regulations.
With Governor Locsin I established a friendship which
endured through the years.
The fiscal, or prosecuting attorney, of the province,
Se-nor Manuel Blanco, was a Spanish mestizo, whose Spanish blood preponderated. His appearance and manner
were wholly Castilian; and, while he was a good lawyer
and could be energetic enough in prosecuting the babaylanes and other outlaws whom the Constabulary raked in,
yet he was also adept at carrying water on both shoulders
and often drove me, into a frenzy by letting off notorious
criminals too lightly. In fact, except the Constabulary officers, all provincial officials trod warily and with circumspection. We hiked, killed, or arrested, often wearing ourselves out in an endeavor to "hustle the East" into peace,
respect for the law, and consequent prosperity. The Filipino officials were older; and they were very wise on such
subjects as politics, prejudices, and parentage, of which




BULLETS AND BOLOS


we knew little and recked less. We pushed them. They
appeared to yield with that Old World courtesy that sits so
well upon them, but they interfered as little as possible
with things as they were-with municipal officials incompetent and venal; with municipal police, tattered and inefficient; with hIacenderos replenishing their stock of work
animals from other herds than their own; and with all
the chaotic conditions that change of government and
greater change of ideals of government had brought
about.
I was exceptionally fortunate in the Constabulary officers under me. Although without exception older than
their senior inspector, they gave me whole-hearted support. Inspector Smith, my supply officer and right-hand
man, worked like a Trojan to supply and pay the soldiers,
and was always ready to take the field against the outlaws if necessary. Every two months he made a round
of the province with carabalo carts full of Mexican pesos,
boxes of uniforms, ammunition, and other paraphernalia.
It was no light matter to disburse all government funds
in Mexican pesos. Our salary was fixed in United States
currency, and we received its equivalent in silver pesos
which were at a constantly changing ratio. At one time
a gold dollar was worth two dollars and sixty-four centavos in pesos, so that an officer whose salary was $ioo.oo
in gold per month received $264.00 in silver. When, as
was generally the case, pay had accumulated for several
months, a man could hardly carry away his money. I know
that once, in Isabela, Smith paid me for salary and reimbursement vouchers a thousand dollars in silver, a sackful of coin weighing, I should 'say, nearly one hundred




RACE PREJUDICE, CATTLE STEALING I59


pounds. A very brief experience in the Philippines in i902
and I903 would have cured the most ardent exponent of
Free Silver theories.
Our Filipino officers, Inspectors Colmenares and Azcona, were Spanish mestizos, also much more Spanish
than Filipino. It is a curious commentary of the progression of the Philippine government toward complete Filipinization to note that the mestizo officers who occupied a
prominent place in the early Constabulary have almost
disappeared, their places being taken by Filipinos or by
mestizos in whom the white blood is submerged rather
than dominant. That is, doubtless, as it should be, for the
other men perpetuated, in a manner, Spanish traditions of
the "ruling race," and they were usually more harsh in
their judgment of the Filipinos than were the Americans
themselves. Indeed, much of our early prejudice against,
or perhaps it would be better to say criticism of, the
Filipinos was due to ideas suggested by the Spanish
mestizos, who at first made to us a not unnatural appeal of
blood and physical appearance. Rizal, in his inimitable
satires on Philippine social conditions during the closing
years of the Spanish regime, depicts the desire of certain
mestizos to array themselves on the side of their fathers
and to depreciate the stock of their native mothers.
The word Americanistca or anti-Americano were then
constantly heard. We were urged to believe that a Filipino
was either violently for or more violently against us. Not
until later did we learn that he might be neither, but
merely pro-Filipino. Many of our initial mistakes and
much of the racial antagonism engendered was due to our
acceptance of inherited prejudices. These conditions were




i6o


BULLETS AND BOLOS


perpetuated much longer in Manila and other large centers
where Americans and mestizos abounded than in the
provinces where Americans and Filipinos met and fraternized, and learned that
There is neither East nor West, border nor breed
nor birth
When two strong men stand face to face-though
they come from the ends of the earth.
What a pity that the above lines are not more frequently
quoted than the first part of the same verse, which
alone is such a misleading epigram:
For East is East and West is West, and never the
twain shall meet
Till earth and sky stand presently at God's great
judgment seat.
If our sense of humor had been better developed and
our perspective adjusted, we would have estimated at
their proper value the constant allusions of the mestizos
to the Filipinos puros as chungos (monkeys) or monos
(apes). Such talk was ridiculous and soon made me as
indignant as it made the pure-blooded natives.
There were problems enough for a senior inspector.
His judgment should have been unclouded by such poisonous suggestions. The babaylanes, fortunately, had been
crushed, so that they were never more than a somewhat
remote danger to be attended to when time afforded opportunity. But the gangs of cattle thieves became more
active as the epizootia swept the province, killing carabWo,




RACE PREJUDICE, CATTLE STEALING i6i


oxen, and horses, and increasing the value of a carabao,
for instance, from twenty or thirty pesos in 1901oi to one
hundred and fifty pesos in 1903.
These cattle-stealing gangs operated over the maze of
trails that led through the cogon, bamboo, and brushcovered foot-hills, behind which, when pressed too closely
by the Constabulary, the mountain jungles offered them
secure hiding-places. Although the law provided that an
animal should be sold only on presentation of its cedula
(certificate originally issued by a municipal official and
visaed at time of sale or transfer of the animal), the officials lent themselves to every kind of falsification and
abuse in the sale and purchase of animals. It is safe to say
that half the municipal officers were venal and profited by
the sale or transfer of falsified animal cedula. The certificate described the animal minutely, giving its brands and
other marks of indentification. But brands could be erased,
horns, ears, and nose cut, and an animal so changed that
its owner might have considerable difficulty in recognizing
it. Indeed, a female cartabalo might well be excused for
failure to nuzzle her own calf after it had passed through
the hands of a band of Negros akidrones.
We once discovered a complete plant for mutilating and
metamorphosing stolen animals. There were brands and
irons without number, sharp knives and bolos, even an
apparatus for so steaming the horns of the poor stolen
brutes, that they could be twisted into new curves. Small
wonder that when we captured ladrones-flagrante delicto
-with the four-footed booty of their crimes we often had
difficulty in discovering the rightful owners. At one time
we had in Bacolod a score or more carabao that were left




i62


BULLETS AND BOLOS


in charge of the Filipino sheriff; and I discovered that the
said "sheriff made a very nice perquisite by renting them
out at a peso or two daily to Chinese merchants of the
town. Thus do our Captains of Industry begin!
However, within a few months we had practically
stopped animal stealing in Negros. Scores of ladrones
were captured, and many killed while resisting arrest;
half a dozen municipal officials were arrested and one
or two were sentenced to terms of imprisonment and
heavy fines. As Judge Yusay was related to some of the
indicted officials, an American, Judge Powell, was sent
to Bacolod. He was a fine old Georgia gentleman who
gave us every assistance in cleaning the docket of accumulated cases of gang robbery. Before Judge Powell we
prosecuted the presidente and vzce-presidente of the town
of Guimbalaon, who were relatives of the provincial governor; and their conviction and jail sentence did more to
discourage animal stealing than the death or jailing of a
thousand ladrones recruited from the peasant class. But
it was hard work getting evidence against these prominent
men. It meant for me nights of work with witnesses and
over papers, following days in the saddle.
Often I sent soldiers out at night in civilian clothes,
with revolvers concealed beneath their flowing shirts,
worn native fashion outside their pantaloons. By such
tricks and by frequent patrols along the foot-hill trails
frequented by outlaws, we threw the net over increasingly
large hauls.




CHAPTER XX


A SENIOR INSPECTOR S ROUTINE
ANOTHER factor making for unrest was the Aglipayan
schism from the Roman Catholic Church. "Bishop"
Aglipay visited the province and gained adherents in
every town. At that time and subsequently, there was
good reason to believe that the "National Church of the
Philippine Islands," as the schism took name, was closely
if intangibly leagued with the insurgent chiefs remaining
as outlaws and with all the varied forces that opposed the
American Government. I remembered handing out secretservice funds to "Bishop" Aglipay while I was a disbursing officer in Manila. So I knew that he was playing
both ends against the middle and was a man to be watched.
However, in Negros his propaganda was chiefly directed
against Spanish friars who had now returned to some of
the towns from which they had been expelled during the
insurrection. In this way the towns were divided into two
religious camps and soon came calls for the Constabulary,
either to save priests from insult and the windows of their
convents from stones, or to quell riots which started when
rival religious processions met in a narrow village street.
Now, competition may be the life of trade. But active
competition between rival religions amid an ignorant
populace produces highly inflammable conditions. We
i63




164


BULLETS AND BOLOS


were kept busy patrolling the towns and instructing
municipal officials that the provision of the Constitution prohibiting abridgment of religious freedom, and
handed on to the Filipino people in the historic Declaration of Rights in President McKinley's Instructions to the
Philippine Commission, was not to be construed against
the Roman Catholic Church. The majority of the municipal officials at that time favored the Aglipayan schism and
welcomed the opportunity to give the friars a dig.
Yet another problem was gambling on a large scale. Its
suppression gave us light, interesting employment free
from the risks of hiking after babaylanes and cattle
thieves. The Filipino, like all Malays, is an inveterate
gambler and takes his whirl at cock-fighting, panguingue,
or monte. Cock-fighting was legalized on Sundays and
holidays. Panguingue was a comparatively harmless game
of cards largely played by the women and older men. But
monte, like faro or poker, made appeal to full-blooded
sports, hacenderos, municipal officials, and Chinese merchants. Big monte games were run in the principal towns,
and when the stakes became large the fortunes of the
game had a direct effect upon the law and order that we
of the Constabulary were sworn to enforce. A municipal
official who made a big losing must recoup himself from
the town treasury; a hacendero who staked and lost his
carabao must abet the stealing of others to replace them.
So we raided the games when stakes rose too high. And
they rose pretty high, even if Negros was then at low
economic ebb. There was one hacendero who came to the
game with a cart loaded heavily with sacks of Mexican
pesos; the cart went back with the light load of its penni



A SENIOR INSPECTOR'S ROUTINE i65


less owner sleeping off several days of gambling and debauchery.
Our chief difficulty was in getting convictions even
though we captured the gamblers with cards and money.
According to the Spanish penal code, it was necessary to
prove that one of the gamblers was getting a rake-off
from the game. Unless we managed to persuade an aggrieved loser to turn state's evidence, the gamblers generally went free.
In one game that I raided at Bacolod, within a stone's
throw of the provincial building, I made an unexpected
haul, arresting an ex-American soldier who had served
with me five years before in the Greek Foreign Legion.
It was a rather theatrical arrest. We had heard that two
American card-sharps were touring the province and
matching wits, not unsuccessfully, even with the "heathen
Chinee." One night, when they were gambling in Bacolod,
I headed the raiding party myself. Securing a search
warrant, we surrounded the house, made a quick rush,
burst in the front door, dashed up the broad stairs and
into the long sala, where a dozen prominent residents
were busily sweeping up cards and money. One Filipino,
evidently either the banker or the winner, grabbed a fat
sack of pesos and jumped out of the window like a harlequin through a hoop, followed by Inspector C. There was
a crash of bodies and a tinkling of spilled silver money
on the banana palms and shrubbery outside. I held up
the other gamblers, while my soldiers removed weapons
from the two Americans and gathered up the cards and
money. When everything and everybody was secured, I
sent the prisoners to jail for the night and went to bed.




166


BULLETS AND BOLOS


In my office next morning all the gamblers were lined
up for preliminary examination. One, of the Americans
gave his name, an unusual one that tickled some corner
of my memory. As I looked hard at him in an endeavor to
link up broken threads, he smiled guiltily and said: "I
reckon we served together in '97, Captain, in the Greek
Foreign Legion. Do you remember Z., who joined just
before the battle of Domokos?"
Negros and the tropics faded away. Instead I saw a
line of ragged men in badly fitting, soiled green uniforms,
with bandoliers of cartridges and old Gras rifles; I smelt
the powder and dust of battle on the slopes of the Orthrys
Mountains, and saw the dark masses of Turks in the
plains below, opening out and advancing to the attack; I
heard again the whine of Mauser and Martini bullets, the
dull thudding of shrapnel, and saw its white cloud rings
against the blue sky; I saw the men of the Legion fighting and falling, powder-stained and battle-crazy —the
red-shirted Garibaldians darting forward through our
broken ranks and driving the Turks back for the only
time in that war; I heard the groans of hundreds of
wounded men when night fell and I was helping the surgeons at their bloody work. I looked at Z. The robe of
my office as senior inspector fell away, and I was again
companion-in-arms with the gallant boys of the Greek
Foreign Legion.
It was a curious meeting. Whether the evidence in the
case was insufficient or other circumstances prevented the
Constabulary from bringing the gamblers to trial I now
refuse to remember. But Z., gambler and ex-legionaire,
went back to Iloilo the following day with money in his




A SENIOR INSPECTOR'S ROUTINE i67


pocket and good advice which he followed. He is now a
wealthy planter of oranges and grapefruit in-let us say-.
California.
Perhaps a matter that gave me more concern than gamblers, babatylanes, Aglipayans, or other disturbers of the
peace, was the responsibility for government property
scattered throughout many posts where officers and men
were constantly changing. Smith was a genius at accounts. He kept the men supplied and paid as well as or
better than could be expected with the difficulties that
confronted us before uniforms and equipment were
standardized and proper regulations drawn up. But although an agriculturist may make two blades of grass
grow where there was but one, even Smith could not
make two saddles out of one or two lamps burn where
none existed, as government invoices and receipts said
they should exist. Our constant expeditions and changes
of station resulted in wear and tear, and loss of equipment that was improperly reported at the time; while
pressure of other work hindered proper accounting and
inventories. Finally there grew an enormous list of property missing, for which apparently I would have to pay
unless the demands of the auditor could be satisfied. A
lucky-and yet unlucky-happening saved my pocket.
On a Coast Guard launch I had made the round of
Constabulary stations on the coast of the province, and
had gathered up all the accumulation of worn-out, worthless property to bring to Bacolod for condemnation by
the district auditor. I left the launch at some east-coast
town, to come back overland, inspecting stations en route.
A somewhat worthless Constabulary officer was return



i68


BULLETS AND BOLOS


ing on the boat to Bacolod. The northeast monsoon was
blowing strongly and I had warned him not to overload
the launch's rowboats when putting soldiers and supplies
ashore. But he disregarded orders, and at Bacolod a boat
containing supplies and soldiers upset, two soldiers were
drowned, and everything in the boat lost.
Not long after this accident I received from the auditor
a list of missing property for which I was accountable.
The list contained a miscellany which ranged from shotguns to native horses, from lamps to office furniture.
Among the items were one ruler, wood, and one paperweight, iron. It gave me much pleasure to endorse the list
of missing property back to the auditor about as follows:
"To the best of the belief of the undersigned, the within
mentioned articles sank to the bottom of the sea when
boats from the C. G. Cutter Rover upset off Bacolod,
Feb. I I, I903. The wooden ruler would doubtless have
floated and been recovered, but that the iron paperweight
was tied to it."
They told me afterward that the endorsement evoked
so much laughter in the auditor's office that by unanimous vote I was relieved from further responsibility for
those supplies.




CHAPTER XXI


MORE ROUTINE-INCLUDING MURDER
WE may have lost a certain amount of government property through carelessness and more by reason of unavoidable circumstances connected with our campaigns and our
high-pressure work by day and night. But we certainly
made up for any such losses by dipping our hands in our
pockets to buy food and equipment for our soldiers whenever government supplies failed us-which was often in
those days of organization that sometimes amounted to
disorganization. There was scarcely an officer who did
not purchase delicacies for sick soldiers, extra ammunition for target practice or for his own personal arms used
against outlaws, or who did not spend his pay freely on
entertainments for Filipino officials and in the thousand
and one other ways that contributed to build up the corps
and the prestige of its officers and men.
It was about this time (I903) that the titles of Constabulary officers were changed from inspectors of various grades to designations of military rank. At first we
were called lieutenants and inspectors, captains and senior
inspectors, but later the suffix inspector was dropped, and
we blossomed into full military rank. Nevertheless, we
were given little or no increase of pay to uphold our rank
in competition with officers of the regular army and
169




170


BULLETS AND BOLOS


Scouts, whose pay averaged for the same grades about
25 to 30 per cent. more than ours, while their commissions
carried certainty of ultimate pension, which ours did not.
We ran greater, far greater, risks of death or disablement in action or by disease. We had little or no opportunity for rest in garrison between field operations. We
had no cheap commissary and quartermaster supplies with
which to eke out our scanty pay.
It would have been much better if the military rank
had been withheld from us when we might have been resigned to more economical life and have saved money to
provide for a future that the government failed to guarantee. In order further to lure us on there was formed a
totally inadequate "Pension and Retirement Fund" for
the Constabulary; how inadequate may be imagined from
the fact that for total disablement, such as loss of eyesight or both legs, an officer might receive the princely
reward of twenty dollars per month. Yet, inadequate as
it was, the Pension Fund kept many of us in the service
with the belief that future legislation would improve our
conditions. Realizing the work we were doing in establishing peace in the islands and playing a prominent part in
building up a Civil Service that did credit to the United
States, we could not believe that our only reward would
be the consciousness of work well done. Age and experience were to disillusion us.
At Bacolod I had my first experience with beriberi, the
dread tropical disease that science has later shown to be
due to an insufficiency of nitrogenous food in the diet.
Two soldiers whom I sent to the Mambucal Hot Springs
near Murcia soon died there; while if I had kept them at




MORE ROUTINE


I7I


Bacolod and fed them on beans and bread instead of rice
and dried fish, they would doubtless have recovered. Soon
after the death of these men I learned from Filipinos that
mongo beans (a species of lentil) would cure beriberi and
by dieting soldiers who became afflicted I cured them. A
few years later at the Iwahig Penal Colony I cured scores
of the convicts by change of diet. That was about the
time that investigations by Japanese naval surgeons and
by Dr. Victor G. Heiser in the Philippines resulted in the
official discovery of the cause and cure of beriberi.
Those hot springs at Mambucal, springing from the
slopes of Canlaon Volcano, made one of the most attractive places I have seen in the Philippines. A cleft in the
mountain opened into a pretty, grassy dale down which
dashed a cold clear stream. On either side of the brook
were bubbling springs of hot sulphur water in natural
rock basins, so conveniently arranged that by rigging
bamboo pipes it was possible to convey cold water into
them, tempering to bathing point. Towering laucan
trees dotted the valley, giving it the appearance of an
English park. In their branches were flocks of balud
(fruit) pigeon and hornbills. Once or twice while at
Bacolod, I stole a day or two to visit Mambucal, and my
soldiers built several comfortable huts there.
In November, I9o2, not long after our fight with Dalmacio, an American was murdered near Bacolod. Mr.
Montgomery, an American superintendent of schools,
was attacked by a band of ladrones on the main road between Silay and Bacolod, and was stabbed to death. On
the night of the murder there was a dance at Bacolod.
The provincial treasurer came up to me saying that he




172


BULLETS AND BOLOS


could not understand why Montgomery had not arrived,
that he had expected him to stay at his house, and that a
telegram from Iloilo had advised of Montgomery's departure for Silay that day. We talked it over and determined that the steamer had arrived at Silay late and that
Montgomery had remained there at the house of the
American school-teacher.
But next morning, just at daybreak, the treasurer and
the provincial governor awakened me with the information that some peasants had brought word that Montgomery's body was lying in the road only a couple of
miles from Bacolod. He was murdered while we were
dancing and talking about him. The facts that were later
brought to light showed that Montgomery started late
that afternoon from Silay on horseback with a Visayan
youth carrying his suit-case containing some two hundred pesos in Mexican silver; and when at dusk they
had reached the loneliest spot on the road they were
halted by a band of six armed robbers who demanded the
American's money. The youth dropped the suit-case and
fled, but Montgomery drew a pitiful little.32 caliber revolver. Spears, daggers, and bolos flashed and he fell from
his horse, dead. To us the murder afforded another argument against Free Silver, for if Montgomery had not
stopped in Talisay to purchase some little things and pay
for it in pesos taken from the heavily laden suit-case, in
all probability the ladrones would not have been on his
trail. There is little doubt that a member of the band saw
the silver or learned from the porter the weight of the
suit-case and that plans were then laid to intercept him
at dusk at the loneliest place on the road.




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I73


There was more than a suspicion that the murder
might be attributed to hatred of Americans engendered
by stories of our poisoning the wells and causing cholera.
As there were dozens of other defenseless American men
and women, school-teachers and others, throughout the
province, it was necessary to take stringent preventive
measures. I interviewed Judge Yusay and Governor
Locsin, who were, if possible, more indignant at the crime
than were we Americans. The fine old Visayan gentleman gave me carte blanche, and although nothing was
said about the suspension of the writ of habeas corpus,
yet I came to an understanding with Judge Yusay that
the courts would not hamper the Constabulary.
Within a few hours constables, usually in civilian
clothes, were raking the foot-hills, towns, and barrios to
gather up the criminal element; ladrone after ladrone was
captured or killed while resisting arrest, and the bodies
of the dead were brought to Bacolod and placed in front
on the municipal building as an earnest of "the price of
a white man slain."
Leading Filipinos who loved not the American Government fumed and fulminated in the local and Manila press
against the "barbarities" committed by the Constabulary.
Despite the fact that no men were killed except notorious
outlaws or ladrones who resisted arrest, but against whom
evidence had hitherto been hard to procure, the discontented element believed that too great a price was being
exacted for the death of just one American. However, the
strenuous exhibition of the arm of the law made such an
impression that all hands, and what was more important,
tongues, were against the murderers. One night Gov



I74         BULLETS AND BOLOS
ernor Locsin came to me with a man who had heard the
murderers boasting of their crime when tongues were
loosened by too free indulgence in tulba (palm-wine);
and, strangely enough, it was on or near the governor's
own hacienda at Silay that the assassins were located.
Several of my best constables left Bacolod that night
in civilian clothes, with revolvers under their shirts, surrounded the house where the murderers slept, killed two,
captured one, and let two escape. They brought back the
toy.32 revolver and other effects of poor Montgomery.
After that there were no more Americans killed in Negros.
The province was purged and purified of its outlaw element in a manner that would have been impossible if in
each instance we had had to invoke the processes of civil
law.




CHAPTER XXII


BAD HIKING AND WORSE CHOLERA
IN May, 1903, I determined to make an expedition around
the east slopes of Canlaon Volcano, a journey that, so far
as could be ascertained, had never been made by others
than babaylanes and Bukidnon. The surrender of a babaylan chief, Francisco Abilo, gave me an unwilling guide
who knew the trails, deny them as he might; so with
eleven soldiers, ten caygadores, and a week's provisions,
I set out. Leaving Murcia at daybreak we passed through
the scene of our fight with Dalmacio at the ford of the
Caliban River and hiked up the grassy slopes to Mambucal Hot Springs, where we fortified ourselves for a week
on the trail by a plunge in the springs.
In the cool of the afternoon we wended our way from
Mambucal over the cogon hills on the northern slopes of
Canlaon, and before dusk dropped down into the canion
of the Bago River, a considerable stream, confined between broken precipitous walls hundreds of feet in height.
The river rushed tumultuously over huge boulders. It
was late, and the crossing looked difficult, as there was
no ford, and we had to get from boulder to boulder as
best we might, so I ordered a halt and we camped for the
night on a sand-bar. In the occasional pools of the river
were myriads of duck and other water-fowl which we
I75




176


BULLETS AND BOLOS


obtained by sneaking from rock to rock, often half under
water, until near enough to blow their heads off with
bullet or buckshot. Also in crannies in the rocks my men
found crawfish as big as lobsters, and fat eels. Supper
that night was a feast.
Breaking camp at dawn, we crossed the river more than
waist-deep in rushing water, the sacks of rations being
passed from hand to hand to the other side. Next, under
a blistering sun, we climbed the grassy slopes of Mount
Pandanaon and welcomed the cool forests into which our
trail finally led beyond the summit. Here we found clearings of a Bukidnon tribe with whom the Constabulary had
cemented friendship. The chief, Captain Aquilanon, was
away on a deer and pig hunt, but his fourteen sons lined
up to welcome me. As there were quite a number of men
who had not presented themselves at Bacolod to receive
the Constabulary certificate that we issued to peaceful
mountaineers, I scribbled temporary passes on scraps of
paper. We were trying to keep track of the mountain folk
and to prevent their clearings being used as refuges for
criminals and babaylanes in the fashion of past years.
More hiking under the torrid sun and we dropped again
into the Bago Cafion, now deeper and steeper than at the
morning crossing. A thousand feet we perpendicularly
descended, and then waded up the swift stream where
the men often slipped over boulders to tumble head over
heels into the water. Up and across the river, steeply up
the other side of the canion, and we came into a forested
country where the mountains seemed freakishly piled on
top of one another. It was bad hiking. When at sunset
we reached a Bukidnon clearing named Bidio, many of




BAD HIKING AND WORSE CHOLERA 177


my men were near complete exhaustion. At Bidio we
found a number of aborigines, only one or two of whom
had seen a white man. All gathered around me like small
boys around a circus elephant. In all probability there are
still Bukidnon in Bidio who tell their more ignorant
brethren of the still deeper mountains that all white men
are over six feet tall and have flaming hair!
As Francisco Abilo persisted in denying knowledge of
the trail, we took along as guides two men of Bidio. They
led us, next morning, over one of the worst trails I have
ever traveled, a succession of slippery ascents and descents through the thickest kind of tropical forest, untraveled for many months. Trailing plants and vines
crisscrossed in network before us. Moss orchids and ferns
hung from the trees. Guides and soldiers hacked their
way along. We crossed seventeen rivers, a few hundred
yards one from the other. It is from this eastern slope of
Canlaon that the two great rivers of Negros are fed.
Finally we crossed the watershed between the Bago
and Binalbagan rivers and neared an inhabited clearing.
Then Francisco Abilo, seeing further obstinacy useless,
told me that two babaylan "generals" with several rank
and file lived in the clearing, which we approached by a
circuitous route through the jungle along a secret trail
known to Abilo. As we emerged from the jungle some
women and children yelled and fled, and two armed men
with lances, who had come out of the forest on the other
side of the clearing, turned to flee, refused to halt at our
cries, and were fired upon. One fell at the edge of the
jungle and the other had a narrow escape, for we picked
up the blade and hilt of his bolo, smashed from his side




178


BULLETS AND BOLOS


by a carbine bullet. The dead man was identified by Abilo
as Luis Tarangay, a notorious carabao thief, while the
man who escaped with the loss of his bolo was Marianao
Dapdap, another ladrone.
That night it rained hard. In the filthy huts of the
babaylanes we had little opportunity to dry ourselves.
Before morning we almost envied the dead man, comfortably interred and with a cross bearing his name, "Luis,"
engraved by some thoughtful soldier, likely enough a distant relative of the deceased-for I had several ex-babaylanes among my constables. Next morning it rained still
harder, and only after hours of hiking through the dripping, soggy jungle did we emerge on the well-known
cogonales or grassy slopes over which wound the Valle
Hermosa-Castellana trail. I was almost back in my old
stamping grounds near Isabela.
When we intersected the main east-and-west transNegros trail we met at the ford of the Maslug River a
patrol of constables awaiting me with a letter saying that
Lieutenant Colmenares and five soldiers were down
with cholera at Valle Hermosa. After days of hard
jungle hiking, I was ready for a rest. But with three
men I somewhat wearily turned toward the east coast.
After several more hours or hard hiking, during which
we were lashed by typhoon rains, we slid down the eastern slopes of the cordilleras to the Happy Valley, now
most unhappy and cholera-ridden.
Colmenares was well cared for by the always hospitable
Don Diego de la Vinia. But the soldiers were weltering
in their own filth in the nipa barracks, while two bright
young Constabulary officers were drinking gin and mak



BAD HIKING AND WORSE CHOLERA I79


ing merry in a house some distance away. Those two
officers were brilliant exponents of the "Don't Worry"
attitude toward life. They made little or no attempt to
better the conditions of the sick and dying soldiers. In
fact, their only anxiety seemed to be lest a boat be despatched to San Carlos for a new supply of gin might not
return before their bottles were emptied. Hilariously
they greeted me and generously pressed a drink from
their failing supply. "Gin! Gin! Glorious gin!" was the
stuff to keep the cholera away, so they swore. I took the
drink-I needed it after a week in the mountains
and the long hike of that day through the rain! Then
I left the fuddled pair to their orgy, and, by the light of
flickering lanterns turned to the job of doctor, nurse,
and hospital orderly in one. The details of the cleansing
of that barracks I dare not divulge. But anyone who has
seen just one cholera patient will be able to imagine the
condition of several left practically to care for themselves
for days. With the assistance of Filipino soldiers, as yet
untouched by the scourge, I burned, boiled, scrubbed, disinfected, and administered such medicines and stimulants
as could be secured. This job, coming on top of a week's
hike and hardship, about finished me.
The two gin-soaked officers-one was an Englishman
and the other a Hollander-belonged to the Constabulary
of Negros Oriental. I had no authority over them. They
rode off south next morning along the coast; before very
long they were dismissed from the Constabulary.
That hike around Canlaon, the forced march to Valle
Hermosa in the typhoon, and the overwork looking after
cholera patients, broke my constitution, which I had come




i8o


BULLETS AND BOLOS


to consider as resistant to time and abuse as that of the
United States. On my return to Bacolod I went"down
with a severe attack of malaria, which, at first neglected,
became cerebral in type. For two or three days I hovered
on the border ground of the unconscious; Smith, splendid, loyal fellow that he was, managed to get a doctor
and a supply of ice from Iloilo by special boat and saved
my life. And some months later a heartless auditor tried
to deduct the cost of the boat, ice, and doctor from my
pay.
However, my senses returned when the ice cooled off
my fevered brain, and I rapidly recuperated. In July I
obtained a month's leave of absence, ran over to Hongkong, but was back again at the siren work of a Constabulary officer long before the month expired.
My work in Negros was nearly done, and I was to go
still further south, to a part of the archipelago even more
interesting, even more palpitating with the hot life of the
tropics, than Negros. In August, 1903, I was ordered to
Mindanao, as adjutant of the Fifth Constabulary District recently organized, to form a Constabulary among
the Moros.
On leaving Negros I had the satisfaction of knowing
that the babaylanes had been thrashed so that they no
longer menaced public order, that animal stealing had
been practically stopped and the bands of ladrones comminuted, and that the Constabulary of Negros Occidental
was second to none in organization and efficiency. The
credit for this I cheerfully give to the loyal officers and
men who supported me through dark days. If these reminiscences deal almost entirely with my personal experi



BAD HIKING AND WORSE CHOLERA i8i,
ences and achievements it is because those are naturally
freshest in my memory; while if I attempted to chronicle
the deeds of my companions-in-arms I should soon exceed
the limits that the reader would endure.




CHAPTER XXIII


AMERICAN PIRATES
COLONEL Wallace Taylor, the Chief of the District of
the Visayas, had a little job for me to do while en route
to my new station at Zamboanga, Mindanao. A certain
Constabulary captain, by name Herrman, stationed at
Cagayan as senior inspector of the province of Misamis,
had been gambling, drinking, and otherwise cutting didoes
prohibited by Constabulary regulations. I was to investigate and report upon his conduct at Cagayan as well as
at his previous station at Tagbilaran, Bohol. During the
first two years of Constabulary existence there was much
winnowing of chaff from wheat, but there were still many
officers who disgraced the service, and our District chiefs
were so overworked that they could not be everywhere,
inspecting and eliminating. So Colonel Taylor sent his
Coast Guard cutter Scout to Bacolod and I embarked for
Cagayan, with a roving commission to go wherever the
trail of Herrman's misdeeds might lead.
Very pleasant it was-sailing over those placid blue
seas and straits past green islands over which often hung
the smoke of mountain clearings; very restful to lounge
in a deck chair and watch the coast of Negros slide by,
and to identify mountain peak after mountain peak where
i82




AMERICAN PIRATES


i83


I had hiked and fought during the past months. At sunset Negros became but a darker cloud on a topaz horizon.
At daybreak the mountains of Mindanao, the second largest island in the archipelago and by far the least known
and most romantic, rose above the dawn mist.
In Cagayan I spent a day or two investigating and inspecting, to find the Constabulary in pitiful condition of
inefficiency and disorganization. Captain Herrman, a
German-American with a foreign tang in his speech and
manner, was a disgrace to the Constabulary; his speech
and manners were those of the bar-room. Lieutenant
Johnson, Herrman's supply officer, was a callow youth
entirely under the older man's thumb. It took little time
to persuade me that both were unfit for the service.
Moreover, at Cagayan there had developed a license and
immorality not among Constabulary officers alone, but
which affected almost every member of the small American colony; drinking, gambling, and prostitution were
rife. Johnson's money and commissary accounts were in
bad condition, but before my arrival he had borrowed
sufficient funds to make up most of his shortage. I had
no authority to do more than investigate and report to
the District Chief, and charges against Herrman for misconduct at his previous station at Tagbilaran on the island
of Bohol were still to be investigated. So I gave no intimation to him or to Johnson of my censure on Cagayan
conditions, but sailed for Tagbilaran to get proof of
graver crimes committed by Herrman while Senior Inspector of Bohol. Herrman's successor there as senior
inspector had formulated charges against him of which
Colonel Taylor had sent me a copy.




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BULLETS AND BOLOS


Had I suspected that Herrman and Johnson would
become desperate, would seize a steamer and desert from
the Constabulary to become pirates and wanderers
on the Sulu Sea, needless to say I should have remained
at Cagayan. But I am anticipating.
At Tagbilaran I found ample evidence that Herrman
had been habitually drunk, that he had tortured prisoners,
and that, in a fit of blind passion while on an expedition,
he had killed a guide. I cabled the result of my investigations to Colonel Taylor, recommending the immediate
suspension and trial of Herrman, and then set out for
my prospective station at Zamboanga. On arrival there,
some forty-eight hours after leaving Tagbilaran, I learned
that Herrman and Johnson had fled from Cagayan, impressing a steam launch and carrying with them several
thousand pesos of government funds, with rifles, am-.munition, and other supplies. Years later I had reason to
suspect that Herrman learned the contents of my cable to
Colonel Taylor and knew that his game was up. There
was a cable direct from Tagbilaran to Cagayan, and my
message was probably routed that way on its journey
underseas to Iloilo, Colonel Taylor's headquarters-and
operators sometimes talk, especially at remote stations
where all Americans meet and drink together.
I was scarcely ashore at Zamboanga before Colonel
Harbord, my new chief, sent me off in pursuit of the
renegades, this time on the cutter Ranger. Across the enchanted Sulu Sea I sailed to Sandakan in British North
Borneo, there warning the British officials that two
American pirates were loose on the seas. From Borneo
ports, I touched at other islands to which the pirates




AMERICAN PIRATES


I85


might have run, but getting no news of them I returned
to Zamboanga, to learn that the Victoria-the impressed
launch-had put into Baliangao on the north Mindanao
coast for coal, and had then headed for Negros and Cagayancillo, the latter a remote island in the north Sulu
Sea. So off I went again over the turquoise seas until
the coco palms of sandy Cagayancillo showed behind a
white line of surf where the waves beat on the atoll wall
of its lagoon. There was a hazardous landing through
the surf, a visit to surprised Filipino officials who saw
strangers but once a year and who had barely time to
don clean white shirts and find the tasseled cane of
office, but who gave assurances that the pirates had not
come to peaceful Cagayancillo. Then the Ranger was
headed back to Negros. After two or three weeks of investigation, excitement, and pursuit, I was almost back
at my starting place.
Dawn found us off Sipalay, and there I picked up the
fugitives' trail of blood and misery. Herrman and Johnson
had taken their launch as far as Bayauan in southern Negros. There the launch-probably guided by its impressed Filipino skipper-had run on a sand-bar. The
pirates boarded a parao which proved unseaworthy, so
they transferred to another larger and better-furnished
craft which had a crew of six men and a nipa-roofed
cabin, as have so many of the trading outrigger craft of
the southern islands. In this parao they set sail for Cagayancillo, and but for the happenings of their voyage, I
might have encountered them there-with interesting results. They were now at sea: the two desperate Americans, one faithful misguided private of the Cagayan




i86


BULLETS AND BOLOS


Constabulary, and the six sullen, unwilling Visayan
boatmen.
The first night out from Negros Johnson was sick
with a fever and Herrman kept watch, fearing the boatmen, but on the second night Johnson had so far
recovered that Herrman, leaving him on guard, ventured
to snatch some sleep. Then that lonely parao on that lonely
sea became a bloody shambles. Johnson, still fever-ridden,
dozed. The boatmen seized the awaited opportunity, set
upon the Americans with daggers and bolos, mortally
wounded Johnson, cut off half the face of the Constabulary soldier, then stabbed through the palm-thatched cabin
roof at Herrman, now awake and groping in the dark
for his loaded Krag carbine. Before he secured the gun,
Herrman was slashed on the legs and about the head and
shoulders. But when his fingers closed around the carbine
he quickly took revenge, killed outright four of the sailors, while the other two, panic-stricken, jumped overboard
into the dark night, the engulfing sea, and the waiting
sharks.
Johnson soon died. Herrman was left on the ensanguined parao with a dying private of Constabulary,
and himself bleeding from many wounds. At dawnwhat a dawn!-the mountains of Negros showed just
above the eastern horizon and Herrman set sail as best he
might for shore and comparative safety. The hours passed,
the sun blistered and dried the blood on deck, the
dying soldier groaned and tossed; the paraco lurched
drunkenly through the swell, until at last Herrman ran
his tragic craft ashore south of Sipalay, where, after
burying Johnson and a sack of pesos in the sand and




AMERICAN PIRATES


i87


leaving the wounded and apparently dying man to the
care of natives, he embarked in a canoe and paddled south
along the coast, half crazy and wholly desperate.
At Sipalay I learned some of the foregoing facts,
and down the coast I pursued the unhappy man. While
entering the little bay on the shores of which Johnson
had been interred, I saw that other pursuers were ahead
of me. At anchor was the Coast Guard cutter Manrinduque with Colonel Taylor and Captain Haskell aboard,
both eager to wipe out the stain which Herrman had
left on the Third Constabulary District. Together we continued down the coast. At Bayauan we caught up with the
fugitive, who had sought refuge on the haienda. of a
Spaniard whom he had known in happier days. On our
approach Herrman fled to the jungle. We hiked after
him, but found no traces. However, his apprehension was
now but a matter of time, and I felt that it would be
delicate of me to leave his capture to the officers of his
own district, so I sailed for Zamboanga.
The following day Herrman was captured by Captain
Haskell. A few weeks later he was sentenced to fifteen
years' imprisonment-and very lucky indeed not to be
hanged for a murder committed in Bohol and for slaying the six soldiers on the parao, though, to be sure, it
was then kill or be killed. However, I had not seen the
last of him. Eight years later I was on my way back to
the United States on an army transport when one evening
a steward brought me a note from a passenger in the
steerage. It was from Herrman, pardoned by the governor-general and deported from the Philippines; so on
a lower deck of a transport nearing San Francisco, I




z88


BULLETS AND BOLOS


finished an acquaintance that had begun in Cagayan in
Mindanao. Herrman seemed a changed man. Soberly and
with a sense of responsibility, he told me how bitterly he
had expiated his crimes and how he had availed himself
of opportunities in Bilibid Prison to learn a trade, to
read and study.
The unhappy episode at least was fortunate for me in
one way. It gave me an opportunity to become better acquainted with my previous District Chief, Colonel Wallace Taylor, of whom I had seen little while in Negros.
Panegyrics should be saved for the dead, but I must at
least speak of the impression that the Bayard of the Constabulary made on me. Our work almost daily provided
acid tests which showed up men in whom there was too
much base metal, so we did not lack brave officers; yet
Colonel Taylor was as conspicuous as a newly minted fivedollar gold piece in a handful of old copper cents. Whereever the pulajanes were thickest, wherever the hiking was
hardest, wherever the odds were greatest against the Constabulary, there he was to be found, inspiring by his courage but no less by his courtesy and fine manner of life. No
greater praise could be given him than was voiced whenever two or three junior officers were gathered together"Colonel Taylor, he's white all through."
It is something to have served a man like that; and I
often think that our best and perhaps only reward for
Philippine service will be the satisfaction of work well
done and friends "grappled with hoops of steel."




CHAPTER XXIV


THE MORO PROBLEM
ON my return to Zamboanga from the pirate chase I took
up the duties of adjutant to Colonel James Guthrie
Harbord, the forceful army officer who was organizing
the new Constabulary district, and who was later to win
such a reputation in the World War. A few weeks earlier,
General Leonard Wood had assumed command of the
Department of Mindanao, becoming also the first civil
governor of the Moro Province and shouldering the considerable task of bringing order out of the disturbed conditions that had prevailed in Mindanao since the American
occupation of the Philippines in I898. In the ChristianFilipino provinces of Luzon and the Visayas, the American Government had at least the wreckage of Spanish administration out of which to construct a government; but
in Mohammedan Mindanao and Sulu the Spaniards had
left little or no heritage of constructive government;
they had held but a few fortified towns on the fringe of
Moro populations still steeped in piracy, slavery, and
superstition.
On the coast and on the lakes and rivers of Mindanao,
on every island of the Sulu Archipelago, strung like a
necklace of emeralds from Mindanao to Borneo, were
Moro sultans, rajahs, maharacjahs, datus, panglimas, or
i89




Igo


BULLETS AND BOLOS


hadjis, each ruling his little band of gaudily dressed and
weapon-adorned fighting men. There were chiefs whose
followers could be numbered on the fingers of one hand;
there were others who mustered thousands of retainers
armed with modern rifles in addition, of course, to the
sharp kris or barong thrust in the sash of every Moro
gentleman. But the leader of five men was as touchy as
the lord of five hundred; as quick to defend his ancient
prerogatives of life and death over his dependents, and
especially over the pagan hillmen who inhabited, side by
side with the Moros, the jungles of Mindanao and the
larger islands; as ready to die to defend his right to keep
slaves and exact tribute from Subanuns, Bilanes, Manobos, Bagobos, or Bukidnon. Those are the names of a
few of the dozens of pagan tribes that inhabit the Mindanao mountains.
Mindanao, an island about the size of Ireland, was
almost a land unknown. Its rugged ranges of mountains
culminating in peaks 8ooo and i0,000 feet high, its inaccessible and swampy lakes, its rivers flowing through
trackless jungles, its shores fringed by mangrove swamps
and coral reefs, its gloomy forests and its glorious sunlit
grassy plateaus were mapped only in outline or by Spanish draftsmen with vivid imaginations. Here and there
a Jesuit priest or a captain with some flickering flame of
conquistador spirit had journeyed into the interior to
return with tales of magnificently retinued Moro chiefs
or tribes of man-eating savages. One thing the
Spaniard had done-and there were not lacking gallant
pages in the doing of it. They had stirred up the nest
of human hornets that inhabited the archipelago south of




COLONEL WALLACE TAYLOR             C~APTAIN [LEONARD FUORLONG








THE MORO PROBLEM


I9I


the eighth parallel of latitude. And now we were to persuade those hornets to return to their burrows. But, despite fumigatory legislature, patience, and constructive
administration, a good many Americans were to be stung
to death before the buzzing Mohammedan swarms calmed
down; while even now an occasional hornet escapes and
the American public reads, over its breakfast coffee, or
more often fails to notice, that "some renegade Moros in
Sulu have, been subdued by the Constabulary with the
following casualties... "
Off and on for nearly ten years I served in Mindanao
and Sulu, a minor actor in a bloody racial drama not unlightened by incidents of heroism and self-sacrifice and
amid scenes where the most backward and barbaric East
clashed with the most advanced and energetic West.
Doubtless we might have profited more than we did by
the experiences and experiments of other nations dealing
with similar problems, from the Dutch in the East Indies
and the British in the Malay States. But from the first
our work was handicapped by the impermanence of army
and other officials, the unsettled future of the Philippines,
and the consequent difficulty of building up a corps of
civil service employees who understood the Moro tongue
and, what was even more important, the Moro tang.
It is not an exaggeration, I believe, to say that nine
tenths of the fighting and the killing in Mindanao and
Sulu, the past twenty-five years, might have been avoided
if those of us who knew the Moros had been encouraged
to remain among them by adequate pay, permanent positions, and authority, and an eventual retirement and
pension.




I92         BULLETS AND BOLOS
Zamboanga! The capital of the Moro Province and
largest town in Mindanao. The name bears its own attraction of easily flowing syllables; the place exercises its
charm over everyone who has been there.
Old whitewashed Spanish buildings squared around a
sun-splashed plaza; palm-thatched Moro huts flung along
a sandy beach where native outrigger boats of manycolored sails are tied up at back doors; groves of coco
palms soughing under the steady monsoon breezes that
keep Zamboanga cool and pleasant throughout the year;
avenues of scarlet-blossomed "fire-trees"; green rice fields
sloping back to darker green, and purpled hills and mountains from which issue streams of clear water rushing
down through the streets of the town into the sparkling
blue Straits of Basilan. All the warm colors of the tropics
are lavishly splashed on the palette of Zamboanga, and
its surroundings of land and water. What wonder that
the Spaniards sang a song of Zamboanga the first verse
of which goes like this:
No te vayas, no te vayas de Zamboanga,
Que me puedes, que me puedes olvidar;
No te vayas, no te vayas, si me dejas
Que yo sin ti ne puedo estar.
(Do not leave, oh, do not leave fair Zamboanga,
Forget me not, forget me not, my dear;
Do not leave, oh, do not leave, for if you leave me
E'en Zamboanga will be sad and drear.)
Zamboanga-so quaint and picturesque under its coco
palms and wild-almond trees that it almost seemed like a




THE MORO PROBLEM


193


stage setting for a comic opera. Yet racial and religious
eddies swirled around that painted town where the physical surroundings were those of the beauteous South Sea
Islands but the social atmosphere that of an East Side
gangster war. Christian clashed with Mohammedan,
Moro with Filipino.
It was there in the southern Philippines that two great
currents of race and religion met. It was little wonder
that there was a social and political whirlpool.
In i5i9 Magellan sailed west across the Pacific, to discover the Philippines, and during the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries a succession of Spanish
soldiers, priests, and administrators streamed across the
ocean from Europe or from Mexico. They imposed upon
the northern islands of the Philippines at least a veneer
of Latin and Christian civilization.
About the time that Christian missionaries were starting west, Arab priests of the other great missionary religion of the world, the Mohammedan, started east from
Mecca, through India, through the Malay Peninsula,
through Sumatra, Java, the Celebes, and Borneo, and so
on to the Sulu Islands, Mindanao, and the Philippines.
Upon the Malay seafaring folk of the southern Philippines, the Mohammedan emissaries washed an even thinner veneer than that with which the Spaniards coated the
northern Filipinos. Another racial distinction must be
borne in mind. The Filipino of the North, whether Tagal,
Ilocano, Visayan, or Bicol, is of more mixed blood than
the Moro of the South, who is of pure Malay strain, the
leading families alone having some of the blood of the
Arab missionaries with a very occasional infusion of




194


BULLETS AND BOLOS


Chinese. The Filipino, even at the time of the Spanish
Conquest, was of mixed race, Malay and Indonesian diluted with Chinese and other blood; and since the Spanish
Conquest, the Filipino of the North has further attenuated
the Malay strain. But the Moro is almost pure Malay.
His leading characteristics are those of the Malay: fierce
personal independence, lack of respect for life and property, combined with much dignity, pride, and courage.
Just as the American of the Western frontier in the
nineteenth century expressed the quintessence of the
Anglo-Saxon racial characteristics-individuality, adventurousness, and the desire to build from fresh materialso the Moro was the Malay frontiersman of the Far
East; in him the Malay traits blossomed into a virile race
with a leaning toward warfare and piracy as national
professions.
A high-strung, energetic child may be led to maturity
along paths which may lead to vice or virtue. The Moros
had, prior to American occupation and by the natural
stimulation of religious rivalry, followed the road which
had made them the best professional pirates in the world.
To compose the differences between Christian and Mohammedan, between Moro, American, and Filipino; to
turn the energies of the Moros from savage warfare to
agriculture and industry, was a task that called for a man
who understood all three races; and for a permanence of
administration which would permit the man to do his job.
Despite the fine pacifying work done by Generals Wood
and Pershing, little progress was made in Mindanao until
Frank W. Carpenter became governor in I9I5. Army
officers naturally worked upon the Moro problem merely




THE MORO PROBLEM


195


as a stepping-stone to higher things; whereas it was the
work for a man's lifetime, or for several men's lifetimes.
In a few years Carpenter brought Moro and Filipino
amicably together for the common weal, and substituted
order and trustfulness for bloodshed and suspicion.
In September, 1903, under adverse conditions, we organized the Moro Constabulary, an experiment that the
Spaniards and Filipinos looked upon as further proof
that Americans were crazy. They warned us that the
Moros could never be trusted, and quoted many instances
of Spanish officers murdered by their servants or at the
command of Moro chiefs in whom they had misplaced
confidence. However, in *the American way we went
ahead doing the impossible. A nation that had harnessed
Niagara and bound the limitless prairies with bands of
steel was hardly likely to find insuperable obstacles in
Mindanao. And our faith in our own destiny was justified, for the Moros, in American hands, made fine soldiers. Only one of our officers was treacherously
murdered by his own men. That was Captain Hayson,
who, at the time of which I write, was Senior Inspector
of Zamboanga and, with myself, the first officer to enlist
the Moros. Hayson was a fine specimen of Kansas manhood, who had worked his way up from coal miner to
lawyer, from lawyer to captain in the United States
Volunteers, and now to a responsible position in the Constabulary. His death is another story, and occurred two
years later. I had been in Zamboanga but a few weeks
when Hayson and I had an interesting little adventure
together.




CHAPTER XXV


A TRAGEDY OF ZAMBOANGA
HAYSON had rapidly recruited his Constabulary with a
nucleus of Filipinos brought down from the headquarters
troop at Manila and among whom were two of my old
Negros soldiers. To these he added many Zamboanguenos
(Filipinos of Zamboanga and vicinity) and a few Moros,
sifting these in gradually as baking-powder is sifted into
flour to make a cake. His detachment was about twenty
strong when an outlaw band developed in the environs of
Zamboanga under the leadership of one Eduardo Alvarez,
lately a prominent citizen of the town, now an outlaw
with a price on his head. As a matter of fact the outlawry
was more a matter of Zamboanga politics and feuds than
an outbreak against the American Government; for Alvarez was an ancient enemy of the actual presidente municipal, who had the ear of the American provincial governor.
Two American miners had been murdered by Subanun
tribesmen in the mountains a few miles north of Zamboanga. The crime was fastened on Alvarez, although in
the light of my hardly won knowledge of Philippine men
and manners, I doubt whether he was responsible. But
evidently he expected little mercy or justice from his enemies in power, so he fled to the ever-waiting mountains.
Colonel Harbord was away, and General Wood sumI96




A TRAGEDY OF ZAMBOANGA


it97


moned me to receive orders for Constabulary pursuit of
Alvarez. It was my first official meeting with the general,
whose courteous and kind manner toward a junior Constabulary officer has never been forgotten: and it was
almost my first opportunity to learn that the bigger the
man the smaller the "side."
It was at the time when General Wood's name was in
every mouth. He had come to Mindanao fresh from his
successful administrative regeneration of Cuba; behind
him the glamour of the Rough Riders; around him the
aura of President Roosevelt's intimate friendship. The
newspapers were full of Senator Hanna's fight in the
Senate against confirmation of the general's commission
as major-general in the regular army. He was a national
figure; I was a junior officer of the Constabulary. Yet
before I had been with him five minutes I felt as if I had
known him a long while and he was actually asking my
opinion on the subject of hunting down outlaws in the
jungle, a game at which two years' practice had made me
fairly proficient.
I remember years later in Mindanao another general
of the regular army who called me in about a matter of
rounding up some outlaw Moros; and who, on a map,
showed me how he was going to do it, and talked at me
for an hour or two. He neither asked for nor listened to
advice. He did not get the outlaws. The Constabulary got
them later.
For several days army and Constabulary detachments
raked the beautiful country-side of Zamboanga as well
as the dense jungles and swamps surrounding it until at
last we received from the municipal president definite




198


BULLETS AND BOLOS


word of the location of "outlawed" Alvarez, who was accompanied by his mistress, a pretty mestiza of Zamboanga.
They were said to be in a canoe in a mangrove swamp
near Taluksungay, a few miles from town. Hayson and I
gathered a dozen men and out we hiked, eager to be the
capturers. But the foxy presidente, with a personal feud
against Alvarez, had sent his police force ahead, and as
we passed through a field of corn that bordered the mangrove swamp we heard yells and shots-then silence.
Plunging into the swamp, up to the middle in stinking
mud and slipping on the roots and "knees" of the mangroves, we made our way to the tidal canal, where a
tragedy, which might have been prevented by our earlier
arrival, had been enacted. Yet we had hiked fast, several
of our soldiers had fallen out exhausted, and Hayson,
who carried too much weight about the belt line, was
puffing and panting at each step.
On the canal, under the overarching mangroves and
nipa palms, was a little outrigger canoe; around it waistdeep in muddy water were the presidente's bloodhounds,
with rifles and shot-guns still pointed at the tragic occupants of the native craft-Eduardo Alvarez coughing out
his life-blood, and a pretty girl sobbing and wailing
over him. A revolver beside Alvarez was undischarged
but gave the police grounds to say that he resisted arrest.
Alvarez died as wo approached, and Hayson and I, with
a couple of constables, took charge of the canoe, paddling
down the canal toward the open sea, which we reached
near a Moro village just at sunset.
Here we exchanged the dugout for a larger craft, and
as a full moon rose, we sailed and paddled along the




A TRAGEDY OF ZAMBOANGA


199


coast back to Zamboanga, some fifteen miles away. Amidships was the body of Alvarez, decently laid out; beside it
sat and mourned the comely mestiza; and hunched close
on one side was Hayson and on the other myself. We
conversed across the body of Alvarez. As the pakrao
slipped over the water, the Moro boatmen at prow and
stern chanted a native song; the paddles dipped and
splashed in the phosphorescent sea; the sail flapped lazily,
keeping time with the bamboo outriggers which rose and
fell to a slight swell; the palm-fringed coast with Moro
fishing villages built out on piles passed in silvered panorama; and over the body Hayson and I exchanged reminiscences of many men and places. Both of us were dripping wet with mud and water. Before leaving the village
we had fortified ourselves with a bottle of vile gin, purchased at a Chino's store; and this unloosed our tongues
and warmed our chilled bodies. It can be, uncomfortably
cold even in the tropics after sundown when one is sitting
still in wet clothes. The fair maiden took a drink or two
that we pressed upon her and soon felt her woes sit more
lightly; and it will doubtless be a relief to the reader to
learn that investigation at Zamboanga a few days later
showed that she had been able to replace her outlaw lover
by one not proscribed by the authorities.
We were wet to the skin, tired after a hard day's hike,
and we had an outlaw's stark cold body and a warm and
weeping maiden between us. But we were young. We
were officers of the Moro Constabulary. And-we had a
bottle of gin. Therefore, Hayson, a wonderful raconteur,
was stimulated to tell some of his best tales; and between
fantastic wtories he joked in Spanish with the girl, pressed




200         BULLETS AND BOLOS
the gin bottle upon her, and otherwise solaced her so successfully that before we reached Zamboanga she was
avowing that the dead man had deceived her, and was
evidently in the mood to entertain his successor-American Constabulary officer preferred.
So we sailed on through the incandescent night until at
midnight the gray walls of the old Spanish Fort Pilar
that guards fair Zamboanga reflected back the moonlight,
and my first expedition in Mindanao was ended. We
turned Alvarez's body over to the municipal authorities,
who doubtless chuckled at the ease with which they had
staged and played their little tragedy of the Southern seas.




CHAPTER XXVI


IN THE SPIDER S WEB
COLONEL HARBORD soon organized the Constabulary of
the Moro Province. He was the kind of man who would
cheerfully have taken up the task of organizing the devils
in hell. And he would have organized them even if opposed by his Satanic Majesty himself. To be associated
with him as adjutant for nearly a year was an inestimable privilege.
Other officers arrived from the north and were sent to
organize the Constabularies of Lanao, Sulu, and Davao.
One or two of these new men brought great reputations
as "fire-eaters," gained in combat against insurgent and
ladrone bands in the northern islands; and it was amusing
to see how quickly some reputations were punctured by
the spears and krises of the Moro warriors already on the
rampage in the districts of Lanao and Sulu. The difference between hustling a ladrone band over the rice paddies
of Cavite and facing a fighting throng of Mohammedan
fanatics was about the same as that between stalking a
stag and bearding a tiger in his lair.
My training under Colonel Harbord was an excellent
thing for me. That able officer had the recipe for making
"riflemen of mud," and one Provincial Constabulary after
another was officered, organized, equipped, and put into
201




202


BULLETS AND BOLOS


the field against those Moros who refused to bend the
knee to any form of government that curbed piracy and
slavery and operated for the rights of man as opposed to
the privileges of petty chiefs. It was twentieth-century
democracy versus medieval feudalism, with unlimited
complications of race, language, customs, and governmental impermanence. It is not surprising that Mindanao
has run with blood for a quarter of a century. Only one
thing could have prevented the continuous misunderstandings and conflicts. A corps of well-paid, permanent American civil servants, firm while sympathetic with the Moros,
might have avoided at least nine tenths of the difficulties.
General Wood saw that, but his efforts to organize such
a corps were defeated by lack of understanding or interest
in Manila and Washington.
The tragi-comic expedition by Hayson and myself
against Alvarez was undertaken when the Moro Province
Constabulary was in swaddling clothes. But almost before
short pants substituted those swaddling clothes, other
officers had gallantly led their raw constables against wellarmed Moro clans. The speed with which we organized,
equipped, and drilled into shape only shows what can be
done by a cranky machine when an expert drives; and in
General Wood and Colonel Harbord, the Constabulary
of the Moro Province possessed a pair of very capable
chauffeurs-perhaps a5 capable as America could have
produced.
It was good to work in Mindanao in those early days,
when the first flush of enthusiasm suffused us all, and
when confidence in the men on top made every junior do
and dare.




IN THE SPIDER'S WEB


203


Captain Frederick Johnson, our district supply officer,
was kept busy shipping supplies to newly organized units.
Distances between stations in Mindanao were vast compared with those in northern districts and taking into
account means of transportation, which was almost
wholly by water. In I903 there were not more than fifty
miles of roads in all Mindanao. From Zamboanga to our
remotest station at Baganga on the east coast of Mindanao was a matter of three or four hundred miles by
water, which meant ten days' or two weeks' travel by the
monthly mail steamer, while many other stations were
almost as difficult to reach. Either Colonel Harbord, Captain Johnson, or myself was always on the go, inspecting,
supplying, and paying our growing forces.
Good old Johnson, carried away by the enthusiasm
which pervaded all, worked himself beyond one man's
limit in efforts to keep supply abreast of organization.
One day I started hastily for remote stations on Mindanao
-I suppose that a steamer was making an unexpected
voyage-when at the last moment Johnson appeared on the
wharf followed by half a dozen Moros carrying an iron
safe which he turned over to me as the vessel's ropes were
cast off from shore. "Here, White," he panted, "there's
seven thousand pesos in bills and silver in this safe, and
for goodness' sake pay those men at Davao, Baganga,
and the rest, and take up any vouchers they have. Here's
the key. Adios!"-as the steamer pulled away-"keep
track of what you pay out and don't get me stuck for a
thousand or two by the auditor!"
Johnson wasn't "stuck" by any carelessness of mine
on that trip, but, poor fellow, he was finally "stuck" for




204


BULLETS AND BOLOS


a lot of property issued without proper receipts during
the haste of organization. I think that he told me in I9I I,
when I relieved him as governor of Agusan Province,
that his generosity and overwork in Mindanao cost him
about fifteen hundred pesos-deducted from his salary
for property shortages unexplained.
The governor of the District of Zamboanga was a
ponderous army captain, past middle age, but with a tremendous capacity for individual work that led him to
make little use of the Constabulary, especially as he could
call upon the Regulars or Scouts for escorts and expeditions. His courage as well as his misplaced confidence in
his personal influence over the Moros of his District once
came near bringing disaster on one expedition of which
I was part. A Moro chief named Datu Mustapha ruled
over the region of Margosatubig on Dumankilas Bay, an
arm of the sea on the south coast of Mindanao, some hundred miles or so east of Zamboanga. Datu Mustapha refused to obey the governor's orders and even sent insulting messages to the White Father of the Moros of Zamboanga District, so, for once, the governor called on the
Constabulary for an escort and went to reason with his
fractious ward. By some chance I had a holiday from my
adjutant duties and took command of the twenty Zamboanga constables, embarking with the governor on the
little government steamer Borneo. With us went Datu
Mandi of Zamboanga, the Moro-mestizo chief who loyally served the American Government at Mindanao until
his death in I9I3, several other friendly Moro chiefs
and hadjis, and another army officer who desired to see
the fun. The Borneo, a craft of about a hundred tons,




IN THE SPIDER'S WEB


205


flew the English flag, as she hailed from Sandakan, North
Borneo, and was only chartered by the Moro Province
Government. She was commanded by a typical English
sea-dog, Captain Pfort.
On arrival at Margosatubig, we anchored a hundred
yards from shore opposite a massive old Spanish stone
fort situated on rising ground and in which Datu Mustapha with his twoscore armed retainers, his harem, and
his slaves considered himself safe against the interfering
world outside. A message from the governor requesting
Mustapha to come aboard and pay his respects sounded to
that hostile chief like, "Ducky, ducky, come and be
killed!" For an hour or two, while messages went to and
fro, he remained in his secure retreat; but finally came
aboard, sullen and resentful. After a short bichara (powwow) with the governor, Mustapha returned to his fort,
and the governor, declaring his intention of returning the
call, directed me to accompany him ashore and pay respects to the datu. It looked to me like a repetition of the
"Ducky, ducky, come and be killed" proposition-with us
as the ducks. But I was anxious that the Constabulary
should earn the governor's approbation, and I said nothing. When, however, he told me to leave my men aboard,
I gently demurred; and we compromised by letting them
ashore to stretch their legs. Captain Pfort and the army
officer accompanied us, curious to see a Moro datu in his
stronghold. Within a few minutes they were to wish that
they had remained aboard to view it from a safe distance.
Before we walked up the green slope to the fort I took
the precaution of calling my sergeant aside, told him to
wait until we were inside the fort in the datu's quarters,




206


'BULLETS AND BOLOS


then to enter the fort with the detachment, place the men
with their backs to the wall of the fort, and await developments, being careful to give the Moros no cause of offense and to appear cool and careless-but to be ready.
From the attitude of Datu Mustapha, from hints dropped
by Datu Mandi, the other friendly chiefs, and by my own
soldiers, I was disinclined to trust ourselves to the sullen
chief of Margosatubig.
When we reached the fort whose stone walls rose up a
forbidding score of feet, we found the heavy wooden gate
shut. For a moment I feared that we were to be assassinated then and there by fire from above. My soldiers were
still near the beach, waiting according to my orders until
we entered the fort. However, the gate was but lightly
propped and yielded to pressure. We entered the fort to
find that the Spanish stone buildings constructed within
the enclosure were in ruins, while Datu Mustapha had
erected a rambling edifice of bamboo and palm-thatch
against the further wall. Up to the chief's quarters led a
flight of rickety bamboo steps. As none came to greet us,
we climbed up, the governor in the lead. We were a procession of flies buzzing into a sticky spider's web.
The room we entered was packed with armed men.
There were no women or children, always a suspicious
sign when an American finds himself among the wild
peoples of the Philippines. Datu Mustapha squatted on a
mat and cushions at one side, while around and behind
him were massed half a hundred as fierce-looking Moros
as I had ever seen, armed to the teeth and all scowling and
casting glances that were an eloquent "Hymn of Hate"
for the white men. Near Mustapha was a stand of twenty








COLONEL    0 HARBORD
Cu rwrp.rPt     c




IN THE SPIDER'S WEB


20o7


or more Remington and Mauser rifles with belts of cartridges pendent from their muzzles. Men lounged against
the stand of arms so that we could not move without
brushing against the ready weapons of Moros hostile in
every attitude and movement. Furthermore, Datu Muptapha made no move to greet the governor.
After some maneuvering we seated or squatted ourselves near a door on the further side of the room which
opened on to the broad battlements of the fort. Scarcely
were we seated when an order from the datu closed the
one possible avenue of escape, while several of the retainers with hands on their half-drawn krises stood between us and such safety as flight might have afforded us.
If anything started we were in the position of so many
chunks of meat in a meat-chopper-and I breathed a
prayer that my sergeant with his men might be inside the
fort with their backs against the wall, from which position they commanded our death trap and might cause
the Moros to weigh chances before they turned the handle
of the meat-chopper.
I was the only member of our party to carry arms; a.45 revolver was at my hip, while across my knee was my.44 carbine, but my head would have been off before I
could press a trigger, for just behind me stood a Moro
whose wrinkled leather face was carved in a diabolical
grin, and whose right hand grasped the ornamented hilt
of a razor-edge kris half drawn from its scabbard.
In this perilous situation the governor, either unconscious of danger or by exhibition of iron nerve, began to
harangue Datu Mustapha, his words being interpreted by
Datu Mandi, who with other friendly Moros accompany



208


BULLETS AND BOLOS


ing us, was ashy-gray with fear. I helped the interpretation by rendering the governor's words to Mandi in
Spanish. But Mandi was interpreting for his life and
needed little assistance, nobly rising to the occasion. The
words of the drama went something like this. The governor spoke in English, I translated roughly in Spanish,
toning down a little, and Mandi conveyed a further diluted version in the Maguindanaw dialect to Mustapha.
The governor: "Tell Datu Mustapha that he must
get out of this fort. It's government property and he has
no right to occupy it."
Datu Mandi: "The governor says, most honorable
Datu Mustapha, that he is pleased that you should occupy
this old fort, for which the government has no present
use."
The governor: "Tell Datu Mustapha that he must
release his Subanun slaves and stop exacting tribute from
the tribes around Dumankilas Bay."
Datu Mandi: "The governor says that under the
American law there must be no slavery, but he understands that you have no slaves-only servants whom you
treat well. Anyhow [sotto voce], the Subanuns are fit for
nothing but to be slaves for the Moros."
Thus the powwow went on for an hour or more.
Whether the presence of the soldiers inside the walls or
Datu Mandi's mollifying translations diminished Mustapha's ire, it would be difficult to decide. But when we
left the fort and breathed the clean air outside with deep,
grateful inspirations, the governor said nothing about the
presence of my soldiers within the walls, which, perhaps,
he had not even noticed. And not until we were on the




IN THE SPIDER'S WEB


209


good ship Borneo, streaming out of Dumankilas Bay did
he broach the matter of Mustapha's attitude, about which
we felt some delicacy in approaching him. Then, when
Datu Mandi had supported my estimate of Mustapha's
hostility, the governor suggested that we turn back and
have another talk with him. But as a little reflection determined that my Constabulary could make no impression
against those massive walls, we proceeded to Zamboanga
for reinforcements.
A day or two later the governor returned to Margosatubig with a full company of United States infantry and
a piece of field artillery. Datu Mustapha, willing enough
to die fighting but anxious to have a fighting chance,
took one look at the cannon, then gathered together his
retainers, slaves, and women of his harem, and left the
fort.
However, he continued his recalcitrant attitude toward
the American Government. A few months later, when I
was far away in Cotabato District, he attacked Captain
Platka of the Constabulary, and died with many of his
men in a hand-to-hand fight. Platka said that Mustapha
died game and almost reached him, kris in hand, when a
load of buckshot took the chief of Dumankilas Bay full
in the chest, sending him to the Mohammedan paradise to
lie in the arms of countless houris and receive his reward
for defying Unbelievers.
Another experience while I was adjutant will show
that organization of a Constabulary among the Moros
was not accomplished entirely without friction, although
it was produced rather by inefficient American officers
than by the Moro recruits, usually docile under proper




210


BULLETS AND BOLOS


treatment. The Moro was quick to recognize the qualities
he expected in an officer. Courage-that was indispensable-kindness, patience, and intelligence. There was a
certain officer of the Constabulary who had the first three,
but whom isolation and responsibility unnerved. He was
stationed at Tucuran, which is by way of being more of
a geographical expression than a place; a few stone buildings erected by the Spaniards on a dominant hill overlooking the Illanun Gulf and commanding the narrow
neck of Mindanao Island. The cable to Manila came
ashore and ran a few miles overland there, then into
Panguil Bay on the north side of Mindanao on its way to
Manila. To protect the cable operators from the Moros
of that neighborhood, we sent Captain Z. with twenty
raw Moro constables and a few Filipino non-coms to
Tucuran, where he could drill his men, hunt deer and
wild hog on the grassy plain behind his hill, or admire,
while looking for the smoke of the monthly mail steamer
on' the horizon, the glorious panorama of a twenty-mile,
curving sandy beach a few hundred feet below his bedroom window.
This was the kind of a job' that either molds a man's
character into firm stuff or gets on his nerves; it was an
experience that scores of Constabulary officers have been
through. Captain Z. was a clean-cut young fellow and
of a good family, but he had been promoted too fast. He
was a relative of the wife of the Chief of Constabularyand Mindanao was a poor place to send a relative unless
there was something behind the blood tie. Z. forgot to
buy or requisition food and supplies for his men, he mislaid orders and circulars from headquarters, and he




IN THE SPIDER'S WEB


211I


messed up the discipline and organization of his company
by every form of omission. Now, an officer can leave a lot
undone if he will only feed his men well; but the stomach
of a Moro soldier revolts just as quickly at bad treatment
as that of an American. They want but little, with rice
and dried fish as the staples of diet, but that little must
appear regularly and in sufficient quantities to satisfy
hunger; while if it leaves a feeling of repletion, the officer will find his company easier to manage.
One day at Zamboanga, we received a cable message
from lonely Tucuran saying that the Constabulary company had mutinied and had locked up Captain Z. in his
quarters. Colonel Harbord put me aboard the little Coast
Guard cutter Ranger with instructions to work her speed
up to the maximum of seven and a half knots, and find
out what "that idiot Z." had been up to.
Over the Celebes Sea we wallowed until the white
buildings of Tucuran dotted the green mountains at the
head of Illanun Bay. The sight of a steamer had operated
to release Captain Z. from durance vile, and he met me,
a natty figure in well-starched uniform with collars and
cuffs showing to the prescribed degree. But all the starch
was in his uniform. Isolation had bred fear, and fear had
taken the stiffness from his backbone. Within an hour or
two he was bundled aboard the Ranger and was on his
way to Zamboanga, while I remained at Tucuran to
straighten out the comic mutiny. When questioned about
their wrongs, the Moro soldiers grinned and said, "He
gave us no food-he did nothing." Regular meals, regular drill, and enough discipline to operate like fleas on a
dog and keep them from worrying about being soldiers,




212


BULLETS AND BOLOS


quickly straightened out the detachment. However, despite plenty of work, during the two weeks or more that
I was at Tucuran, I learned to tire of that interminable
vista of beach and mountain and to appreciate the fact
that man, a social animal, cannot live by view alone.
Incidentally I had a taste of my chief's mettle. On
arrival at Tucuran I did not like the look of things. A
number of the mutinous soldiers were related to semipiratical Moros living along the shores of Illanum Gulf
within a few miles of the Constabulary post. I cabled to
Colonel Harbord recommending that the mutinous element be transferred to another district. Promptly came
the reply, "You keep them there and put the boots to
them"-or words to that effect. I did-and nothing happened except improvement in the company.
But one thing happened which gave me a momentary
scare. I had been at Tucuran a day or two and was passing under the projecting second-story veranda of the soldier's quarters when "Bang!" went a gun above my head
and a bullet struck the gravel just in front of me. It required little flight of imagination to believe that a mutinous soldier under discipline desired to end my promising
career.
Revolver in hand, I turned and bounded, three steps at
a time, up the stairs of the building, eager to have it out
with the supposed assassin. In the room full of excited
soldiers I found one of my Filipino sergeants stretched
on a bamboo cot, groaning and holding his leg between
thigh and knee. He had been cleaning his.45 revolver
while holding it muzzle down on his leg, when it exploded
and the bullet passed clean through the flesh, just grazing




IN  THE SPIDER'S WEB               213
the femur, then on through bed and floor to give me my
scare below. I did a little first-aid work and then went
over to my own quarters for a drink-which I needed.




CHAPTER XXVII


RIFLEMEN FROM MUD
EARLY in June, 1904, General Wood called upon Colonel
Harbord to organize a Constabulary in the District of
Cotabato, the largest and perhaps least-known division on
the Moro Province, where a prominent Moro chief named
Datu Ali had recently started on the war-path. Colonel
Harbord relieved me as adjutant for assignment as Senior
Inspector of the Constabulary of Cotabato with instructions to recruit as rapidly as possible among the tribes of
friendly Moros and organize a force that could be used
as Scouts, accompanying expeditions of United States
troops against the hostiles scattered throughout the length
and breadth of the valley of the Rio Grande de Mindanao.
Cotabato District consisted of the valley of this broad,
deep, muddy stream, a valley some two hundred miles
long and from ten to fifty broad. This watershed contained large areas of swamp and lakes, with villages of
Maguindanaw Moros sparsely scattered along the banks
of the river and its tributaries or amid the almost trackless and impassable swamps. Back of the valley rose forbidding ranges of mountains, culminating in Mount Apo,
eleven thousand feet in height. In the jungles of these
mountains were legendary pagan tribes, rejoicing in the
names of Tirurayes, Manobos, Bagobos, Bilanes, and
many more such.
214








CAPTAIN LEONARD FURLONG AND HIS NON-COMMISSIONED OFFICERS OF
1ST COMPANY COTABATO P. C.I MINDANAOD 1905




RIFLEMEN FROM MUD


2I5


The Maguindanaws were the largest tribe of Moros.
They controlled practically the whole of the mainland of
Mindanao. Although more agricultural and less piratical
than their cousins in Sulu, they held almost as tightly to
their ancient privileges of slavery and control of the
pagan tribes, while the situation of their bamboo villages
and earthen cottas (forts) on the shores of the mountain
lakes, as in Lanao, or amid the swamps, as in Cotabato,
made campaigning against those chiefs who refused to
recognize the authority of the United States both difficult and costly.
The Spaniards had sent many an expedition up the
Rio Grande, and with shallow-draft gunboats had shot
their way into the heart of Cotabato District. They obtained concessions from Datu Utu, the Maguindanaw
chief who then ruled that swampy land. But the control
exercised by the Spaniards extended little if any further
than the range of cannon shot from the toy men-of-war,
while the price they paid in men and blood for even such
victory was heavy. Furthermore, every inch of ground
wrested from the Maguindanaws must be controlled
by stone-fort or blockhouse. When, in  i899, the
Spaniards withdrew before the advancing Americans
from the north, anarchy reigned in Cotabato. Datu Utu
had gone to the voluptuous reward of good fighting
Moros, and his nephew, Datu Ali, ruled in his stead.
The American troops came to Cotabato. A wise officer,
Colonel Febiger, was appointed governor of the District.
Datu Ali paid his respects to Colonel Febiger and for a
while all went pleasantly along the Rio Grande. The military government was busy subduing Aguinaldo's insur



2I6


BULLETS AND BOLOS


rection in the northern islands and was quite willing to
let the Moro hornets alone as long as they refrained from
stinging American soldiers. Colonel Febiger cemented
friendship with Datu Ali and at one time even made tentative arrangements to send him on an educational tour
to the United States. The cautious governor shut the
other eye at such exhibitions of Moro customs as slavery,
an occasional raid on the pagan hillmen, or a little intertribal bloodshed by way of keeping the young braves fit.
It is likely that had Colonel Febiger remained at Cotabato, gradually enlarging his influence and control of the
Maguindanaws and especially of their fighting chief, Datu
Ali, the bloody chapter of our campaign in Cotabato, of
which I shall sketch but the highlights, might never have
been written. It is safe to say that nine tenths of the
trouble in Mindanao has been due: to the impermanence
of officials; no sooner did an officer like Febiger get to
know his Moro men and manners than military orders
carried him to some other sphere of usefulness; and his
successor came with no fund of stored-up experience
upon which to draw.
Of course, it was not to be expected that the feudal
conditions of Moro misgovernment in Mindanao and
Sulu could be replaced by an administration modeled on
American ideas of the rights of man without a certain
amount of friction and even bloodshed. But the amount
of each might have been much reduced by a policy which
used personal influence rather than the Krag to enforc(
necessary and wholesome changes. General Wood recog
nized this. He soon appointed civilian understudies a
District secretaries under the army governors; but be




RIFLEMEN FROM MUD


217


fore many years the general himself, after having become skilled in Moro administration, was spirited away
to another command.
Colonel Febiger left Cotabato. Datu Ali heard of the
new laws passed by the legislative council of the Moro
Province, which prescribed penalties for slave-holding,
together with other new and altogether hateful restrictions on the authority of proud Moro chieftains. As a
matter of fact, these laws, designed to bring order out of
chaos, were sufficiently benevolent; what was lacking was
a corps of officials experienced in Moro affairs to explain
the laws to the chiefs and to drop oil on the creaking
joints of the new legislative machinery. The Moro is
proud, touchy, and quick to resent abridgment of his
rights and ancient customs, and to him those laws seemed
designed to upset all that made life worth living. Had
they been explained and toned down by a District governor in whose friendship the Moro placed confidence,
they might have been swallowed without other result than
a slight stomach-ache; otherwise administered they were
a violent emetic-and the convulsions of Moro vomiting
were to spevV blood and disorder over Mindanao and Sulu
for years to come.
Of course it is easy to be wise after the vent. I do not
pretend that any of us participants in the making of Mindanao history possessed the power of vaticination. Yet, a
year or two later, on the island of Tapul, when for
twenty-four hours I was in the power of a band of hostile Moros and talked to them for my life, I came nearer
an understanding of the Moro point of view than I did
when, in June, I904, I first set foot in Cotabato to or



2I8


BULLETS AND BOLOS


ganize my Constabulary among the sulky and semihostile Moros of the lower part of the Rio Grande Valley.
Datu Ali was then some distance along the trail which
ultimately led to his grave. From his point of view a good
beginning had been made when in May, I9o4, he ambushed a company of the Seventeenth Infantry and killed
two officers and seventeen men. It was a bloody little
affair, typifying the difficulty of campaigning against
hostile Moros in that part of Mindanao. The small company of about forty soldiers had hiked through the
almost trackless swamps at the mercy of a faithless Moro
guide, the officers ignorant of the terrain and language,
yet gallantly leading their men into the heart of a hitherto
unexplored country. Mile after mile the trail led through
the high tigbao grass, impassably interlaced on either side
and often overhead, while underfoot was the vicious
black mud of a churned-up trail with occasional holes
where the men sank to their waists. Then there was a
sudden spurt of rifle fire from ahead, from either side,
from an invisible enemy secure behind the maddening
wall of matted, canelike grass. The men in advance fell
dead and dying in the stinking mud. The, officers pressed
forward, and, in like manner, were mown down without
seeing the foe. The remnant of the expedition withdrew
in disorder while the victorious Moros with vicious kris
and barong completed their work by beheading and disemboweling the dead and dying Americans. Yet even
then Datu Ali showed some spark of chivalrous warfare.
Two captured American soldiers were cared for and later
returned to Cotabato.
This ambush happened in the far interior of the Dis



RIFLEMEN FROM MUD


219


trict, and when I arrived at Cotabato several companies
of American soldiers and Filipino Scouts were campaigning to revenge the "Simpetan Massacre." The Moros of
the lower valley, though doubtless sympathizing with their
cousins up the river, professed friendship for the Americans. As their villages were mostly on the banks of the
river or its tidal delta lands, easily reached by gunboat
or launch, it behooved them to be good. Datu Baki and
Datu Balabadan were leaders in the lower valley. From
them I solicited recruits for my Constabulary —and such
specimens of Moro manhood they sent in! Kipling's pungent phrase about "making riflemen from mud" would
have been less a figure of speech than a reality in Cotabato
in I904, for some of my recruits were so incrusted with
scales of dirt and filth that several preliminary baths were
necessary before we reached the human material for our
soldiery. At first the men sent to me were slaves of the
lowest class, enlisting at the orders of their datus as they
would have done anything else, from laboring in the rice
fields to lopping off an enemy's head. But in every Moro
is the germ of a good fighting-man, so that with the
assistance of my able lieutenants, Furlong and Gilsheuser,
it was a matter of days, or at the most weeks, before a
mud-incrusted slave became a natty, self-respecting soldier. Moreover, I had one or two of my old Negros
soldiers as non-corns, and they were adaptable devils of
great assistance in drill and discipline, who quickly picked
up the Moro customs, especially in the matter of the
plurality of wives.
Our barracks and quarters at Cotabato were situated
half a mile from the town, on the summit of a rocky knoll




220


BULLETS AND BOLOS


which rose straight up two hundred feet above the surrounding rice fields. One or two old Spanish stone buildings were supplemented by temporary constructions of
bamboo and palm thatch. From the hill the view across
the paddies and swamps of the Rio Grande Valley, of the
red-tiled or tin-roofed town half hidden by groves of
coco palms and avenues of flaming acacias, of the river
winding down to the Celebes Sea and of distant ranges
of stern mountains, was something to soothe an officer
after hours spent in teaching recruits how to march and
how to hold their guns.
Tantawan, meaning "extensive view," is the Moro
name for the Constabulary hill at Cotabato. It could not
be better named. Also Tantawan is for the Moros a sacred
spot and connected with their mythology which attributed
the origin of their race to an egg carried through the
air by a gigantic bird-doubtless the roc of the Arabian
Nights and Sindbad's adventures. For the Mohammedan
Moro is by tradition, blood, and even language connected,
tenuously but no less certainly, with that race of Arabian
adventurers of whom Mohammed was the militant
prophet and Allah the complacent God.'
So while the United States troops campaigned in the
"Valley after Ali," as soldier-poets soon began to sing,
we worked away with our scaly recruits until we had a
detachment that could take the field without bringing discredit on the corps. Lieutenant Furlong was the first to
1To those who want to know more about the origin of the Moros
of Mindanao I can heartily recommend the works of Dr. N. M.
Saleeby, who at the time of which I write was superintendent of
schools of the Moro Province and who for many years faithfully
labored to explain Moro and American one to the other.




RIFLEMEN FROM MUD


22I


lead a Maguindanaw Moro against his fellow Moros.
General Wood had arrived at Cotabato to direct operations, and he wanted a few Constabulary to scout through
the swamps of the upper valley and feel for the hostiles
who were hard to find when a powerful expedition of a
hundred or two American soldiers felt its way carefully
along the trails through the long-grass country but could
be quickly located by a force small enough to make an
engagement a sporting event, with the odds favoring the
Moros. That was one reason why the Constabulary proved
so successful in bushwacking warfare throughout the
archipelago. Its strength lay in the very weakness which
invited attack. How often have Constabulary officers calculated the number of men that it would take to "do the
job" without showing sufficient strength to scare the
enemy!
Furlong took fourteen constables, including several
Moro recruits who still handled krises better than carbines, and he scouted back from the river at Kudarangan,
where several hundred infantry and Scouts were assembled for a blow at Datu Ali-when he could be located.
Furlong's orders were to "get in touch" with the hostile
Moros. He did more than that. He touched them up, hiking for miles through the heart of Ali's preserves, and
with his fourteen men kept up a running fight with forty
or fifty Maguindanaw Moros led by Bapa-ni-Manakup,
Ali's best fighting man. When the odds pressed too heavily against him, Furlong withdrew in good order, carrying
his wounded, and striking back hard when the exultant
Maguindanaw Moros led by Bapa-ni-Manakup thought to
annihilate his little band, until he found shelter behind a




222         BULLETS AND BOLOS
company of American soldiers sent out to succor him.
General Wood highly commended Furlong's conduct on
this scout, while the American troops embraced the redfezzed Constabulary as brothers-in-arms.
After that first essay we were kept busy cooperating
with the army in the Valley campaign, an officer and a
handful of men accompanying an expedition of United
States soldiers to act as scouts and advance guard, an honorable and dangerous position when creeping along grasshidden trails against an enemy ever lying in wait to
spring, but rarely visible until he struck; and the knowledge of our Moro constables of the traits and tricks of
their Moro brethren doubtless saved the lives of many
Americans in that campaign in the "Valley after Ali."




CHAPTER XXVIII


BULLETS AND BEES
CAPTAIN VAN HORN of the Seventeenth Infantry, a
young, able, and energetic officer, was then governor of
the District. From the first he generously helped the organization of the Constabulary. Van Horn was a fighting
governor who often laid down the reins of office to take
up the whip of a military expedition. His District secretary, F. J. Dunleavy, an Australian by birth but a cosmopolite in experience, was a frontiersman of the world who
had mined for gold in the Rand, in Madagascar, and the
Klondike; run a sugar plantation in the Fiji and Hawaian
Islands, and who, when I last heard of him, was administering a rubber concession at Sorata, Bolivia, near Lake
Titicaca, fourteen thousand feet above sea-level. Always
active and full of plans, Dunleavy was planting rubber on
the slopes of Tantawan Hill behind the Constabulary
quarters and laying out a large sugar plantation in the
vicinity of Cotabato.
General Wood had organized for the campaign against
Ali "provisional companies" of Infantry, taking the most
active young officers and men from every company of a
regiment to make an organization of fighting, hiking
American Scouts about 150 strong. Van Horn commanded the provisional company of the Seventeenth In223




224


BULLETS AND BOLOS


fantry. He invited me to accompany it on an extended
expedition through the Talayan country, a part of his
District some fifty miles southeast of Cotabato, where
the swamps ran into foot-hills and the foot-hills into the
unknown mountains.
A few days before we started for Talayan, a disgrace
befell the Constabulary of Cotabato. Two of our Moro
recruits deserted, taking with them their belts of ammunition and carbines. That was a serious blow to our pride.
For several nights after the desertion, Furlong and I took
turns lying in the long cogon grass behind our soldiers'
barracks in wait for other deserters, ready to give them
a load of buckshot to carry in addition to their own arms
and ammunition. We had no more desertions. When it is
considered that the possession of a modern rifle raised a
Moro from slave to chief among his fellows and perhaps
gave him the woman of his desire, it was a tribute to the
general loyalty of our men that more did not return
wealthy and influential to their clans. The two who deserted were tempted by relatives among the hostiles of the
upper valley. The carbines were worth several hundred
pesos each, and the women of Talayan who could be purchased by the price of a gun were brown, yet fair, in
the eyes of two Moro soldiers, erstwhile slaves. They
deserted and we learned that it was to Talayan they fled.
I was overjoyed, therefore, at the chance to accompany
Van Horn's expedition into that unknown land, where
even the Spanish troops had never penetrated.
We embarked and sailed up the river by launch. The
wash of the boat swept ugly crocodiles from the mud
banks. Then we hiked for days through the swamps when




BULLETS AND BEES


225


our only desire was to find a passably dry spot on which
to throw our blankets and rig our mosquito bars. There
were hours when with two or three Moro soldiers ahead
I crept along the tunneled trails through the long grass,
peering for signs of the hostiles, and momentarily expecting a volley from an unseen foe.
Let me take up the thread of the yarn one night when
we had emerged from the swamps on to higher ground
where groves of bamboo and forest trees appeared among
the matted, blanketing tigbao grass. There the expedition
of more than 150 men with as many or more ccargadores
camped near a stream on a meadowlike spot surrounded
by higher grass and cane-brake. All day the Moros had
fired at us from every point of higher ground that commanded the trail out of the swamps; and on one occasion
when the hostiles came within hailing distance, my soldiers said that they distinguished the voices and taunts of
the two deserters. We expected an attack during the night,
so Governor Van Horn disposed the expedition in a hollow square, with sentries every few feet along the four
sides.
My handful of Constabulary stopped a small gap in one
side of the square. Behind them I made a bed in the
damp grass, fixed my mosquito bar with four sticks,
and, after supper, composed myself to sleep. But there
was little rest for anyone that night, as the Talayan
Moros were thick around our camp, and their shouts and
yells were answered by the calls of our sentries and the
crack of Krag rifles. From time to time, when the hostiles became too annoying, Van Horn would take a detachment of soldiers and volley through the long grass toward




226


BULLETS AND BOLOS


the red flashes that showed the discharges of the Moro
guns. Then there would be comparative silence, broken
perhaps only by the groans of a wounded Moro in the
long grass. The Constabulary part of the line was comparatively free from attack. Perhaps this was in part
due to the fact that my non-coms and myself were armed
with short-barreled repeating shot-guns which scattered
loads of buckshot through the grass and made our front
too unpleasant for the human mosquitoes who buzzed
around us in futile attempts to sting.
When, after one particularly vicious spurt of fire, I
returned to my mosquito bar, it was to find it spread and
torn upon the grass. During my fortunate absence, a
bullet had struck one of the supporting sticks and pierced
the gossamer fabric. It was as well that I had been away!
While I was patching up my mosquito bar as best I could
in the dark, an American soldier who had bedded near
me was groping around and cursing because he could not
find his rifle, which was by his side when he went to
sleep. Nor did he find it. Some venturesome Moro had
crept through the cordon of our sentries, and in the
darkness and confusion had stolen the rifle and then
sneaked back to the outside world and the plaudits of his
comrades. It is impossible not to admire the courage
and steady nerves of a man who could thus slip between
our sentries and into the midst of an armed camp.
After that experience the soldiers slept above the rifles,
hollowing out a place for them beneath their blankets,
or tied empty tin cans to their arms and to the mosquito
nets around them-a sort of field burglar alarm. Thereafter, also, we took steps to round up the Moro cargar




BULLETS AND BEES


227


dores before nightfall and to account carefully for each
man, as it seemed possible that the theft had been committed from within the camp. Precautions sometimes
failed. On another expedition there was a squadron of
dismounted cavalry that lost, in similar fashion, four or
five carbines in one night. For that matter it was just as
well that a soldier should not awake while the theft was
taking place as instead of merely losing his rifle, he might
also lose his life by a knife-thrust from the predatory
prowler.
The morning following our night of alarms, we penetrated the heart of the Talayan country, through deserted
Moro villages scattered under groves of cocos and bamboo along the banks of the Talayan River. At a place
where the river made a hair-pin turn, we ran into a carefully prepared ambush, and were lucky to escape as
lightly as we did. With two or three American soldiers
and half a dozen of the constabulary, I was scouting
along the bank of the river, here deep, swift, and about a
hundred feet wide. On the opposite bank were some Moro
huts, apparently deserted. Suddenly a rattle of rifle fire
burst from the opposite shore. The bullets which combed
around us issued from the bank of the river, where the
Moros had dug trenches and loopholed through the bank.
As best we could, we sheltered behind coco-palm trunks
or lay below bushes of oranges and lemons of which
there was a considerable grove on our side of the river.
One American soldier was killed- shot through the
heart. He had pitched down on his face just to the right
of me, and seeing him lie there so quiet, I thought the
surprise of the ambush had perhaps shaken his nerves. I




228


BULLETS AND BOLOS


went over to speak to him. When I caught the sleeve of his
shirt the deadweight told the story.
My Moro constables were pumping away at the puffs
of smoke which showed the enemy's loopholes. They
seemed to be enjoying themselves in true Moro style,
yelling between shots at their friends, and perhaps relatives, on the other side of the river, when a diversion was
caused by a swarm of bees which had doubtless been disturbed by a stray bullet. The infuriated insects first attacked my constables, who, heedless of the more deadly
but less immediately painful bullets that were buzzing
in unison with the bees, danced around in full exposure
to the enemy. A moment later we were all careless of the
bullets and only anxious to withdraw from the range of
Apis meIlifica., the common honey-bee, but an uncommonly inconvenient insect to meet when engaged in other
combat.
The allies of the Moros of Talayan won that fight. We
withdrew from the field but not before a soldier of the
Seventeenth Infantry, who was firing near me, made one
of the prettiest shots I have seen. Beyond and above the
enemy's trenches was a large, well-foliaged mango tree,
in the branches of which a Moro sharpshooter had established a perch. The soldier saw him, and before firing
called my attention to the blur in the foliage which he
believed to be the sharpshooter. Then crack went his
Krag, and out of the mango tree fell a Moro, spreadeagling down like a dead crow.
However, we ran away only to fight again. We found
a ford over the Talayan River a mile or so below the ambush, crossed over, and came round behind the trenches,




BULLETS AND BEES


229


whose occupants skurried over the rice fields to the nearest hills, turning to give fight at every dike and giving us
a run for our money-or our ammunition.
As we skirmished over the rice fields, Private Taguetal of the Cotabato Constabulary found a relative among
the bodies of dead Talayan Moros sprinkled somewhat
freely over the landscape. Taguetal was a tall, flat-footed
Maguindanaw Moro with a head shaped like the small end
of an egg and features resembling the shape that an intelligent child of three might produce from a handful of
brown clay. When he enlisted he was not young and his
joints were stiff from years of work in waist-deep rice
paddies so that his military motions were always jerky
and automaton-like. But he was as faithful as a dog and
appreciated the fact that the Constabulary had raised
him from a toiling slave to an independent man-at-arms.
At Talayan he approached the corpse of a Moro with the
intention of relieving the deceased of no longer needed
weapons together with such trifles as the brass betel-nut
box, quids of tobacco, or whatever might be concealed in
the twisted sash around his waist. On turning the body
over, Taguetal recognized what he called a "tungudminsan," which is about the Maguindanaw equivalent for
our word cousin. He grunted the information to me, and
then quietly continued the search for family heirlooms.
It was old Taguetal who on return to Cotabato from
an expedition came at nightfall secretly to my quarters
with the information that one of the other Moro soldiers
was going to kill me because I had administered a little
field discipline during the expedition. Supplementing his
information with advice, the faithful old soldier calmly




230


BULLETS AND BOLOS


proposed that he lop off the head of the intended assassin.
However, I thought of a better plan to maintain discipline, and the following morning I interviewed the sullen
soldier in the presence of my non-commissioned officers.
His grievance was that I had hit him on the back of the
head with the butt of my revolver because he was holding back during a skirmish. He said that the reason he
held back was that there were relatives of his among
the Moros with whom we were fighting. He was a higher
class Moro than old Taguetal and others and therefore
more loyal to his clan and less loyal to his officers. It
was a delicate situation. I knew that I was at fault for
striking a soldier no matter what the provocation or under
what stress of excitement. But I managed to adjust matters by proposing that instead of assassinating me he
could get even in more honorable manner by accompanying me to the rifle range where at three hundred yards
we would exchange shots-and let the best man win.
That appeared to all the Moro soldiers as a square and
sporting proposition. My offer was not accepted. But that
sulky and mutinous man became one of the best soldiers
and a trusted non-commissioned officer.
I am sure that no senior inspector in the Constabulary
had a better lot of officers and men that I had at Cotabato. Lieutenants Furlong and Henry Gilsheuser, my
junior officers, later rose to responsible positions in the
service; the former was a gallant and dashing cavalier,
loved by the Moro soldiers for that fearlessness and justice they most admired; while Gilsheuser had German
thoroughness and method tempered by American experience and tolerance.




BULLETS AND BEES


23I


Among my soldiers were some Sulu and Samal (Zamboanga) Moros, but the bulk of the company was recruited in the Cotabato District. On first enlisting the
Moros we were somewhat obsessed by the idea of following the British example in India and other colonies
and taking the men of one tribe or district to serve
elsewhere than in the vicinage of their homes and relations. That was also the Spanish method in the Philippines. Their native army and Civil Guard used Tagalos
in Bicol and Ilocano provinces. Ilocanos and Visayas in
Tagalo provinces, and so on; and any Filipinos in Mindanao against the Moros. In the American way, we disregarded precedent. The organic act of the Constabulary
provided that constables should serve in the province of
their enlistment, and on the whole this policy has been
fully justified by events. The few cases of desertion or
venality due to nepotic influences have been as nothing
compared with the contentment of the enlisted men as a
whole and the utilization of their knowledge of local
conditions.




CHAPTER XXIX


LIFE AT COTABATO
LIFE at Cotabato differed from that of Negros. There
was practically no social intercourse with the Filipinos
and Moros of the district. For one thing, the Filipinos of
Mindanao were less cultured than those of the northern
provinces; there were but few of them, scattered along
the coast towns, and the Spaniards alleged that they
were the descendants of convicts sent from Manila and
the Filipino provinces to settle in Mindanao and form
a barrier against further Moro encroachments. Then
there were many American women at the army posts with
which Mindanao was studded, and wherever the American woman reigned no officer dared associate socially
with Filipinos or Filipinas, Moros or Moras, under pain
of instant and complete ostracism, petalism, and social
annihilation.
Rajah Brooks used to say that until Englishwomen
came to Sarawak there was no difficulty in administering
that state; also there are not lacking old Anglo-Indians
who lament the days when, in default of white women,
British officials mingled socially with the Indian peoples.
Part of the success of the Dutch in Java has been due to
their social intercourse with the ranking Javanese and to
the fact that a half-breed is embraced as a member of the
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LIFE AT COTABATO


233


ruling class, not treated as the Eurasian pariah. But in
the Philippines wherever an American woman has had
her say-and she has had it almost everywhere-a massive dam of social prejudice was built across the stream
of that mutual intercourse between the races which was
necessary to a complete and proper understanding. The
American women who did not help to build that dam
were honorable exceptions to the rule of prejudiceneedless to say they were women of the highest type and
ideals-but they were too few to pull down the barrier
that their sisters built and sustained by every means in
their power.
That attitude of American women is natural enough.
Fear motivates us all, and the American woman, whose
charms often faded under the tropical sun, might well
fear the seductive little brown women who blended so
well with the heat and the palms and the white hot nights.
The arrival of the bi-monthly transport from Manila
usually brought a bevy of army and civilian girls and
wives, making the round trip, and also making the quartermaster of the transport old before his time, as he had
to allot space, needed perhaps for officers traveling on
duty, to the female relations of some officer with a "pull."
When the transport anchored in the mud off the mouth
of the river we had a "hop" in the club at Cotabato; and
pretty girls and matrons would visit our quarters on the
Hill of Extensive View and graciously deign to accept
from youths, to whom a pretty American girl looked like
an angel from heaven, such offerings as brass trays,
copper chow-bowls, betel-nut boxes, or other loot from
the last expedition.




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BULLETS AND BOLOS


As the Constabulary increased in numbers we took
over from the army several blockhouses that protected
strategic points on the Rio Grande. I had to visit and
inspect such posts. Sometimes I managed to get passage
on one of the army launches or navy gunboats that plied
up and down the river. But more often I made my journeys in a big dugout canoe paddled by six or eight of
my Moro soldiers. Then I could stop to shoot a crocodile
basking himself in the early morning sun, or land on the
muddy banks, walk a short distance inland guided by one
of my men, and shoot the ducks and ibis that abounded on
the pools and swamps bordering every rice paddy. Usually
I traveled at night or in the early morning, thus avoiding
the full glare of the sun as well as offering a less conspicuous mark to any Moro sharpshooter from the hostile
bands that roamed along the river banks.
Those night journeys on the great river of Mindanao,
the chunking of my soldiers' paddles, the chanted epic of
some Maguindanaw Homer among the paddlers, the
splash of crocodiles taking to water, the flickering lights
of smudge fires beneath huts of the river bank, a coco
palm assuming queer shape through the mist at sunrisethose are hours held in tender recollection, when the toil
and sweat and bloodshed of the campaign in the valley
are almost forgotten.
The little gunboats that patrolled the river were oases
of solid comfort for their officers and men compared
with the desert of army and Constabulary existence
ashore. Sometimes at the end of a long hike, covered with
mud and wet through with perspiration, we would reach
the bank of the river to find a clean white gunboat grace



LIFE AT COTABATO


235


fully floating on the muddy tide, and a white-uniformed,
bathed and shaven young ensign ready to extend the
hospitality for which the navy is honorably famed. What
a contrast that was to pass in a moment from the heat
and filth of the trail to the coolness and comfort below
the double awning on the afterdeck of the gunboat and,
after the lukewarm water and canned food of the hike, to
get an iced cocktail or mint julep, followed by a meal
cooked by a skilful Chinaman.
About fifty miles up the river was the large Maguindanaw village of Kudarangan where Datu Piang reigned.
This wise old Moro-mestizo-his father was a Chinaman
-read the signs of the times better than the pure, hotblooded Moro chiefs who followed Ali's lead against the
hated American intruders. Piang was allied by marriage
and other ties with the hostile Moros, yet he managed
so to handle both sides that he constantly acted as gobetween. He executed the difficult role so skilfully that he
maintained the friendship, and even the respect, of both
sides until, upon the death of Ali, he succeeded to that
unhappy chieftain's hegemony over the tribes of the Rio
Grande Valley and became the wealthiest and most influential Moro in Mindanao.
Piang made presents to every American officer who
came to Cotabato. He had a carefully graduated scale of
gifts that ran from an engraved lantaka or valuable piece
of brass for a general, down to half a dozen eggs for a
second lieutenant. As a captain of Constabulary, Piang
found difficulty in adjusting the question of my relative
rank, but usually thought I was entitled to a small and
scrawny fowl.




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BULLETS AND BOLOS


With Piang lived Datu Inuk, a Moro chief reputed as
a good fighting-man but whose chief recommendation in
the eyes of the American soldiers was the fact that one
ear grew upon his neck where it had been bound with
crude Moro surgery when the kris of a rival sliced it away
from its proper position. The ear hole thus left naked to
an interested and inquisitive world was stoppered by a
short section of bamboo which Inuk often removed in
contemplative manner, and which he used to scratch his
nose.
Datu Inuk was supposed to have a grudge against Datu
All. He often served as guide to our expeditions. On one
occasion I was with him in a small canoe for several days.
I was accompanying a provisional company of the
Twenty-third Infantry on an attempt to reach Datu Ali's
stronghold by water. We embarked in a hundred canoes
and for days wandered around the further shore of Lake
Liguasan, a vast tract of swamp and water where crocodiles, pelicans, ibis, duck, and myriads of other waterfowl furnished the only incidents of monotonous days
when we paddled over open stretches of water or pushed
with difficulty through masses of sud formed of swamp
grass, water-cabbages, and water-lilies.
It was the Mohammedan feast of Ramadan when good
Moros do not take food between sunrise and sunset. Datu
Inuk slept through the long daylight hours, only awakening to direct the course of the flotilla or to remove his
ear-plug for a comforting scratch. Several days passed
thus. We explored Lake Liguasan and finally lost ourselves in tortuous canals between dense groves of wild
sago palm. It was on one of these canals that an incident




LIFE AT COTABATO


237


happened in my canoe that proved the old adage that a
gun is always loaded. An American soldier next to me in
the canoe was lying sprawled on his back in such comfort as could be obtained on the narrow concave bottom
of the craft. His hat was over his eyes and a short briar
pipe served to while away the leaden hours and protect
him against consuming swarms of mosquitoes. In the
canoe that followed ours, prow to stern, sat another
American soldier who was cleaning his Krag rifle. Bang!
went the supposedly empty gun and the dozing soldier in
my boat jumped up, yelling blue fire and murder. The
bullet had smashed the bowl of his pipe, creased the side
of his face, and bored a hole through his campaign hat.
We were cramped up in those canoes for a week. When
at the end of a fruitless quest we returned to Kudarangan
and stretched our legs ashore, we reeled and staggered
like drunken men.




CHAPTER XXX


A NIGHT ALARM
ONE dark night when I was sleeping peacefully in my
quarters on top of Tantawan Hill, Governor Van Horn
awakened me with a vigorous and ungubernatorial shake.
He had rushed up from town with news brought by
friendly Moros that a band of Ali's hostiles under the
leadership of our old friend Bapa-ni-Manakup had circled
around the up-river military expeditions with the intention of attacking Cotabato that night. The plan was to
assault first the cotta of Datu Mastula, whose mud fort
was situated about three quarters of a mile above the
town, and to capture from the princesa of Cotabato her
horde of some thousands of silver pesos. Datu Mastula
was a friendly Moro chief, and the princesa, who was the
widow of Datu Utu, was reputed very wealthy by Moro
standards-that is, in brass and in silver pesos. She lived
on the other side of the river almost opposite the town of
Cotabato. Van Horn explained that the post of Cotabato
had been drained of soldiers for expeditions and that
only by mustering the bandsmen of the Seventeenth Infantry could he make up a force to protect the American
women and children against an attack. Consequently it
was necessary for the Constabulary to cross the river and
protect Datu Mastula and the princesa against Ali's men.
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A NIGHT ALARM


239


My junior officers were absent on expeditions with
most of my best men. In the barracks were about a dozen
recruits and second-raters of whom I took eight out into
the black night. Down the hill we hurried, through the
streets of Cotabato where lights were appearing in the
houses of Americans and Filipinos as news of the expected attack spread, to the river bank. We embarked in
a large canoe and paddled out into the mist which was
low upon the water. A few minutes of swift and silent
paddling brought us across the river and opposite the
village of the princesa, a mere cluster of huts beneath a
grove of coco palms.
The flare of torches showing yellow through the mist
dimly illumined the moving figures of men and women,
the shiny trunks of the coco palms, and a flotilla of
canoes with bows thrust into the muddy shore. Over the
water floated a babel of confused and hurried speech. We
backed water and watched. Men were carrying heavy
boxes, trunks, brasses, and the other lares and penates of
the princess from the huts to the canoes. Had the hostiles
already raided the village and were they making off with
the plunder? Keeping our canoe just outside the circle of
glare from the torches and ready if danger developed to
back further into the sheltering mist, we challenged the
men ashore. Answer came in friendly tones. We quickly
paddled in, to find that the princesa was moving with bag
and baggage in fear of an immediate assault by Ali's warriors, who were reported not far distant. Her chief wealth
consisting of some thousands of Mexican silver pesos,
was already aboard the canoes. There would be little left
for Bapa-ni-Manakup if he arrived, and the princes's




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BULLETS AND BOLOS


village was not to be easily defended by my small band. So
I started through the grove of coco palms, bordering the
river bank, toward Datu Mastula's fort a few hundred
yards further up-stream. In that fort were many rifles
and much ammunition which could not be: allowed to fall
into the hands of hostile Moros.
But as we moved away from the village a Moro boy,
who spoke a little English, learned from the American
soldiers at Cotabato, plucked me by the shirt sleeve and
haltingly said: "No go that way, capitan! Many bad men
there-men of Datu Ali."
The boy's warning probably saved us from a dark and
bloody death. I learned a few minutes later that the space
between the princesa's village and Datu Mastula's cotta
was alive with hostiles. We reembarked and paddled up the
river, were challenged by Mastula's men from the walls
of his fort, and were admitted through the river wall.
Then I placed my detachment to reinforce the friendly
datu's men guarding the fort, and heard the demands of
Ali's Moros issuing from the impenetrable night that the
fort be surrendered and the arms and ammunition delivered to men who could make good use of them. Safe behind the walls, we shouted defiance to Bapa-ni-Manakup
and urged him to open the ball. For some time taunts and
defiance were bandied across the walls. My Moro soldiers
lied freely and vociferously about the number of American soldiers who had reinforced the fort, while my own
voice gave verisimilitude to their exaggerations.
After a time, as no attack developed, I retired to Mastula's bamboo hut in the center of the fort to resume my
interrupted slumbers. The women of his little harem fur



A. NIGHT ALARM


24I


nished me with grass mats and greasy kapok pillows. The
last I saw before dozing off was a buxom Moro girl who
was readjusting her scanty wardrobe before reclining on
a mat near my feet.
My sleep was fitful both because I had a touch of
malarial fever and because it was often interrupted by
calls from outside when an attack seemed imminent.
Therefore, I welcomed the dawn and doubly welcomed a
little naval launch which chugged up the river bringing
to the rescue a chubby-cheeked midshipman, a Colt automatic, and a dozen husky American sailors. When that
Colt was mounted on the walls of the fort, Mastula's
arms and ammunitions were safe. The dawn mist had
not risen from the rice fields behind the fort before we
were further reinforced by a company of Infantry from
up-river. Then we issued forth against Bapa-ni-Manakup
and his band. But that wily chieftain had fled with the
dawn, and a scout of several miles revealed nothing more
than carabao grazing in the rice fields and a string of
probably hostile Moros disappearing over a grassy rise
half a mile or more ahead of our perspiring column.
Soon afterward I received a letter of commendation
from the department commander, General Wood, for my
"fine conduct in proceeding so promptly at midnight to
the cotta of Datu Mastula and thereby preventing Datu
Ali from obtaining large quantities of ammunition." I felt
like endorsing the communication on to that little Moro
boy who caught me by the sleeve and warned me not to go
overland from the princescas to Mastula's cotta.




CHAPTER XXXI


SAVED BY CICADAS
I THINK that it was in September, 1904, that I made the
first of three expeditions down the coast of Cotabato District, south from the mouth of the Rio Grande River to
Lebak, a harbor and abandoned Spanish settlement distant
some sixty or seventy miles from Cotabato. It would
have been an easy matter to reach Lebak in a few hours
direct by launch from Cotabato. But Governor Van Horn
wanted me to inspect the Moro fishing villages on the
little bays and river mouths along the length of the coast
that the Moros called Biwang, or Left, because it was to
the left as one emerges from the delta of the Rio Grande.
Consequently I embarked with half a dozen Moro constables in a sapit, or sloop-rigged Moro craft built on
lorcha lines, without outriggers. One or two of my men
were Sulu Moros and professed to know how to sail the
boat, which was about thirty feet long, of two or three
tons burthen, and equipped with a pair of long sweeps for
propulsion when wind failed. As we glided swiftly down
the Rio Grande on an ebbing tide it seemed to me that the
sapit was a bit cranky or what sailors call "tender." She
careened quickly to the slightest breath of wind or movement among the crew. Perhaps we had insufficient ballast
242




SAVED BY CICADAS


243


aboard, yet we carried provisions and equipment for a
two weeks' trip.
We floated out of the river mouth as the sun was setting behind the rim of the Celebes Sea and caught the light
swell set up by the southwest monsoon which had, however, died with the sun. We were expecting to make most
of our southing by night when a land breeze usually blew
offshore from the cooler mountains over the warm sea.
There were black clouds beneath the orange and topaz
afterglow that painted the sky almost to the zenith, yet
the weather seemed set fair and a light breeze wafted us
slowly on our voyage. In order to make clear the details
of the adventure that was awaiting us, I must briefly describe the topography of sea and land in that part of
Mindanao.
A few miles above its mouth the Rio Grande divides
into two streams which empty into the Celebes Sea four
or five miles apart. Between the two mouths is a rocky
promontory, while a little to the south of the southern
entrance is another rocky point. The remainder of the
shore-line is mud flats and sandy beach. I knew the region
fairly well because I had frequently fished for sea-perch
from the rocks at the entrance to the southern arm of the
Rio Grande.
We were a few miles offshore when the black clouds
in the west rose higher and obscured the stars which
had rushed out after the brief tropical twilight. The land
breeze died. We floated idly on the sea, the boom swinging
and clanging back and forth with every roll of the boat.
A soldier was at the helm, taking advantage of every puff
of wind that helped us on our course. I was preparing




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BULLETS AND BOLOS


my bed on the latticed bamboo floor beneath the niipa awning on the poop. Suddenly an ominous soughing of the
wind startled me and caused the soldiers to murmur in
alarm. The distant moaning swelled to a roar as through
the semi-darkness a white line of foam was seen approaching. We had barely time to turn the sapit stern on to the
storm and lower the mainsail before the vicious squall
struck us, almost without warning. There was nothing
to do but run ahead of it and pray that we might make
the southern entrance of the Rio Grande or drive up on
a sandy beach. It did not do to think of those jagged
rocks to north and south of the entrance.
On we rushed through the night, a soldier crouched at
the helm and I clawed on beside him, giving a helping hand
on the buffetted tiller. The squall increased in violence
and the helmsman left me alone to steer the leaping sapit.
The jib blew away, but without showing canvas we rushed
at tremendous speed toward the dangers or safety ahead,
depending on where we struck the shore. It was now
pitch dark and the howling of the wind with the waves
foaming on either side and often curling over the stern, as
well as the mad motion of the boat, made up a terrifying
experience. When it seemed that we must be near shore
there was a sudden lull, the comparative silence contrasting strongly with the previous riot of the elements. The
sapit, losing headway, pitched drunkenly in the trough of
the seas and with difficulty I made the frightened sailorsoldiers take the sweeps to keep her stern to the waves.
Out of the black void ahead and a little on our starboard bow I heard the shrill call of cicadas, those stridulating insects that sing so penetratingly in the trees of




SAVED BY CICADAS


245


tropical forests, and I guessed-rightly, as it happenedthat they were in the forest that crept out on the rocks
just south of the south entrance to the Rio Grande. I put
the helm over, urged my men on the sweeps, the sapit just
grazed the rocks, tumbled a moment among the breakers,
and rounded the point. Then the storm began again with
redoubled fury and we continued to drive before it. But
we were now in smoother water, and a few minutes later
we grounded in the surf on a shelving beach of soft sand
and small gravel. We were all wet to the skin. The sapit
was half full of water, its rigging a tangled mass of rope,
canvas, and poles. Our misadventures and discomforts,
however, seemed as nothing compared with our escape
from those fanged rocks and boiling breakers, an escape
which, fantastic though the recounting of it may seem, I
must ascribe to the good offices of those shrill-voiced
cicadas. To this day I never hear a cricket or other
stridulous insect without recalling that black night on the
Celebes Sea and the sapit pitching violently toward the
dangers of the shore.
We lit a fire on the beach, dried our clothes, and slept
on the sand, comfortably enough except for the onslaughts of countless nik-niks, an expressive enough name
for the infinitesimal, almost invisible, but wholly abominable, sand gnats. The following morning I had had
enough of sapit voyaging. I bargained with some Moro
fishermen for the use of their outrigger sailing canoe, a
small kind of parao known to the Moros as an awang.
In this we could paddle or sail along close enough to the
coast to disembark quickly and drag the awang up on the
beach at the first sight of an on-shore squall which, I was




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BULLETS AND BOLOS


assured by the Moro fishermen, was an almost daily occurrence at that time of year.
Thus we voyaged easily and slowly down the Biwang
coast, putting ashore at every cluster of huts that marked
the official residence of some Moro chief whose claim to
authority was in no manner vitiated by the uncleanliness
of his person or his surroundings. Half a dozen coco
palms, three palm-thatched bamboo huts, two dugout
canoes, a few verdigrised brass trays, bowls, and a betelnut box, a small but choice assortment of spears, krises
with, perhaps, a musket of Waterloo vintage, some scaly
men and women and naked, pot-bellied infants-such was
the stock in trade of a Moro chief along the Biwang
coast, the possession of which, however, enabled him to
terrorize the timid Tirurayes, those pagan tribesmen of
the mountains which rose steeply back from the Biwang
beach, and, likewise, to compel them to bring down panniers of sweet potatoes and other tubers or bamboo canes
ful of wild-bee honey to exchange for a handful of salt.
By reason of his assumption of superior civilization the
Moro datu exercised a monopoly over the production and
sales of that necessity of life —sodium chloride. The high
tides left deposits of salt on the rocks and tidal flats from
which it was scraped by Moro women and children. The
demand for salt among the Tiruraye villages of the interior was steady; its supply was entirely controlled by the
coast Moros. Thus was established an economic basis of
life extremely agreeable to the latter. A Tiruraye man or
woman would carry a pannier of sweet potatoes weighing
from fifty to one hundred pounds many miles through the
mountains, descending perhaps four or five thousand




SAVED BY CICADAS


247


feet, and would receive in exchange but a few ounces
of salt.                                4
Much as I disliked to disturb the idyllic existence of
these petty datus, I was compelled to investigate some cases
of abuse that had been reported to the governor and
handed on by him to me. Many hours I spent in bichkra,
adjusting the scale of exchange between salt and sweet
potatoes, warning of condign punishment if the governor
heard any more tales of abuse of the Tirurayes, explaining the attitude of the American Government toward
Mohammedan customs, and acting as judge, jury, and
sheriff in cases of petty and grave crimes reported to me.
Of course my Moro constables were invaluable, both as
interpreters of language and of ideas.
Often at low tide I hiked along the beach from village
to village, mapping the coast line and obtaining data useful to the District government and the Constabulary. In
places huge Wrmendra (wild-almond trees) overhung the
strip of sand left bare by the ebb-tide, and on the nuts fed
flocks of huge fruit bats. Strange-shaped crabs and other
crustaceans skurried away from us; monkeys came out
of the jungle to play on the sands, but saw us and fled
back to their arboreal home; Tiruraye hillmen and hillwomen, trudging along the beach, also fled back into the
jungle unless they were close enough to be reassured by
the shouts of my soldiers. Then they would draw near,
trembling with fear and excitement, which were only
partly quieted by gifts of salt and hardtack. Once we
came on a Tiruraye man engaged in hiding a pathetically
small canoe in the jungle that ran down to the high-tide
mark. My soldiers asked him why he was so carefully




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BULLETS AND BOLOS


hiding his craft. He answered that he lived in the mountains, and'came occasionally to the coast to fish. He
usually fished at night, so that the Moros of the vicinity
might not see him and be offended at the trespass on their
preserves.
Not infrequently we met, either on the sea or anchored
near shore in some sheltered cove, a fleet of Bajaw vintas,
the light sailing craft of the sea-gypsies of the East Indies.
The Bajaws rarely set foot ashore. They are born, they
live, and they die in their tiny high-sided outrigger canoes
that float like petrels on the water. In those egg-shell craft
they voyage thousands of miles between the islands of the
East, always keeping south of the tracks of the dreaded
typhoons, wafted south by the northeast trades and north
by the southern monsoon. With never a fixed abode on
land they trade spoil of the sea for such land-food as they
need. Rather are the Bajaws kin to the sea-gulls than to
other human beings. A low-browed, long-haired, evilfaced crew they are, with their dirty, brown, half-naked
bodies ringed by all manner of skin diseases, their graceful canoes stinking so strongly of fish and unwashed humans that we gave them a wide berth. Yet it was impossible not to admire them, as seamen.
A scene that is indelibly impressed on my memory
is a fleet of Bajaw vintas off the Mindanao coast, rising
and falling to a long southwest swell which sometimes
curled in ugly whitecaps and caused the steamer on which
I was passenger to roll and pitch most uncomfortably.
The Bajaws rode the waves without fear and calmly fished
while their little boats, no more than chips on the water,
tobogganed down one watery hill and up the next. Often




SAVED BY CICADAS


249


they were invisible in the trough of a big wave, but always
they bravely rose to the crest of its successor.
After several days of this hiking, paddling, and investigating, we brought up one evening on the beach at
the mouth of the Taran River a mile or two from my
destination at Lebak. Our landing was hurried and lacked
ceremony, for another on-shore squall caught us half a
mile from land and tumbled us in the surf before we could
seek a cove or river mouth. Again we were wet through
and again the minute nik-niks wrought evil against each
exposed inch of epidermis. When I crawled out of the
surf I found that I was clutching in one hand a quart bottle of Rioja claret and in the other a tin of crackers. These
I shared with my men while we huddled around an unwilling driftwood fire.
The next morning we dragged along the beach and
around a rocky point into Lebak, finding there a perfect
little harbor, a grove of coco palms, a decayed Spanish
blockhouse, a still further decayed Moro datu, and a
fever-racked Chinaman who kept a trading store. The
Chino and I soon became good friends, for I was also
developing a nice malarial chill and fever, doubtless
brought on by exposure and involuntary baths. We shivered, sweated, drank gin, and swallowed quinine pills
together. From him and from some timid Moros who
spoke with bated breath, I learned more of Datu Matabalao, a great Moro chief who lived a few miles inland
from Lebak and who laid tribute on the Biwang coast for
many a mile. Before leaving Cotabato the governor had
told me that Matabalao was a powerful Moro chief,
suspected of being in alliance with his cousins in Talayan,




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BULLETS AND BOLOS


over the mountains, and, also, of having instigated the
assassination of a Syrian merchant who had established
himself at Lebak a year or so previous to my visit.
This Matabalao was evidently a gentleman with whom
the District government and the Constabulary must
reckon. My inquiries elicited the information that he
possessed about a hundred men-at-arms, a nice stand of
old muskets, with few modern rifles, a cannon or two, as
well as a vast quantity of brass. The latter showed his
great wealth and influence. Of little use for a Moro gentleman to bank his money and have to show for it nothing
but a bit of paper with which he could not impress his followers or the ignorant hill tribes; but if his worldly possessions took the form of cannon, guns, and brass, above
all, brass, why, that was something tangible, something to
which he could point with pride and which would impress
his ignorant public. It is easy to imagine a datu seated in
his combination bedroom-office-harem, giving audience to
a messenger from another chief, and saying: "What? You
dare to doubt my word? Look at that pile of brass in yonder corner-look at it!-twenty-two trays, seventeen cuspidors, forty chow-bowls, and much more. Go! And tell
your master that I am a man of wealth and that my word
is good."
I considered, but not for long, paying a visit to Matabalao. I looked at my five soldiers, remembered a certain
experience with Datu Mustapha at Margosatubig and the
general touchiness of disposition evinced by Moro datus
who possessed abundant men and arms, and forbore the
pleasure of an afternoon call. Moreover, I was full of
malaria. My head rang with quinine and my stomach




SAVED BY CICADAS


2 5 I


was upset by calomel. Now, a man's courage and a man's
stomach are in some way intimately connected. I had no
stomach for a game with Matabalao —as long as he held
all the trump cards.
That only goes to show how long residence in the
tropics and continued attacks of malaria will weaken a
man's fiber. If my orbit had crossed Matabalao's a few
months or a year earlier than it did, there would have been
an even chance that with my five men I could have given
him "cards" and "spades" and have come out winner in a
nice little game of casino down there on the Biwang
coast. Intrinsically, the situation was not perhaps more
difficult than that Mansalanao fight of mine in Negros.
As it was, I sent word to Matabalao that, as representative of the District governor, I would be glad to see him
at Lebak. Answer came, after an insultingly long interval,
that the datu was sick and could not leave his village; but,
taking one thing with another, I guessed that his sickness
was not serious enough to rob him of his sting. After
devoting a little more thought to the odds of five against
one hundred, and with as much dignity as the situation
and a malarial chill permitted, I embarked my little expedition and paddled out of Lebak harbor into the Celebes
Sea, headed back to Cotabato. The southwest monsoon
that had hampered our southern progress now wafted us
north at several knots an hour. Spreading the patchwork
sail of the awang, we fairly leapt over the waves. The day
after leaving Lebak we sailed into the mouth of the Rio
Grande and then up-stream between the banks covered
with mangroves and nipa palms, home to Cotabato wharf.
That was the first of three expeditions down the Bi



252        BULLETS AND BOLOS
wang coast, each of which, owing to the increasing severity of malarial attacks, was more disastrous for me than
the preceding one. Doubtless I should have applied for
leave and the opportunity to get the fever out of my blood.
But I still had a bank account of health and vitality and
was not to be satisfied until I had overdrawn it.




CHAPTER XXXII


DATU MATABALAO
THE news I brought back about Matabalao confirmed
Governor Van Horn's suspicions that he was supplying
the hostile Moros of Ali's bands with salt, dried fish, and
other supplies that they could with difficulty secure by the
customary river route. It was determined by the governor
of the Moro Province and the District Chief of Constabulary, that a strong Constabulary expedition should land
at Lebak, interview Matabalao, and with guides secured
from that reluctant chief, push through the unknown
mountains between the coast and the Talayan district of
the interior. I was to command the expedition and as
reinforcements for the thirty men I could muster from
my own Constabulary, Colonel Harbord sent me from
Zamboanga a company of General Service Constabulary.
In each Constabulary District there was organized one or
two extra companies for service wherever additional
forces were necessary.
The General Service company sent to me was commanded by my old friend Captain Johnson, now relieved
as District supply officer and trying his hand at commanding troops in the field; it had been recruited from the
pagan Subanun hillmen of the Zamboanga hinterland and
was therefore by way of being an experiment. Those hill253




254


BULLETS AND BOLOS


men were craven souls who had long been preyed upon by
the more warlike Moros. It was an experiment that failed.
The Subanuns could not be nerved to fight against their
ancient oppressors, as I was soon to learn.
With Captain Johnson, Dr. Farrow, and about seventy
men, I embarked on the cutter Ranger and comfortably
journeyed to Lebak, contemplating from the deck of the
steamer with a certain satisfaction the coast along which
I had so lately voyaged in perilous and arduous manner.
From Lebak we hiked the few miles to Datu Matabalao's
village on the banks of the Taran River. When that astute
chief had taken one look at my impressive command, he
sulkily complied with my request to be supplied with
sixty cargadores for the journey through the mountains.
But as for guides to Talayan-why, he knew nothing
about a trail to that remote region! Cajoling, followed by
threats, did not change his attitude of obdurate indifference. After a delay of twenty-four hours to secure a sulky
and semi-hostile lot of Moro and Tiruraye cargadores, I
left Lebak in the direction of the mountains-and with
Matabalao as an unwilling guest of the expedition. I did
not care to leave him in my rear.
Even before we left Matabalao's village complications
had arisen with the General Service company of timid
Subanun comrades. Several times I had to interfere when
the worm turned and a Subanun constable came to blows
with a Moro. The first night we posted guards, the
Subanuns fired at imaginary assailants, an unhappy augury
of which might occur when we were across the mountains
and had to encounter the fighting Moros of Talayan.
Two days I hiked my hodgepodge command into the




TOGENTlLEBM N VP1 SLEET. TYPICAL MONOvr WARRIORS
a~ ~_.or ya: s~ ohz3 n.f, av




t




DATU MATABALAO


255


mountains, compelling as guides Tiruraye hillmen who
dreaded Matabalao's future wrath but little less than my
immediate punishment. At last we reached a pretty
saucer-shaped plateau two or three thousand feet above
the coast, where there were level stretches of grass land
and some rice-fields cultivated by men of Matabalao. Out
of the plateau led several trails into the still deeper mountains. But now the Tirurayes and Taran Moros obstinately declared that they knew the trails no further. This
was as far as Datu Matabalao's authority extended, they
declared, and beyond were trackless mountains and fierce
tribes of Manobos and Bilanes. They were positive in
affirming that there was no trail to Talayan.
Matabalao, a picture of sulky dignity, refused to use
his influence to procure us a guide. One nod from him
and the mountains would have been an open book for us
to read. But he refused to give that nod. Indeed, there
was no doubt that his messengers had already traversed
the mountains and warned all Tiruraye hillmen from their
clearings. I was sure that this was the case, because my
scouts, sent in every direction on the chance of capturing
a guide, returned only with tales of recently deserted
settlements.
With a few men I went ahead by compass course along
the trail that seemed to run in the direction of Talayan.
A few miles through dense jungle brought us out on the
grassy slopes above the upper reaches of the Taran River
where the trail ran out in the cogon grass. Vainly I tried
such old tricks of the trail as taking two Taran Moros out
ahead of the column and telling them they would be
killed if they did not guide us to Talayan, then sending




256


BULLETS AND BOLOS


one ahead still further with a patrol of soldiers who fired
a shot when out of sight of the other obstinate one, who,
imagining that his companion was killed, should have
promptly offered to show the trail and escape similar
fate. But the influence of Datu Matabalao was such that
his men preferred possible death at our hands to certain
death and probable torture at the hands of their chief
when the temporary irruption of Constabulary had passed.
The week's rations with which I set out had been
diminished by four days' consumption. There were at
least five days of mountain hiking ahead of us even if we
secured a guide, which seemed highly improbable. The
attitude of the Subanun company was disquieting and
seemed likely to result in disaster to the Constabulary
when we met resistance in force. And I was full of fever,
my head ringing with quinine. So, after consultation with
the other officers, I determined to turn back to the coast.
Even then it took as much courage to make that decision
as to go forward, and what finally decided me was the fact
that the Constabulary prestige would suffer more by a
debatcle at the hands of the Talayan Moros-a debacle that
in view of the condition of the Subanun company I considered almost certain-than by failing to accomplish the
purpose of the expedition.
We turned back. But first I gave Matabalao a last
chance to furnish a guide, warning him that if one was
not forthcoming I would take him prisoner to Cotabato.
Nevertheless he maintained his attitude of ignorance
and indifference, and we retraced our steps.
At Matabalao's village we impressed a number of his
awangs and embarked for Cotabato. But first we loaded




DATU MATABALAO


257


the obdurate chief's cannon, rifles, and ammunition, and
replenished our stock of provisions from his storehouses.
The journey up the coast took us several days. For me
it was a miserable trip, as I was racked by fever and disgusted at the result of the expedition. It was my first
failure in years of hiking and fighting. At one point I
landed with about twenty men and Dr. Farrow and hiked
overland, back in the mountains, through a series of
Tiruraye villages, descending again to the beach. Matabalao, under close guard on my own awwang or hiking
along through the mountain homes of Tirurayes, remained silent and Sphinx-like. He was served by one of
his own Moros whom I allowed to accompany him.
One night when we camped on the beach, the awang
aboard which Matabalao was prisoner anchored a stone's
throw from shore, three Moro constables being left aboard
as guard. I slept on the beach. Just before daybreak shots
rang out and there was a great hubbub and clamor aboard
the awang. My soldiers called out that Matabalao had
attempted to escape and that they had shot him. Flinging
guards along the beach, I waited for the day and when
the sun rose inspected the awang and found blood-stains
on the prow. The soldier who was sentry at the time said
that he had shot Matabalao as the chief sprang up to leap
overboard. The datU's servant had also disappeared. Careful questioning and the testifying blood-stains convinced
me that Matabalao had been killed.
Not until years later, when all the actors in the drama
were scattered far and wide, did I learn the probable
facts of the case. Matabalao had escaped some time before the sentry missed him. The soldier, finding his




258


BULLETS AND BOLOS


prisoner gone, shot the datu's servant, who was sleeping
near the spot from which his master had fled, spattered the
murdered Moro's blood over the boat, fired a few more
shots, threw the body overboard, and swore his companion
soldiers to the tale which deceived me. A few months later
I learned that Matabalao had come to life again. But
the probable facts in the case I learned only by piecing
together hints and evidence and knowledge of Moro character gleaned through the years.
We arrived safely at Cotabato. General Wood and
Colonel Harbord determined that as an object lesson to
the Moros an expedition must go through from Lebak
to Talayan. A force of nearly one hundred American
soldiers was formed, and I accompanied it with my company of Constabulary. The General Service company of
Subanun tribesmen, however, returned to Zamboanga,
and its Subanun members were gradually discharged.
That was the last attempt to make soldiers of the pagan
hillmen of Minadanao. In a measure I sacrificed my health
and endangered my reputation in the attempt.
For the third expedition we took with us friendly
Moros who knew the trail over the mountains, at least
from the Talayan end. Though I was rotten with fever,
pride and the determination to reestablish the prestige of
the Constabulary of Cotabato compelled me to accompany the expedition. But when three days into the mountains, not far beyond the high-water mark of my previous
expedition, I keeled over.
We had reached the upper Taran River and some clearings of Manobo hillmen which here jutted into Tiruraye
territory. As usual, we were anxious to capture a guide.




DATU MATABALAO


259


To the army captain commanding the expedition I volunteered to ascend a grassy hill toward some Manobos who
could be seen on the crest a mile or so away. With a soldier interpreter I advanced toward the Manobos, holding
my hands above my head in token of friendship. But the
pagans stood watchful, with spears poised and arrows
ready strung on their bows-poisoned arrows. For half
an hour or so I powwowed with them in vain attempt to
bargain for the services of a guide. It was dreadfully hot
in the full glare of the sun on the bare hillside and that
put the finishing touch to my fever-racked body.
I scarcely remember how I stumbled back down the
hill toward the expedition resting in the valley below, and
of the incidents of the next week I remember nothing. The
fever went to my head and I rode for days in an improvised stretcher of a blanket between two poles. Thus
unconscious-as I later learned-I was carried over a
mountain range several thousand feet high, through almost trackless jungles, and down the opposite slopes to
the Rio Grande Valley at Talayan. Hostile Moros attacked
the column. But I knew nothing of it. Recollection returned to me only when I was beneath the nipa awning of
a canoe, floating down the Rio Grande to Cotabato. The
doctor who accompanied the expedition said that most of
the time while I was borne on the stretcher through the
mountains my fever was from I04 to io6 degrees.
At Cotabato, Captain Heard of the army medical corps
took me into his own house and nursed me back to life.
I acknowledge this debt to him. Subcutaneous injections
of quinine in my arm and hip, followed by liberal doses
of arsenic, finally conquered the malarial germ. But it




260


BULLETS AND BOLOS


was not for weeks that I was strong enough to resume my
Constabulary duties. A fortunate sea voyage to Iloilo,
where I had been subpoenaed as witness in an old Negros
case, did much to help me toward convalescence. In May
I was granted accrued leave of absence for six months,
and sailed on a North German Lloyd liner from Manila
via Singapore and Europe for the United States. I had
been in the tropics continuously for six years, almost all
the time on field service involving exposure and hardship.
I badly needed the rest and change of climate.
Not long after my departure from Cotabato the campaign against Datu Ali closed with the death of that
Maguindanaw chief who, betrayed by his own men, was
killed by a detachment of American soldiers in the heart
of Cotabato District, near the Davao border. Datu Piang
then reigned supreme in the valley, conciliating American
officials with gifts of brass, chicken, and eggs. The opportunist merchant chief lives and prospers. The proud
fighting chief died. Yet I doubt not that when the Maguindanaw Moros gather for the rice planting or harvest,
songs are sung and tales are told of Datu Ali-last, and
perhaps not the least noble, of the Maguindanaw chiefs.




CHAPTER XXXIII


ORIENTAL EDEN ISLES
I SAILED from the Philippines early in May, I905. Five
months later, in October, I was back again, eager to return
to Mindanao and the enticing Constabulary work among
the Moros, Filipinos, and pagans. My leave had still a
month to run. Yet no sooner were my red corpuscles
slightly multiplied by sea travel and the colder weather
of Europe and the United States than the "call of the
East" rang loudly in my ears. In those stirring times I
suppose that a Constabulary officer, removed from the
scenes of excitement and danger which his work afforded,
was, in a measure, like a Chinaman without his opium
or a professional gambler deprived of the excitement of
the tables. However, it is only fair to us to say that the
craving to be back in the game was also stimulated by the
knowledge that we were taking part in a work of constructive administration that reflected vast credit on our
country. Doubtless we magnified the part we were playing.
There were few Constabulary officers who went on leave
who did not think their prompt return necessary for the
continuance of good conditions in their company, province,
or district. Most of our officers returned as I did before
their leave expired. Egotistical we undoubtedly were; yet,
after all, our egotism was tinged with some of the finer
qualities of patriotism and loyalty.
26i




262


BULLETS AND BOLOS


Five glorious months I spent running around the
world. There were weeks on a North German Lloyd
liner from Singapore to Naples, when I chummed with a
young Russian naval officer returning home on parole
following his capture by the Japanese while he was running a torpedo boat out of Port Arthur, with the jolly
little bespectacled German ship's doctor, and with a Danish civil engineer on leave from the Siamese railways. The
four of us-Russian, Dane, German, and Americanheld high revelry on the steamer and ashore, and the
Russian dug deeply into an apparently inexhaustible sack
of English sovereigns in an attempt to learn the great
American game of poker. Then there was England in
the month of June, bowered almost as green as the tropic
isles I had left behind, and some idle days upon the bosom
of old Father Thames; an Atlantic voyage on a fast liner,
five and one half days from shore to shore; New York
in August when the Philippines seemed cool compared
with the subways; San Francisco and the first flavor of
the returning Orient; an idyllic month across the Pacific
on a Pacific Mail boat; a few days in old, yet new, Japan
-and I was back in Manila, striding up the broad stairs
of the Oriente Building, which now housed Constabulary Headquarters, eager to be reassigned to duty in
Mindanao, land of alluring dangers.
Disappointment awaited me, for I was assigned to
duty as Assistant Executive Inspector. However, before
the end of October, a shuffle of officers in Mindanao
gave me my opportunity, and I went south again, this
time as Senior Inspector of the Constabulary of Sulu,
our farthest-south outpost.




ORIENTAL EDEN ISLES


263


While I was on leave, my old friend Captain Hayson,
then Senior Inspector of Sulu, had been murdered in his
sleep in his palm-thatched bungalow at Siasi. One of his
own Moro soldiers, posted as sentry over Hayson's
quarters, thrust his carbine through the open window by
the gallant Kansan's bed and shot him through the body,
killing him instantly. The assassin, who had revenged an
imaginary injustice, fled with one or two other mutinous
Moro soldiers to the interior of the island. Hayson's
junior officer, Lieutenant De Witt, was absent on an
expedition. When he returned that morning to find his
captain dead he patched up the hole made by the bullet
in the cane-bottomed bed on which Hayson was slain
and slept there that night, defying his mutinous company
to do its worst.
Captain George D. Long had been sent to Siasi as
senior inspector and had reorganized and disciplined the
company. But he was now under orders to proceed to
Misamis, where another Constabulary was in bad condition, so I fell heir to the situation in Sulu.
The Sulu District of the Moro Provinces embraced the
isles and islets, stretched like a chalice of emeralds, from
the southwest point of Mindanao at Zamboanga to within
a few miles of huge, mysterious Borneo. There are a
Sulu Archipelago, an island of Sulu, and the Sulu Sea.
On Sulu, the largest island and as much as three hundred
square miles in area, is the only sizable town in the District, Jo16, a word which is a Spanish corruption of the
Moro "Sulu." The sultan of Sulu lived at Maimbun on
Sulu Island. He exercised nominal authority over the
hundreds of lesser chiefs scattered through the islands




264


BULLETS AND BOLOS


which extend over two hundred miles north and south.
In I905 there was no Constabulary on Sulu Island, but
the District had two stations, at Siasi and Bongao.
Siasi Island, where I commanded the Constabulary, is
some forty miles south of Sulu. A narrow channel divides
it from Lepak Island. Beside the channel, over coral reefs
and tidal flats, and under coco palms and ylang-ylang
trees, sprawls the little whitewashed town of Siasi. The
islands of Siasi and Lepak are twin cones of tropical
verdure rising a few hundred feet above the Sulu Sea
that laves their shores. They are the distilled essence of
the tropics, the very "Oriental Eden Isles" of the poet's
imagination. And they are but two of the pearls to be
found in the string of the Sulu Archipelago, where Nature
seems to have lavished on land and sea her richest colors.
South of Siasi lies the long, narrow island of Tawi-Tawi,
forming with its coral reefs and outlying islets the barrier
between the Sulu and Celebes seas. Through the narrow
channels between the reefs and islands the tidal currents
flow swiftly and often cause dangerous whirlpools, overfalls, and tide-rips.
The islands were inhabited by the Sulu Moros, a race
of distinct language and characteristics from the Maguindanaws in my former District at Cotabato. Chiefs ruled
in feudal style. Their lack of men and arms was atoned
for by the magnificence of their titles-rajahs, mahautajahs, hadjis, panglimas, sahips, and datus were as plentiful as blackberries on a summer's bush. Some islands
were uninhabited: their jungle interiors or the lagoons
and reefs around them offered attractive shelter for
pirates, smugglers, and other evil-doers. The Bajaw sea



ORIENTAL EDEN ISLES


265


gypsies roamed the Sulu Sea, fished for shark and dried
their fins for sale to Chinese merchants, or gathered
beche-de-mer (sea slug) and pearl shell from the coral
reefs exposed at low tide.
To such a district I came toward the end of October,
I905; a sea of sparkling blue rarely lashed by storms;
islands so lovely that they seemed destined for a race of
fairies; and a people in general so unlovely in appearance
and disposition that they were as satyrs in the garden
of paradise.
Captain Long had done much to improve conditions
on Siasi, on the neighboring islands, and in the Constabulary company which was mutinous and sullen at the time
of Hayson's death. The murderer, Private Sariol, had
been captured and was in the guard-house at Siasi, awaiting the arrival of the official hangman from Manila. However, conditions on the whole in the Sulu District were
bad, and near Jo16 the stage was setting for the bloody
drama of Bud Dajo. Engagements between United States
troops and recalcitrant Moros on the islands to the north
of Siasi were becoming increasingly frequent, and, despite patience shown by the governor of the Sulu District,
Major Hugh L. Scott, United States Army, the Sulu
Moros were getting out of hand. These conditions were
reflected in the surly attitude of the Moros on Siasi and
the neighboring islands, while agitators did not fail to
try to seduce the Moros in our Constabulary company
from their allegiance to the United States. Luckily I
found at Siasi, Corporal Baynudin and some of my old
Cotabato soldiers who had been transferred to the company to stiffen it after the murder of Captain Hayson.




266


BULLETS AND BOLOS


The presence of these loyal men made me feel sure that
no mutiny would get under way before information
reached me.
Lieutenant De Witt, my junior and the only other
officer at Siasi, had served for some years in Sulu. His
nerves were either proof against the many alarms and
dangers that surrounded us, or he had them under fine
control. He consumed prodigious quantities of strong
black coffee, slept little at night, but prowled around the
towns and island with a pair of.45 revolvers pendent
from his belt and a nose quivering with scent for trouble.
A few days after I arrived at Siasi, De Witt showed me
an exhibition of cool nerve-and perhaps wished to test
that of his new senior inspector.
The Constabulary buildings were situated on rising
ground just behind the town. There were some old and
much-decayed Spanish stone buildings and blockhouses
that we used as offices, storehouse, and jail. A wooden
barracks with palm roof housed the company of fifty
men. De Witt and I lived in a bamboo and nipa bungalow a hundred yards across a grassy plaza from the
barracks and storehouses which fronted on the town. On
the west was the town; on the south and north the land
fell sharply down to mud and coral flats partly bare at
low tide, and to the east rose gradually toward the green
hills in the center of the island. Our bungalow stood
alone, under coco palms and ylang-ylang trees. There
was nothing between us and the mud flats or the interior
hills. After Hayson's experience, we did not care to post
a sentry over our quarters. There was a certain bravado
in living thus alone and daring the hostile Moros to do




ORIENTAL EDEN ISLES


267


their worst. Of course, we slept with our revolvers ready,
or rather I did. De Witt slept little; and if I had remained
long at Siasi I might have acquired his nocturnal habits.
Although Private Sariol, Hayson's murderer, lay in
our guard-house, heavily ironed and fettered, there were
still two or three other Constabulary deserters at large
with their arms and ammunition. Soon after I arrived
at Siasi they or other hostile Moros began to amuse
themselves at night by firing on the Constabulary buildings from safe vantage-points in the long grass, the brush,
or the mud flats around us.
The first time this happened I was lounging in a long
chair on the porch of our bungalow after the evening
meal. De Witt was in another chair. Between us on a
table was our reading lamp, lighting up the porch and the
vines which clambered up the front of the porch, screening us from the road and plaza. All was black outside.
The quiet of the tropic night only interrupted by the
whirring of insects, the stridulation of cicadas, and the
subdued murmur of the soldiers' play and conversation in
the barracks across the plaza. The air was heavy with the
scent of ylang-ylang blossoms. Suddenly the peaceful
night was rudely disturbed by several rifle shots. Bullets,
evidently intended for us, whistled overhead.
Naturally enough, I started up and reached for my revolver, lying handy on the table. De Witt, however,
scarcely moved in his chair but looked up from his book
and said quietly, "It's those -~ deserters, captain, they
often amuse themselves this way." So I lounged back
again, not to be outdone in calmness by a junior officer.
Another shot or two and the murmur from the barracks




268


BULLETS AND BOLOS


increased to a loud buzz, while the rattle of arms could
be heard as the guard turned out. Then De Witt coolly
and composedly arose and said rather disdainfully, "Shall
I give them a volley, captain?" I gave assent. He took
the guard out into the bush, fired a few volleys in the
direction of the interrupters, and soon returned to his
reading and smoking. It was useless to chase the hostiles.
A needle in a haystack would be a conspicuous object
compared with a Sulu Moro loose on the islands and seas
of the South on a dark night.
The above incident carries a companion with it. A few
nights later, when De Witt was absent from Siasi, chasing pirates or interviewing obdurate chiefs, I was alone
on the porch. The conditions were otherwise the same:
black night, circle of lamplight on the veranda, whirring
of insects, and scent of ylang-ylang. I was deep in an
interesting book. I became slowly conscious that there
was something unusual in the darkness outside. A vague
and not unnatural feeling of apprehension was intensified
when the unusual defined itself as the low murmur of
Moro voices, for it was certain that nobody would approach the bungalow stealthily with honest intentions. I
lay still, but strained my eyes to see through the vines
that enclosed the front of the veranda. There were men on
the path a few yards away, but from where I sat they
were invisible. It was not a pleasant situation. Six months
before, Hayson had been killed within a few feet of the
chair. No soldier on business would approach the bungalow without a warning call. No civilian Moro had any
business there at that hour of the night unless escorted
by soldiers or announcing his coming most clearly. For




ORIENTAL EDEN ISLES


269


all friends knew the custom of the Sulu Sea-approach
openly and give ample warning. It was customary for a
visitor to strike a match, light a cigarette, and hem and
haw loudly when near the house. Nerves were too keenly
edged and revolvers too handy, to make quiet approach
the usual thing down Sulu way.
When satisfied that there was someone there my hand
stole toward the table, feeling for my revolver. Although
the night was hot and close, I broke into icy perspiration
when my fingers failed to close upon the gun. I realized
that for once, and when I might most need it, I had left
my revolver in the room inside. Instead of rising from my
chair I put one hand on the floor and rolled out, then
crept into the room and found the revolver on an old
billiard-table left at Siasi by some Spanish commandant
and on which De Witt and I were wont to knock about
some horribly chipped balls on a bare slate bed. When my
fingers touched the trigger, I felt my nerves steady, and
determined to find out who had such business with me
that stealthy approach was necessary.
Cautiously circling the room, I came again to the
open door on the veranda, but on the other side so that
I could see down the steps and out on the path where
the lamplight filtered through the vines. After a while I
made out the figures of three men, and fancied that I
could distinguish rifles. They were still talking in low
tones. Although it has taken some time to tell, I don't
suppose that two minutes elapsed from the moment the
alarm was raised until I was back at the doorway, revolver in hand, peering out into the night.
I was now convinced that the men wished me ill. It was




270         BULLETS AND BOLOS
not difficult to imagine them discussing who should do
the killing. Should I fire at them-they were within fifty
feet and despite the obscurity offered a fair target-or
should I challenge them? The question was answered
when one of the figures moved and the lamplight glinted
on a polished row of cartridges in his belt. They were
Constabulary soldiers and I sharply challenged them.
Answer came that they were the patrol that made nightly
rounds of the plaza and buildings and they drew near
the steps. I slipped my revolver in my hip pocket-but
kept it ready. The soldiers, whom I recognized as doubtful characters, said that they wanted to reclamar (complain) about some trivial matter of discipline, food or
women, I now forget which. And to this day I do not
know whether their reclamo was genuine or invented on
the spur of the moment because of my preparedness.




I




(OLD SPANISH BUILDING AT SIASSI, SULU PROVINCE




CHAPTER XXXIV


TALKING FOR MY LIFE
ONE day in December, I905, the plaza beneath the walls
of the Spanish fort at Siasi was a scene of interest to
hundreds of Moros who had come from out the Sulu
Sea on paraos, vintas, sapits, and other craft. Private
Sariol, Philippine Constabulary, was to pay the penalty of
his crime. The official hangman had arrived from Manila
that morning, bringing with him the sinister instruments
of his unpleasant trade. In the center of the plaza the
hastily erected gallows glared out stark and naked against
the blue sky and whitewashed buildings. Around it a company of American soldiers and part of the Constabulary
company formed a hollow square. Governor Scott brought
the American soldiers from Jo16 to insure that the hanging
should be free from interruption by the hundreds of
visiting and sympathetic Moros. This was probably wise,
although we of the Constabulary would have preferred to
do our own job in our own way. When the stage was set,
the hangman, as leading man, mounted the gallows platform. With a squad of four constables I escorted the
villain, ex-Private Sariol, from the guard-house and
marched him across the sun-washed plaza to his death.
When the shackles were knocked off he was given an op271




272


BULLETS AND BOLOS


portunity to speak to his assembled brethren and we
hoped that he would express contrition for his crime.
But without a tremor he faced the crowd and shouted,
"What I did, I did-and now I will pay my utang
(debt)." The drop fell, his body seemed almost to reach
the ground, then fetched up short with a jerky thud, quivered a few seconds, and was still. Captain Hayson was
avenged.
How well in the month or two that I was at Siasi I
grew to know the sun-bathed plaza and the one street
leading to the wharf between wooden, whitewashed buildings that housed the Chinos' stores, in front of which,
drying in the sun and emitting an unspeakable stench, lay
sharks' fins, beche-de-mer, pearl shell, and other fruit
of the sea. At sunset, when the day's drill and office
work were over, I would don a bathing suit, slip on a
pair of rope-soled slippers, and, accompanied perhaps
by many of my soldiers, run down to the wharf for a
dip in the sea. It was just as well to have many companions of the bath, because crocodiles and sharks abounded.
The crocodiles at night often crept beneath the houses
built on piles along the beach, and on at least one occasion
took a Moro girl from the slatted back porch of a house.
At high tide the floor of the houses was but a foot or
two above sea level.
After the swim I soused with fresh water, put on white
uniform, and visited the Moro market and Chino stores.
At the latter I was shown the latest consignment of pearls
bought cheaply by the trading Chinos from the Moro
fishermen and divers. Wonderfully fine pearls were sometimes to be seen in those humble Chinese stores. Once I




TALKING FOR MY LIFE


273


was shown a perfectly matched pair, larger than the common white bean, which the Chino said were worth fifteen
hundred pesos ($750). In New York they would have
been worth many thousands. I bought a few small pearls
and had I possessed the trading instinct I might have
become wealthy while commanding the Sulu Constabulary, as my position and authority gave me special opportunities. One pearl that I bought for sixty pesos was
later priced in Manila at six hundred. But I was more
interested in the discipline of my company and in running
down the many pirates and smugglers who in their swift
viztas sailed the seas and channels between Siasi and
Bongao.
Before telling of my own voyage by zvinta to the southernmost settlement in the archipelago, I must relate an
incident that happened on Tapul Island, a few miles north
of Siasi, an incident which ended happily enough, but
which furnished all the necessary accompaniments for a
first-class tragedy. For several hours one day I talked
for my life beside the Sulu Sea. Tapul is about ten miles
in circumference and lies between Siasi and Sulu. It was
inhabited by several thousand Sulus under many chiefs,
Whose only common interest was sullen and scarcely veiled
hostility to the American Government. Governor Scott
had appointed Datu Pangiran of Siasi, a weak and opiumsmoking chief but of good lineage, as headman of the
Siasi sub-district, of which Tapul was a part. Soon after
I arrived at Siasi, some of the young bloods of Tapul,
following time-honored custom, made a piratical cruise
to the outlying islands of Sulu. Datu Pangiran, spurred
thereto by Governor Scott, imposed a fine of seven rifles




274


BULLETS AND BOLOS


on Panglima Baladji of Tapul, the chief of the offending
clan. Panglima Baladji told Datu Pangiran to go to the
Moro equivalent of Gehenna, and if he really wanted the
fine of seven rifles, to come and collect it. That would be
something like collecting the sting from a wasp, and well
did Datu Pangiran know it. At last Governor Scott's
patience was exhausted, so he sent me a launch with instructions to run over to Tapul with Datu Pangiran and
extract that fine.
My predecessor, Captain Long, had paid a friendly
visit to Tapul and had told me something about the number of fighting-men and arms possessed by the Tapul
chiefs, so I took along all the Constabulary that could be
spared, about twenty men, and started out to get the sting
from the wasp. Perhaps it will furnish an illuminating
commentary to state that this visit of mine to Tapul
occurred about two months before the famous Bud Dajo
fight near Jo16, in which nearly one hundred American
soldiers and Constabulary were killed and wounded in
an assault on that fortified hill where six hundred Moros
died defending their positions, literally to the last ditch.
Many of the Moros whom I interviewed at Tapul
later found their way to Jolo and died in the Bud Dajo
fight.
The launch sent me by Governor Scott boasted a machine-gun with which to awe the Tapul braves. But owing
to the coral reefs, the launch could not approach within
two or three hundred yards of shore. I had to disembark
in a small boat with my men, and landed on the beach
beneath a huge balatig, or banian tree. Datu Pangiran
and an interpreter, Moro Jalmany, were with me, and they




TALKING FOR MY LIFE


275


did not look at all happy. I picked out a nice open spot
near the beach so that my small detachment could not be
rushed by hostile Moros. Back of the beach the interior
of Tapul is hilly and densely covered with coco palms
and fruit trees, bamboo and brush, among which are
the many Moro villages.
Then I sent Jalmany inland to look for the obdurate
chief Panglima Baladji. He went up a trail into the
brush, slowly and unwillingly, like a poor-spirited cur
into a rat hole. However, after a while he returned
with Panglima Baladji and his following of armed
Moros, who much outnumbered my Constabulary. I
greeted Baladji and led him to a comfortable spot beneath
a banian, a couple of hundred feet from my detachment.
I had given orders to the men to keep together with carbines loaded and handy, but without showing signs either
of fear or hostility toward the Tapulites. As a sign of
good faith, I left my own arms with the detachment
and mingled with the Moros as nonchalantly as the sight
of so much cold steel might allow. They were a picturesque lot, with their tight-fitting trousers and Zouave
vests of many colors, their brilliantly turbaned heads and
their gay sashes thrust full of krises and daggers. As
many of them carried muskets and rifles, it was apparent
that Panglima Baladji could pay the fine of seven guns,
if the spirit or my persuasions moved him.
Scarcely were we seated on the roots of the banian,
when down the beach came a gaily caparisoned throng of
Moros afoot and on horseback. Every maharajah, panglimb, datu, and salip on Tapul seemed interested in the
business on hand, and from every trail they poured in to




276


BULLETS AND BOLOS


witness the first case under American civil law on Tapul
Island. American government was at stake that day. They
were ready to rescue their comrade in trouble if necessary. It was not long before several hundred well-armed
and ugly-looking Moros surrounded me. I gave orders
that they were to keep away from my detachment and this
they did, while casting many sullen glances at my soldiers.
It was solacing to know that the machine-gun on the
launch commanded our position. But it would have been
more solacing had I not been in the midst of anything
that might happen.
Under the banian tree beside the Sulu Sea I began a
bichara with the Tapul Moros which lasted all that day
and until the sun of the next was low in the west. I had
to get those seven rifles, or the Sulu Constabulary would
become a joke instead of a menace to the lawbreakers of
the South. To get them by force was an impossibility. I
was outnumbered fifty to one, and many of the Moros
carried rifles more modern than the Krag carbines of
my own men. One chief who squatted near me ostentatiously placed across his knees a Lee-Enfield rifle of the
latest British Army model. I had to secure those rifles
by diplomacy and by representing judiciously but not in
too irritating a manner the forces of the United States
behind me. Unfortunately, Washington D. C., was a long
way from Tapul. The American soldiers at Jo16 were
few, and, as subsequent events proved, had their hands
full on that turbulent island.
The Tapul chiefs were not slow to give me their opinion of the American Government and of what they
considered our interference with their ancient customs




TALKING FOR MY LIFE


277


such as slavery and the right of every honorable Moro
gentleman to take up arms against his neighbor, the
public weal and order notwithstanding. I listened
patiently, and as well as I was able I answered with conciliatory but not too yielding speech. Always I reverted
to the fact that I must have those seven guns from Panglima Baladji. That wily chief rested his case with his
stronger and better armed fellow chieftains, so that it soon
became not the United States vs. Panglima Baladji, but
the United States vs. all the chiefs on Tapul. I did a
good deal of hard thinking and soft talking. When night
came and the Moros withdrew with the case, continued till
the morrow, I returned to my detachment more tired than
by a fifty-mile hike. That night I slept little, being not
at all sure that the camp would not be rushed and the Tapul Moros collect twenty carbines from us instead of our
collecting seven guns from them.
In the morning the bichara began again, but with the
difference that the Tapulites and I met as old acquaintances. That night had doubtless given opportunity for the
wiser counsels of conservative old men to prevail over
the fighting instincts of the younger chiefs. Of course,
I had not failed to point out that although they might
not pay the fine and might even add to their list of
misdeeds by resisting my force and removing my own
rubescent head, the island of Tapul lay invitingly open
to shell fire from the American gunboats which would
later arrive. All this I hinted rather than threatened,
while insinuating that I felt as one of them and that we
might settle the affair as a family matter rather than call
in the American soldiers and sailors. Were not my




278


BULLETS AND BOLOS


men also Moros and had I not one or two Tapulites
among my soldiers? That should be a sign of good faith,
and that the American Government and particularly the
Constabulary wished to understand and sympathize with
the Sulu Moros.
But always there was the point about the seven rifles
I must take back with me. That was the rub which I
was compelled to lubricate with soapy, yet not too soapy,
speech. Datu Pangiran, full of opium and apprehension,
could give me little assistance except inasmuch as I pointed
to him as the Moro representative of the United States
and consequently another guarantee that the Government
desired to let the Moros live in their own way. Would it
not, I pointed out, have been easy to send gunboats to
collect the fine? Did not the Government show consideration for Moro custom  by dealing with lawbreakers
through a Moro headman-Datu Pangiran?
Chief after chief arose to harangue the audience. They
minced no words. I was at their mercy. Consequently I
learned more of the Moro point of view in thirty hours
on Tapul than I had in my previous two years of Mindanao. A summary of the arguments presented was that
the Sulu Moros did not want any government except the
loose and indulgent hegemony of the sultan of Sulu.
More especially did they object to fines imposed by a
headman no better than themselves. "Let us alone!" was
their cry. And they might have added "so that we can
roam the Sulu Sea as we have always done-looting
Chino stores, capturing Filipina girls for concubines, revenging with bloody promptness insults fancied or real,
and generally perpetuating in the twentieth century the




TALKING FOR MY LIFE


279


good old customs of the feudal Middle Ages." Poor,
anachronistic Sulus! The world had been growing up
around their beautiful isles, and now the tendrils of civilization were spreading over land and sea. They might lop
off the vine here and there, but the plant would continue
to grow until it enveloped them. I was witnessing the old,
old business of civilization versus barbarism, an encounter
which, unfortunately, often at first results in the loss of
civilization's finer attributes of mercy and justice, just
as it intensifies barbaric stubbornness and savagery.
There on the Tapul beach beneath the banian I felt
very much like a tender tendril of civilization that might
be easily pruned by Moro knives. However, my arguments
finally prevailed. One by one, slowly and reluctantly, were
handed me the seven rifles which represented the price
paid by Panglima Baladji for the midnight pleasantries
of his young braves. As the guns came in I refrained
from examining them too closely. There are times for
minute investigation of details as there are occasions when
such would be an impertinence-or imprudence! I
strongly felt that this was a moment when it were well to
take a comprehensive view of life, men —and rifles. So I
accepted the seven assorted muskets and rifles without
examining their breech mechanism. It was not until I was
on the launch, chugging back to Siasi, and feeling lighter
and happier than for many hours past, that I found that
only two of the seven guns would fire.
Thus, fortunately, ended the case of the United States
vs. Panglima Baladji et al. Yet my connection with the
Moros of Tapul was not entirely ended, for within a few
weeks I was to take part in the Bud Dajo fight and fall




280        BULLETS AND       BOLOS
wounded at the walls of a cotta in which, rumor had it,
many of the Tapul recalcitrants had gathered to support
their brethren of Sulu against the hated Americanos.
But of that when the time comes.




I




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CHAPTER XXXV


SAILING THE SULU SEA
SOON after my experiences on Tapul, I made a voyage
by vinta from Siasi to Bongao, a voyage that I would
like to be able properly to describe. But such is the color
on land and sea that among those islands only the brush
of an artist or the imagery of a poet can adequately
paint it.
And thus we sailed
Into the Sulu Sea, smooth as lakes
In some more blessed land, far from this world of
strife.
Blue water flashed from keel as south we bore,
And flying-fish athwart our path
Escaped by flight from some pursuing bully.
The porpoise gamboled round our bow or leapt
His shining length clear of the sea
In joy of living. Lean, hungry fish
Upon their tails skipped yards along
The surface of the water. Ugly snakes
With painted coils lolled on the waves.
On the horizon a water spout joined sea and sky.
The emerald isles slipped by, each fairer than the
last,
With grassy slopes where cattle grazed, and shores
Bordered by coco palms. The Moro fishing boats
28I




282


BULLETS AND BOLOS


With many colored sails and curving prows
Rushed on the tide toward the distant shoals
Where rich spoil of the sea awaited them.
If, as has been said, the function of poetry is to represent much in little, the above lines may partly serve.
In any case they will prove the charm of the Sulu Sea to
be such that it could lift a prosaic Constabulary officer
to poetic mood.
Over such seas, amid such scenes, I sailed from Siasi
to Bongao in a small ziinta which just accommodated five
small Moro soldiers and one large American officer. We
were three nights and four days sailing and drifting the
hundred miles or so between the two Constabulary stations. The swift tide pouring back and forth between the
Sulu and Celebes seas often took us almost out of sight
of land and but for the assurance of my Moros that its
turn would take us back again, I might have been somewhat uncomfortable floating out to the open sea in so
small a craft. We landed for water and leg-stretching
on islets where sandy beaches invited the prow of our
vinta, where turtle eggs abounded in the sand and cocoanuts were to be had for the shaking of the palms or, if
that failed, for a well-directed rifle shot at the cluster.
The moon was crescent, and the stars were spangled on
a black velvet sky. Above the coral reefs the sea was
strongly phosphorescent. Behind us was a wake of milk,
and every paddle stroke was a pyrotechnic display. Under
the water, fish, snakes, and other marine creatures left
slowly fading tracks of ghostly fire. So wonderful were
the phosphorescent nights that I stayed awake, but slept




SAILING THE SULU SEA


283


in the day beneath a palm-thatch awning, or lolled, idly
watching the great albatross and frigate birds that
wheeled and whirled around us, recalling almost forgotten
verses of the "Ancient Mariner."
We overhauled other craft and searched for opium or
Chinamen. We visited Sulu chiefs on little, lone, lost
islands. We sailed over wonderful "sea gardens" between
Tawi-Tawi and the islands that formed the barrier against
the Celebes Sea. A few feet beneath our zvinta were vast
patches of mushroom-coral, brain-coral, and every other
variety of marine growth. Among them, vying in color
with the vegetable life, flitted brilliant fish, the damsel,
butterfly, trigger, and other varieties-orange, vermilion,
light blue, dense black, every color imaginable. Some were
all of one intense blue, others striped harlequinwise, but all
so exquisite and so dainty in their subaqueous playgrounds
that they seemed part of an Arabian Nights' entertainment rather than real fish in a real sea. Hours I spent
leaning over the side of the zinta to watch the wonderful
cinematograph film of marine life unrolled beneath our
keel. It was easy to imagine oneself in Captain Nemo's
submarine, "twenty thousand leagues under the sea."
Of other adventures than those afforded by breasting
a squall or paddling violently to escape from a tide-rip,
we had none. Yet there was a potential adventure in each
encounter with other vintas, of which we overhauled and
passed many, usually stopping them to search for opium
or to see whether the crew included a Chinaman entering
the high-wage Philippines from low-wage Borneo via the
popular Sulu Sea route. As the wages of a Chino in Borneo or other Malayan islands was about ten cents a day




284


BULLETS AND BOLOS


and in the Philippines a dollar or more, there was every
temptation for humble but aspiring Mongolians to elude
the customs and immigration officers, who were, in any
case, few and far between in Mindanao and Sulu. Moreover, the Chinaman, once safely established in the Philippines, soon abandoned manual labor to become a merchant
or trader. What an Oriental business romance might be
spun from the adventures of a young Chinaman, leaving
Canton or Foochow for Singapore, to work in the tin
mines or on the rubber plantations of the Malay States,
then, perhaps, to the tobacco plantations of North Borneo;
thence, after many adventures in a vinta on the Sulu Sea,
landing on some remote point of the Mindanao coast to
receive the certificate of a recently deceased Chinaman
and, under a new name, to begin his Philippine career!
Each Chinaman in the Philippines was compelled by law
to possess a certificate of identity, which was duly visaed
at intervals by customs officers. But so prized were the
certificates that on the death of a Chinaman his body was
smuggled away and another Chino smuggled in from
Borneo or elsewhere to assume the protecting certificate
of the late deceased.
I once heard Robert Burdette, the California oratorpreacher, preface a sermon by stating that a dead horse
was worth more than a dead man, as the defunct animal
could be turned into glue and soap while the body of a
dead man had no other use than to clutter up an otherwise
useful bit of soil. The Rev. Mr. Burdette would have
been compelled to revise his comparison had he lived in
the Philippines in I9o6, where a dead Chinaman was
worth just about $500, provided his body could be dis



SAILING THE SULU SEA


285


posed of without interference from inquisitive United
States health or customs officials.
"The King is dead, long live the King!" found its
echo in Mindanao in "Wun Lung is dead! Long live Wun
Lung!"-a new Chino under the old certificate. However,
in later years a hard-hearted government insisted that each
certificate should bear the photograph of its owner, a
duplicate picture being filed in the customs archives.
Consequently, the business in dead Chinamen fell off.
I'm afraid that, although sworn to enforce the law and
if necessary assist the customs officers, my sympathies
were wholly with the Chinaman, whom I have always
found a decent, law-abiding, self-respecting citizen, with
a measure of philosophy which should make him the
envy of a neurasthenic West. What, I wonder, will
be history's verdict on our action in keeping the overflowing millions of China out of the almost unoccupied land
of Canaan at their door? And what people in history have
had the luck of the Filipinos to find a protecting nation
apparently willing to sacrifice her own interests and put
a dam across all economic and racial currents in order to
give them a chance to work out their own salvation, unsubmerged by the Mongolian flood to the north? Every
Filipino boy and girl should nightly kneel at prayers and
say, "God bless Uncle Sam and keep him generous for all
time."
We also stopped to watch the Moro pearl divers. These
men, without diving suits or any apparatus, descend
fifteen or twenty fathoms by holding on to a large rock,
which they release when they have gathered sufficient
shell. I did not see any such deep diving, as the boats we




286


BULLETS AND BOLOS


visited were anchored in only a few fathoms. But an
American who has lived years among the Sulu Moros
told me that many attain a depth of eighteen fathoms,
while at Tandubas, an island off Tawi-Tawi that I passed
on this voyage, there is held each year a diving contest
at which a record has been made of twenty-three fathoms
without suit or helmet. That sounds almost incredible, but
I later verified the figures by inquiry among the Moros
and found that diving to eighteen or twenty fathoms is
not unusual.
At the end of a leisurely voyage we sailed through the
narrow passage fringed by palms and mangroves that is
the eastern entrance to the southernmost port in the
Philippines, Bongao Islet, stone fort, straggling village,
and thumb-shaped peak, all bear the same name, which
should be pronounced as if written "Bon-gow," with
accent on the last syllable. Mindanao lies between the
Pacific Ocean and the Sulu Sea, like a scorpion with its
head towards the Pacific and its tail curled round to
Borneo; and the very point of the sting is Bongao. I
sat on that point for about a month, my only white companions being a Constabulary lieutenant who under the
tropical sun had ripened too quickly and was now going
to seed, and the collector of customs, a clever and genial
youth who now, I believe, edits a newspaper in his native
state. The collector of customs and I had an extended
argument as to who slept furthest south under the American flag. To determine the mooted point we ran a topographical survey along the beach. I forget to whom the
honor went, but the incident will show that despite pirates
and smuggled Chinamen time sometimes hung heavy on




SAILING THE SULU SEA


287


our hands. I had expected the monthly mail steamer to
rescue me from Bongao, but she skipped a month and I
had the more time to whip the Constabulary company into
shape. Lieutenant X. was hopeless and helpless, giving
daily and faithful imitations of the actions of a man attacked by hookworm. Those isolated stations either make
or break a man, and Bongao had badly broken poor X.
With the customs man I climbed to the summit of
Bongao Peak, straight up two thousand feet through
tangled thickets of bamboo, rattan, and orchids, to a rock
pile whence we looked across thirty miles of intervening
sea to the dark mountain mass of Borneo-home of the
Wild Man of dime-museum fame, but also of the elephant, the rhinoceros, the orang-utan, the chimpanzee,
the Dyak head-hunters, the bird-winged butterflies, the
White Rajah of Sarawak, with many other actualities
stranger far than the imagination of the owner of a freak
museum. Perhaps on that mountaintop the customs man
and I were less picturesque figures than Balboa, "silent
upon a peak in Darien"; yet there was a touch of romance
about the two young Americans, each with a handful of
orchids gathered by the way, gazing across the amethystine Sulu Sea to empurpled Borneo.
The Constabulary officer at Bongao was the official
representative of the United States for a hundred miles
north and fifty south-from Siasi to Borneo. His District included several hundred square miles of sea and
almost as many islands; his subjects were several thousand Sulu and Bajaw Moros; his duty to keep the peace
among this scattered multitude of almost professional
disturbers of the peace, to assist the customs officer in




288


BULLETS AND BOLOS


suppressing the opium and Chinaman traffic, and to be
as ready to shoot a smuggler, pirate, or ordinary amok as
to bind up the wounds when inflicted. For the Constabulary hospital at Bongao, merely a whitewashed room in
the fort, was rarely without Moro patients, and the officer, who must combine medical and surgical work with
his multifarious other duties, soon became expert at treating and bandaging bullet and bolo wounds, with tropical
ulcers and other loathsome sores, besides diagnosing and
curing beriberi, yaws, malarial fevers of several varieties,
together with other assorted tropical diseases.
Some of the diversions for the officer at Bongao were
hunting crocodile, wild boar, and python, although during my month there I found time only to indulge in the
first and was unsuccessful in that. Once or twice when
the moon was full and the palms, coral reefs, and sandbars of Bongao seemed rather the stage setting for a
moonlight scene in grand opera than a place to live, work,
and next morning sweat at drilling thick-headed Moro
recruits-then, when the moon was high and the sandbar across the bay was dry, the customs man and I
paddled over the silver water along the very molten path
where the moonlight quivered, to the sand-bar whence in
pathetic contrast with the peaceful beauty of the night
came the agonized howls of a pariah pup fastened on the
beach as tempting bait for crocodile. We hid behind a
whitened drift-log that glistened like a bone, and pointed
our rifles in the direction of the unlucky cur and' waited
for the kMwayan (crocodile). Sand-flies and mosquitoes
rivaled the cur in attempts to mar the otherwise bewitching night, and it is likely that our efforts against the tor



SAILING THE SULU SEA


289


ments of the air were warning to the scaly bully of the
bay. Be that as it may, I shot no crocodile at Bongao. This
lack of luck distressed me little, as I had had plenty of that
sport at Cotabato. So we released the yelping hound and
paddled back through the incandescent night to the ghostly
buildings and palms of the Constabulary post across the
bay.
While at Bongao I suffered from my old trouble,
malarial fever, doubtless brought on by exposure to the
sun on my vinta voyage. At the first opportunity I reported to the District Chief, Colonel W. S. Scott, who
had succeeded Colonel Harbord during my absence on
leave, that the malarial attacks unfitted me for duty at
Siasi. By return mail came orders relieving me as senior
inspector at Sulu, and assigning me to my old position
as District adjutant at Zamboanga. Strange indeed is
the manner in which the "moving finger" writes, for my
transfer away from Siasi and Sulu enabled me to take
part in the biggest event in Sulu history, the battle of
Bud Dajo, which, had I remained at Siasi, I should have
missed. That was one time at least that the fever did me
a good turn.




CHAPTER XXXVI


AMOK AND JURAMENTADO
VERY glad I was to be back in Zamboanga, which was, at
that time, more home to me than any place on the globe.
I found my new chief, Colonel Scott, a most courteous
and considerate administrator. General Wood was still at
Zamboanga, although about to transfer the Military Department of Mindanao and Sulu and the civil government
of the Moro Province to his successor, General Bliss.
Many physical improvements were to be noted in roads,
buildings, and general upkeep of the town and neighborhood; while the ability and fine personality of the general
was reflected in the contentment and confidence of subordinate officials and the general public.
Mindanao as a whole was comparatively tranquil. In
Cotabato the warlike Datu Ali was safe in the arms of
paradisaic houris and the peaceful Piang reigned in his
stead. In Lanao the Lake Moros, better known throughout
Malaya as the Lanun Pirates, were raiding less and cultivating more than for years past. In Davao and Zamboanga all was peace and prospective plenty. Enterprising
Filipinos, Japanese, Americans, and Spaniards were setting out plantations of cocos and hemp. Only in beautiful but bloody Sulu were clouds gathering.
Spencer St. John, whose "Life in the Forests of the
290




.......  








AMOK AND JURAMENTADO


29I


Far East" is redolent of the jungle, the tropic seas, and
the "smell of fish and wet bamboo," says of his first visit
to Sulu in I858: "The sun soon dispelled the mist and
showed us the lovely island of Sulu. The slopes of the
hills presented alternate patches of cleared and grassy
land with clumps of trees scattered over its face, reminding one of a noble English park." And later, like one
enchanted, he returns to a description of the physical attractions of the island: "The appearance of the country
from the sea is very beautiful, many of the hills rising to
a peak some 2,000 feet in height; while others are lower
and wooded and form an agreeable contrast. Several of
these eminences are forest-covered to the summit, while
many present alternate patches of rice cultivation, pasture
land, groves of cocoanuts, palms, gardens and detached
clumps of forest trees. It is by far the most beautiful
island I have seen."
St. John estimated the population of Sulu as between
Ioo,ooo and 2oo,ooo. That was in I858. In I9o6, of
which I now write, the inhabitants had been so reduced by
internecine warfare and by the successive attacks of the
Dutch, English, Spanish, and Americans, that there were
fewer than 70,000 people on Sulu Island. Sulu is the
Tripoli of the Far East. Many nations took turns at subduing the fierce Balignini pirates, but it was left to the
United States to finish the job, and bring them to terms,
just as she did those of Tripoli. In their palmiest days, before the introduction of steam gunboats, the Sulu and
Lanao pirates terrorized the seas from the coast of China
to New Guinea, some I500 miles north and south. The
Sulus were commonly known as Balignini and the Lanaos




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BULLETS AND BOLOS


as Lanuns. The former sailed in light outrigger paraos
holding less than a dozen men, while the latter cruised
in large schooner sapits, manned by a crew of fifty or
sixty. But they were equally ferocious and merciless. Woe
betide the sailing ship caught in the narrow straits between the China Sea and the Pacific Ocean, or the Christian Filipino settlements on the islands north of Mindanao! A prominent feature of the Philippine seascape
is the number of stone towers and forts, which the
voyager might at first take for lighthouses, along the
shore of every island. They are the refuges which sheltered the Visayas, Bicols, or Tagalos, when the dreaded
Moro sails came up over the southern horizon.
It was scarcely to be expected that a people for centuries
habituated to piracy and adventures on the high seas
would easily turn to the plow and counter, even though
steam gunboats, introduced in Philippine waters by the
Spaniards in the late fifties, soon ended wholesale piracy.
It would be as reasonable to expect the England of Elizabethan adventurers to have contented itself within its
territorial waters after a taste of the Spanish Main.
Young Sulu braves took up retail piracy when the wholesale became impossible; and long after American occupation of the islands raids on remote Filipino villages or
isolated Chinese traders were common. As late as October, I9IO, I pursued some Lanun pirates who had raided
a Filipino settlement in Misamis, killing several Filipinos
and mortally wounding others.
Furthermore, hot Sulu blood found outlet in the frequent quarrels and fights between rival chiefs on Sulu
and its neighboring islands. When every other excite



AMOK AND JURAMENTADO


293


ment failed, there remained always the popular Moro
sports —amok and juramentado, which might be translated as ordinary, common or garden amuck and amuck
with religious and other frills. Now, a Moro in an ordinary state of amuck goes off, so to speak, by spontaneous
combustion. One moment he is an apparently sane and
respectable citizen, the next he is a dancing, frenzied,
fiend rushing frantically about to slay, blindly, and indiscriminately, friend, relative, or foe, until he himself is
slain. But a Moro who "goes juramentado" makes careful
preparation for his bloody part, works himself into a
state of religious fanaticism, is shaven and shriven by a
Mohammedan priest, secretes weapons about his person,
then quietly and methodically seeks the spot where Christians are most thickly gathered before beginning his
business of beheading and disemboweling. An amuck is
a bomb-dropping Zeppelin; but a juracmentado is the submarine that kills by stealth.
I took part in but one case of amok, while I was at
Cotabato. A Filipino soldier, disappointed in love, stood
on the public plaza and shot everyone within range of his
Krag until he was killed by an American sentry, a rather
pretty shot which drilled the amuck through the head at
two hundred yards. My own part consisted in sneaking up
an open sewer, revolver in hand, to get within range of
the frenzied Scout soldier. But I have several times followed the path of an amok or juramentado, gathering
up the bloody remains or making investigation of the facts
for an official report. A typical incident or two will perhaps illustrate one of the difficulties experienced by American officials in dealing with the Moros. When a man




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BULLETS AND BOLOS


disappointed in love, trade, or family affairs, is likely
to go amok or juramentado it behooves an official to
handle carefully such sticks of human dynamite. The
Filipinos, further from the pure Malay strain than the
Moros, run amuck much less frequently.
At Zamboanga in I903 or I904, I went to Taluksungay
to investigate an affair which had resulted in several
deaths and more wounds. Three Yakan Moros from
Basilan Island, across the straits twenty miles from
Zamboanga, set sail for Taluksungay market with a cargo
consisting of a sack of unhulled cacao (cocoa) pods, the
value of which was perhaps a dollar, perhaps less, certainly not much more, and surely a small sum to cause the
death of seven people. But seven Moros and Filipinos
died because of that sack of chocolate beans.
On the voyage across the straits a squall arose which
almost swamped the zvinta of the three Yakans and carried overboard the sack of cacao with their other few belongings such as a handful of rice, a cooking pot, a few
sweet potatoes, some dried fish, all, in fact, except the
keen-bladed weapons that hung from their waists. So the
three Yakans landed on the Taluksungay beach, wet and
poverty-stricken. One who did not know the Moros
might well think that they had reason to be thankful to
have escaped with their lives. Not so. Life to them had
suddenly become not worth living: they would run
amuck.
It was evening in Taluksungay. The sun sank behind
the coco palms that fringed the village, a community of
mixed Moros and Filipinos, the former fishing along the
coast and the latter cultivating the rice fields inland. From




AMOK AND JURAMENTADO


295


the beach, up the one street of the village between the
huts of bamboo and nipa, strolled the three Yakans, perhaps with despondent mien, but with nothing otherwise
direful in their bearing. From the rice fields, down the
street, came many Filipinos returning from the day's toil
and bearing bundles of golden, ripe rice; ahead the women
and children; behind, bearing heavier burdens, the men,
but all chatting cheerfully or humming snatches of a
harvest song. The two parties drew nearer-the embittered Yakans and the cheerful Filipinos. It was the opportunity that the former, despite their maniacal intentions,
still possessed control enough to await.
Out flashed the murderous Yakan knives-slash, cut,
slice, a child's head here, a woman's arm there, and in
as many seconds as it has taken words to tell, the peaceful village street became a place of massacre and wailings.
The Filipino men rushed up to protect their womenfolk
and children, and by superior numbers finally succeeded
with their working bolos in hacking the three Yakans
into submissive corpses. Outside of a butcher's shop, I
never saw so much red meat exposed as on the bodies of
those three Yakans. About every Filipino in Taluksungay had taken a whack at them for luck. They were buried
in sacks.
Another case. Near Jo16 several Moros were squatting
around a camp-fire after their evening meal when one of
them began to hiccup, and his companions made fun of
him. But they carried the joke a little too far, the hiccupping one took offense, drew his wavy kris, and carved a
companion or two before he was himself cut down.
Those were cases of simple amok-ungovernable




296


BULLETS AND BOLOS


temper resulting in bloody but unpremeditated murders.
The juracmentado, on the other hand, prepared for days
or weeks before playing his part. Then, when the time
was ripe and the Mohammedan ceremonies fulfilled, he
would, if possible, sneak through one of the gates of Jolo
town, past the watchful American sentries, down the main
street until he found American or Christian Filipino victims in sufficient number. No armed Moro was allowed
through the gates of Jo16 or over the wall of the city.
But a kris or barong could be concealed beneath wide
trousers or flowing sarong so that American sentries,
always on the lookout for a Moro who walked stifflegged, were sometimes deceived. Outside the Jo16 gates
life always hung by a tenuous thread which might at
any time be severed by the blade of a juramentado.
A period of freedom from the scourge made Americans
and Filipinos careless. Then one day there would be cries
of "Juramentado! Juramentado!" Women and children
scurried to their homes and banged doors tight, men
issued forth revolver and rifle in hand, a trail of blood and
cries showed the track of the fanatic, a few shots rang
out, and one more Moro went to the arms of waiting
houris. One morning I landed at Jo16 a few minutes after
a juramentado had cut down and killed an American officer who was walking with his little daughter but a few
yards outside the main gate of Jolo and in full view of
the guard there posted. A party of tourists, who were
being driven in an army wagon to the Moro market, also
saw the murder. It gave them some idea of the insecurity
of everyday life among the Sulu Moros.
Given some fertile and prospectively productive "Eden




AMOK AND JURAMENTADO


297


isles" set in a sea abounding with valuable pearl and other
fisheries; inhabit those islands with a race proud and
warlike, cruel and resistant to civilization, yet not lacking in qualities of courage and racial virility that might
under cultivation produce happy results; let the pioneer
colonizers and adventurers of three nations deal harshly
with that race in attempts to extirpate piracy that interfered with trade-deal harshly but with no fixed policy
either of suppression, toleration, or modification-and
you have the situation that confronted the United States
in Sulu. One thing, and one alone, might have prevented
the years of bloodshed that prevailed when American met
Moro in those Oriental isles. If from the first a policy of
retaining such officers, army or civilian, as showed interest and intelligence in Moro affairs had been enforced, it
is likely that personal influence would have achieved more
than force. But a policy which took every administrative
officer away with his regiment, giving him a tenure of
two years at the longest, was not calculated to make the
machinery of government run smoothly.
Even under the most favorable circumstances, if a
well-paid and pensioned civil service had been organized
to deal with the Moros, government under the American
flag would have been difficult. Moro culture had not advanced to a point at which the pursuits of peace might
supplant piracy, slave-holding, and intertribal warfare.
These customs, anachronistic though they may seem in the
twentieth century, supplied a necessary outlet for individual and racial emotions. Laws directed against them
were resented as bitterly as prohibition in New York or
Baltimore. Education should have preceded legislation. It




298         BULLETS AND BOLOS
was necessary for the young Moros to have an emotional
and physical outlet. They knew no other than the customs
of their fathers. Warfare and piracy seemed as necessary to them as baseball and football to us.








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I II I  11




CHAPTER XXXVII


BUD DAJO
SUCH were the men and manners obtaining in Sulu in
I9o6. Colonel Hugh L. Scott, United States Army, governor of the Sulu District, had been fairly successful in
dealing with the sultan and other chiefs who controlled
the thousands of fanatical tribesmen. Nevertheless, there
was an irreconcilable element which gathered on the summit of Bud Dajo, a bluff-sided, conical extinct volcano,
2IOO feet high and a few miles inland from Jolo town.
For months Governor Scott treated with these people who
refused to pay their cedula taxes or in any way recognize
American authority. They lived in the crater summit,
descending in the daytime to cultivate their fields or obtain
supplies. With the passage of time and immunity from
attack, they became bolder and more insolent in their attitude toward the government. From a few score their
numbers swelled to more than six hundred and included
many outlaws whose crimes were unpunished. Finally
they built around the crater's edge a series of earthworks
and cottas which, from a Moro viewpoint, made the
mountain impregnable, and from any point of view made
its assault a difficult and costly undertaking. The sultan
and other Moro chiefs at least simulated friendliness and
disavowed the Bud Dajo hostiles. But throughout Sulu
299




300


BULLETS AND BOLOS


there was natural sympathy for the defiant ones, making
a last stand against the American invaders.
So it became an unavoidable test of strength: six hundred Sulu Moros, men, women, and children, on the summit of Bud Dajo, against the United States, represented
at Jolo by about as many hundred American soldiers. In
March, I906, Governor Scott decided that persuasive
methods were no longer useful and were indeed a menace,
as further delay in dealing strongly with the outlaws
might be interpreted by other Moros as weakness and
result in a general uprising. The crater fortress must be
attacked.
I was in my office at Zamboanga when a telephone
message came from General Wood, asking whether a company of Constabulary was immediately available to accompany the army in an attack on Bud Dajo. As a matter of fact, there was no company ready. But Colonel
Scott wanted the Constabulary to get into the fight and
we patched up a detachment from the First Zamboanga
Company and the First Sulu Company, the latter having
just arrived from Bongao for a change of station which
might benefit its discipline and instruction. No experienced officer was available to command the provisional
company thus formed of twenty Filipino and thirty Moro
soldiers, so I begged Colonel Scott to let me take charge
of the expedition.
He detailed me and I had about forty-eight hours to
whip my hybrid outfit into shape before taking part in
one of the bloodiest little fights that the Philippines have
seen. Fortunately, two or three of the men had served
with me before, while I had recently spent a month with




BUD DAJO


30o


the Bongao detachment of the First Sulu Company. Lieutenant F. M. Sowers, a brave and intelligent young officer,
was assigned as my junior, and two Filipino staff-sergeants from District headquarters helped to swell my
force. We sailed for Jolo on a little army transport which
carried also regular troops for the expedition.
On March 4, I9O6, we arrived at Jol6, which was even
more military than usual. Additional troops were pouring
in from Malabang, Parang, and other mainland posts;
squads and companies of armed men tramped under the
acacias planted by some thoughtful Spanish commandant; wagons and ambulances were being loaded, mule
trains assembled, and packs selected; everywhere was that
bustle and suppressed excitement, that rattling and snapping of weapons, that hot smell of sweaty men, horses,
and leather accoutrements, that accompanies a campaign.
In the evening I was supervising the distribution of
ammunition and field rations to my company when a
Filipino addressed me. I turned to recognize Ex-Sergeant
Eduardo Fernandez of the Constabularies of Negros
and Cotobato, a brave soldier who had been with me at
Mansalanao and other fights, but also a proper picaroon
who was always getting into trouble about women, gambling, or other debauchery. It is sad but true that the
moral man is not always the best soldier. A touch of
deviltry seems to help a man risk his life in daring deeds.
"What are you doing here?" I asked Fernandez in
surprise. The last I had heard of him was that he had
been discharged at Cotabato for having too many wives
to support even on a sergeant's pay —which should have
been enough for three or four wives in Mindanao.




302


BULLETS AND BOLOS


"Ah! seinor capitan," answered Fernandez with a deprecatory smile, "I am now but a servant in the officers' club
here-I, who was formerly a sergeant under you," and
his emphasis on the pronoun indicated profound regard
for his former captain. But I was now wise in the ways of
Filipino soldiers. Although I held a real regard for Fernandez, who had shared many dangers with me, I alson
knew that his next move would probably be to touch me
for ten pesos or so in memory of Auld Lang Syne.
But he merely shuffled about until I sharply asked him
what he wanted. He confessed that he came to warn
me against going up Bud Dajo, which, he said, would be
much worse than the Mansalanao fight in Negros. The
mountain was as steep, and the Moros were better fighting men than the babaylanes. "Seguro, senior capitan,"
said Fernandez, "you'll all be patay (dead) if you go up
Bud Dajo." He had many Moro friends who had been
up the mountain and had told him of the steepness and
of the impregnable entrenchments. As a matter of fact,
I wormed it out of him that he had been to the summit
himself. He was an adaptable devil, who could pass for
a Moro if necessary, despite a strong strain of Spanish
blood.
"Well, Fernandez," I responded, "I suppose that you
will come along with me? Or now that you are a
muchacho, have you forgotten how to shoot?"
Fernandez bravely offered to join the party. I issued
him a carbine, belt, and ammunition. He was not far
behind me when I was wounded, and helped to carry me
down the hill. But I had better finish his story now. After




BUD DAJO


303


the Bud Dajo fight Fernandez reenlisted in the Constabulary, chiefly by virture of a splendid certificate from
me. Some years later I arrived at Davao, to find him in the
guard-house charged with trigamy and other crimes which
I fear that I compounded when I secured his release and
transfer to another province. Next he turned up at Zamboanga in I9I I, conducting a party of wild Bagobos and
Manobos to the Mindanao Fair, and nearly frightened my
wife out of her wits by bringing on to the porch of our
bungalow a long-legged screeching crane, several Bagobo
dancing-girls, and some be-knived Manobo warriors. The
girls were soft-eyed and round-bosomed, and were, I
suspected, the latest addition to his harem. On that occasion he borrowed twenty pesos.
After that meeting my orbit carried me far from Mindanao, to the extreme north of the Philippines; and there
at Baguio in I9I4 I received a pitiful letter from my
ex-soldier friend, saying that while a member of the
Zamboanga police force he had been falsely accused of
rape and had been sentenced by a hard-hearted American
judge, who knew nothing of Mansalanao and Bud Dajo,
to seventeen years' imprisonment, a term which he was
serving at the San Ramon Penal Colony. I was acquainted
with the superintendent of the penal colony, so I wrote to
him a resume of Fernandez's career, and of his virtues.
His vices were, I felt sure, well known to the superintendent. My last information was that Fernandez had
been made a trusty and was in a fair way to earn his
pardon. Perhaps hereafter, as he has no deus ex machina
in the islands, he will be more careful. But when I cross
the river Styx I shall not be surprised to meet Fernandez




304


BULLETS AND BOLOS


on the other side, in trouble and wanting to borrow a
few pesos.
So faithful Fernandez augmented the little company I
was to lead up the steep sides of Bud Dajo. On the night
of March 5 a consultation of officers was held by Colonel
Duncan, and at my own request the Constabulary was
assigned to lead one of the three attacking columns. Before daylight on the next day we moved out from Jol6,
under the acacias, through the postern gate where the
officer of the guard flung a greeting and a "wish I were
going with you"; out under the stars, past waiting mule
trains and cursing packers, past long lines of American
soldiers resting on their rifles and joking with one another
somewhat nervously; up dew-wet grassy slopes between
groves of bamboo and breadfruit that were now but
darker blotches in the night; on through the heavy tropic
darkness, until we reached our place near the head of the
column that moved out to attack the mountain. When the
brief dawn glared into full day we were almost within rifle
shot of Mount Dajo and could see along the crest, clearcut against the sky, many flags and banners waving defiance over the Moro forts. The Moros themselves lined
the parapets. Their cries and taunts floated faintly to us
down the steep sides of the mountain, and over the rolling
grassy upland that billowed to the forests of the steeper
slopes.
On closer inspection Mount Dajo seemed twin sister to
that Mansalanao peak on Negros on which I had my big
fight with the babaylanes in 1902. But there was this difference in my present situation: I was now part of a
well-equipped and organized expedition, with doctors and




BUD DAJO


305


ambulances in the rear, and not, as at Mansalanao, days
deep in the jungle without hope of assistance if aught
went wrong. This was to be an engagement in the limelight, a novel experience. For a Constabulary officer accustomed to lonely bushwhacking there were pleasurable
thrills about a nice sociable engagement such as Bud
Dajo was to afford; Jolo town only five miles astern;
surgeons, hospital, and, ye Gods, cool-clad American
nurses within cannon shot of the fight; fellow countrymen as soldiers on either side and behind-it was for me
a fight de luxe.
The assault on Dajo was to be made by three columns,
up the three practicable trails which climbed steeply to
the crater. Off the beaten cut-out trail was an impenetrable
tangle of bamboo and brush. I was assigned to the post of
honor at the head of Major Omar Bundy's column, which,
in addition to my handful of Constabulary, consisted of
two companies of the Sixth United States Infantry, my
old friends of four or five years before in Negros. We
went into camp at the foot of the mountain, in the long
grass and in full view of the rim of the crater summit
where Moros and their banners were silhouetted against
the sky. On Major Bundy's orders I sent Lieutenant Sowers with twenty men a few hundred yards ahead to where
the mountain jungle ran into the long grass; and as the
last of his blue-shirted, red-fezzed detachment disappeared in the timber, shots rang out. We had disturbed
the nest of hornets.
There was a delay of several hours while other columns
were taking position around the mountains. About noon
orders came for me to reconnoiter up the mountain. I




306


BULLETS AND BOLOS


moved out with the remainder of my detachment, picked
up Sowers and his detachment, who had been sniping at
an unseen enemy in the jungle, and started up the mountain. Steeply up, always up, we crept, seeing nothing at
which to shoot, yet subject to an occasional harmless sniping from above. My orders were not to bring on a general
engagement, but to locate the enemy trenches. That would
be far from difficult; the mountain was only 2 00 feet
high, and we soon ascended I500 feet without other result
than to become sodden with perspiration and sore-muscled
in the calves of our legs. The ascent was at an angle of
forty-five degrees. It was like ascending the stairway of
two or three Woolworth Buildings, piled on top of one
another.
Toward sunset when we were two thirds of the way
to the summit, Corporal Sayary, who was on the "point"
with another soldier, slid quietly back and whispered that
he heard talking ahead. I halted the column, enjoined
strictest silence, and crept forward with Sayary to locate
the first defensive work. On hands and knees, on bellies
and often almost on our faces, we crept up inch by inch,
taking advantage of every bit of cover, hugging the
jungle or worming into it when the trail was exposed,
scratched by thorns and bamboo, bitten by ants and assorted bugs, but always winning upward and nearer to the
trench.
At last I could hear a faint murmur of voices that was
less a conversation than an unaccustomed note in the
chorus of the jungle birds and insects.
Corporal Sayary, himself a Sulu Moro and less than
five feet of chunky brown manhood and nerve, motioned




BUD DAJO


307


that he could creep still nearer and see what the trench
was like; so I let him squirm forward and upward while
I lay still under some trailing bamboo, scarcely daring to
brush off the ants and gnats which showed by their actions
that I had no right to lie prone in the jungle on a mountain in Sulu. Leaden minutes dragged into half an hour
before Sayary slid back and whispered that the trench
was a small one between two big trees on either side of
the trail and that it was occupied by an outpost of four
men. This information exactly tallied with spies' reports,
so we retired a little way down the mountain and sent
word to Major Bundy. Then, as it was now nightfall, we
prepared to sleep alongside the trail, where it was difficult
to find a spot level enough to lie down. However, I made
myself fairly snug between the trunks of two fallen trees,
with my soldiers close on either side and at my head and
feet. But it was a poor night's rest, disturbed by occasional
shots fired by nervous sentries, by the regular beat of
brass gongs and chanted war songs in the enemy trenches
not far above our roost, by the vicious attacks of warrior
ants and other jungle pests, as well as by the brooding
thought that the morrow would bring a bloody piece of
work and a "five to one against" chance of living through
it.
Soon after daybreak of March 6 we started up the
mountain again. Captain Bayard Schindel of the Sixth
Infantry, whose company was immediately behind my
Constabulary, sent up four American sharpshooters under
First Sergeant Knox. These men I kept close behind me.
As we neared the first trench we caught our first glimpse
of the enemy since entering the jungle. To the left, across




308


BULLETS AND BOLOS


a deep gully, through a break in the trees, was a house on
the edge of the crater. On the fortifications around and
below it were several figures which tumbled back as we
opened fire. With the sound of our own rifles confidence
and courage poured through our veins.
The first trench, to which Sayary had scouted the night
before, we found vacant. But from it, up the ever-steepening trail, we could see fortifications from which came a
sputtering of rifle fire soon answered by our sharpshooters
who at a range of two or three hundred yards began
picking the Moros off the entrenchments against the skyline-like shooting crows out of a tree. Vainly I tried to
find flanking trails up the mountain as a frontal attack on
the cottas above looked deadly. But we were on a hogback, and on either side, as at Mansalanao, yawned deep
canions. There was no other choice than to attack up a
slippery bare slope. Leaving the sharpshooters to keep
down fire from above, I scouted forward with twelve constables-a mixed detachment of Moros and Filipinos.
Soon we ran into an abatis of felled trees which completely blocked the trail. Sergeant Arasid with half the
detachment attempted to climb over the abatis. With the
remainder I crawled around one flank, and was greeted
with such a fire from above and also from the opposite
side of the canion that I withdrew my small detachment
with the loss of one killed and one wounded. Private
Diukson, mortally wounded, was hanging in the abatis
exposed to fire from the fort. He was shot through the
jugular vein. As I crawled up to haul him down his head
fell over and great gouts of warm blood spouted over my
face and chest, making me almost sick at the stomach.




BUD DAJO


309


I sent information down to Major Bundy and remained
in a partially sheltered position under a ledge near the
abatis until shrapnel fired by our own batteries at the
foot of the mountain burst dangerously near. Then we
retreated back to the first trench. Major Bundy and other
officers climbed to the trench. It was decided to bring up
a mountain gun to blast a way up the mountain. Just before dark, after great efforts, the gun was hauled up to the
trench. That night Sowers and I slept beside the little cannon, expecting an attack. But beyond sniping and the
occasional discharge of a lantaka (culverin cannon) which
swept the jungle with a miscellaneous collection of slugs,
stones, and old junk, the night passed in comparative
quiet. I received word that the assault was to be made at
daybreak, after five rounds had been fired by the mountain
gun point-blank at the trenches above us.
Precisely at full daylight on March 7, stiff after a
restless night within stone's throw of the enemy who had
beaten gongs, fired muskets and cannon, and yelled defiance all through the hours of darkness, we left the partial
shelter of the trench and jungle, soon reached the fortification and abatis which had halted us the day before,
and turned the corner of the mass of fallen trees into
a hell of fire. I forced my men through a gap in the bamboo chevaux-de-frise that protected one side of the abatis.
It seemed that they were killed or wounded almost as
fast as I could push them through. For, once around the
corner, we came under the direct fire of the large fort
which crowned the summit. Between us and the loopholes
which spouted fire, there was nothing that would shelter
a rabbit.




3Io


BULLETS AND BOLOS


At a distance of fifty or a hundred feet even rusty old
muskets can do terrible execution, while lantakas loaded
with junk are more deadly than machine-guns. Man after
man fell dead or rolled back, wounded, down the mountain. Those who were left, shepherded on by Lieutenant
Sowers from behind, gallantly followed me as I pushed
past the abatis and sprang madly up toward the fort where,
paradoxically enough, safety lay. Once up against the
walls, we were comparatively safe from the fire which
came through loopholes formed by thrusting large bamboo tubes through the earthen walls.
When I prostrated myself, breathless, against the sheltering fort, Sergeant Knox and other American soldiers
soon reached me, and we engaged the Moros on the other
side in hand-to-hand combat. I attempted to look over
the wall, which was but little higher than my head. A
spear parted my hair, and the owner of the spear departed
this life with a load of buckshot in his chest. Time after
time the Moros reached over the wall to dislodge us with
spear or kris, and we took toll of Malay lives a-plenty.
When they became more careful Sergeant Knox would
raise his hat on the muzzle of his rifle, while I stepped
back a little so as to get the man who rose to the fly.
Sowers and the remainder of my Constabulary came
up on the right, while the blue and khaki figures of American soldiers and Scouts were ascending in a thin, often
interrupted but steady stream and massing against the
cotta wall for the assault. Next to me a Moro constable,
eager to see what damage he had done to those on the
other side of the wall, looked through a bamboo tube into
the fort, and rolled back with his eye blown out. The




BUD DAJO


311i


slope below us was carpeted with dead and dying Constabulary and Regulars. I rose to urge my men over the
wall of the fort. As I clambered up, a gaudily dressed chief
slashed at me with a big kris or kampilan. I dodged, lost
my grip on the wall, and fell back right in front of one
of the loopholes. Although I twisted myself out of the
path of death as quickly as possible, I was not quick
enough to avoid a bullet which passed through my left
leg just above the knee. It was fired from a captured Krag
rifle at a foot or two from my knee. The shock paralyzed
me. Despite the heat of battle and a tropical sun, I became
deadly cold and rolled helplessly away from the fort down
the hill. My part in the Bud Dajo fight was ended.
Sergeant Alga and the faithful Fernandez gallantly
came to my rescue. They helped me down the exposed
area to the shelter of the trench near the abatis, there
giving me first aid. The fight raged a few feet above my
head, and wounded men poured back until the trench was
full. Lieutenant Gordon Johnston of the Signal Corps
came up from below, took my shot-gun and belt of ammunition, rushed up to the attack, started the final assault on
the cotta, and was back in a few minutes with a load of
slugs in upper arm and shoulder. At last there was an
increase of fire, yells even more frenzied-then a slight
lull as the fort was taken and the fight moved further
away. Sergeant Knox staggered back with one hand hanging in shreds, blown to bits as he tried to climb over the
wall. An American hospital corps man gave us more efficient first aid. He stopped the bleeding of my wound by a
tourniquet. Some of my soldiers returned from the victory and carried me down the mountain-an hour or two




312


BULLETS AND BOLOS


of agony that seemed like a week until I reached the field
hospital at the base, where a surgeon gave me a shot of
morphine. The battering, incessant pain ceased.
The main defenses of Dajo were taken that morning,
although twenty-four hours were required to complete
the conquest of the mountain. We of the Constabulary
were proud that we had reached the crater before the
other columns. Over six hundred Moro men, women, and
children were killed while resisting to the last. Humanly
speaking, the incident was unavoidable. The proud fanaticism of the Moros had caused them to believe that they
could resist the American Government. But, certainly,
none of us believed that it would ever be necessary to
repeat so severe a lesson. We thought that Bud Dajo
would teach the Sulu Moros that the days of irresponsible
government, of piracy, slavery, and cattle stealing, were
ended. Yet six years later, in I9I2, at Bagsak Mountain
near Jo16, General Pershing was obliged to repeat the
lesson.
Poor gallant gentlemen of Sulu, with your brilliant carmine, orange, and green jackets, your tight-fitting trousers, your wavy krises and razor baronts, your turbans
and jaunty fezzes, your bastard Mohammedanism and
contempt for the unbeliever, your fairy boats on a fairy
sea amid fairy isles-you are, after all, a picturesque people fit for better things than to fill moldering graves on
the summits of your beautiful mountains. I'm afraid
that you needed the lesson that even Sulu courage and
daredeviltry could not prevail against American numbers
and science. But now that you've had your lesson, repeated again and again, I wish you well ---even though I




BUD DAJO


313


carry a constant reminder of your contumacy in a stiffened knee-cap. And then, somehow, I cannot help but feel
that if America had sent among you, as governors and
other officials, men who would stay not for a few months
or a year or two but until they knew your language and
your customs and had gained your confidence, and were
not at the mercy of truckling, dishonest interpreters and
clerks, perhaps then there might have been no Dajos and
Bagsaks.
After several months in hospitals and a good many
manipulations of my knee, I was back at light duty in
Zamboanga in August, I9o06. One day I received a telegram from Manila headquarters stating that if I felt my
leg sufficiently repaired, it was proposed to detail me as
superintendent of the Iwahig Penal Colony, on the island
of Palawan, at a considerable increase of pay. I was still
on crutches. But I felt equal to any job which did not
mean hiking and fighting, so I wired acceptance and returned to Manila.




CHAPTER XXXVIII


FROM WARRIOR TO WARDEN
ONCE more that pleasant voyage from Zamboanga to
Manila, past the palm-fringed shores of isles and islets,
under the shadow of volcanoes, through schools of flyingfishes and porpoises leaping out of the enchanted seas.
By this time I was so familiar with the coast line of the
archipelago that at night I could tell our whereabouts by
the lighthouse lights or the faint outline of distant peaks
against the stars; or when we had anchored overnight in
some harbor I could at dawn locate the port by its distinctive smell: Iloilo was raw sugar, in bayones on the
wharf or in the godowns (warehouses); Zamboanga was
copra, sickly and oily; Siasi was dried fish and beche-demer-and so on for the length of the coast line.
That alternation in Constabulary life, from the strenuous discomforts and dangers of jungle-hiking and bushwhacking to the deck of an inter-island steamer was, I
think, one of the pleasantest features of our work. This
time I was able to reflect that my hiking days were about
over, and that instead of sending outlaws and assorted
evil-doers to jail, either to perdition or to prison, I was
now to have the job of looking after them in confinement
or partial confinement. Neither the penal colony nor Palawan meant very much to me. But it seemed like an opportunity to do an important piece of work at a considerable
314




FROM WARRIOR TO WARDEN


315


increase in salary. There was glamour in the remoteness
and lack of civilization on Palawan Island, close to Borneo and scarcely inhabited except by the wild hill people.
Rumor had it that the penal colony was in bad shape,
convicts mutinous and escaping. I naturally supposed that
my position as superintendent would be accompanied by
a certain amount of risk. Perhaps that thought drew me to
the job. But as I shall try to show, I was never more safe
or more at ease than when among my convict colonists on
the remote island of Palawan, nearer Borneo than Manila,
and about as far from civilization as it is possible to get
in these days of prying tourist steamers. Yet as to the
distance from civilization, that is a matter of interpretation. There have been times when I felt more nearly
civilized among the half or wholly naked head-hunters
of northern Luzon than in the slums or dives of a large
city.
Mentioning the "distance from civilization" conjures
up the smoking-room of a Nippon Yusen Kaisha liner
plying between Kobe and Nagasaki. It was in 1907 and
I was returning to the penal colony after a few days'
holiday in Japan. Sitting in the smoking-room after dinner, making conversation with half a dozen travelers
from as many parts of the world, one of the group said,
"Well, I expect that I come from a place further from
civilization than any of you." With my Palawan destination in mind I took up the challenge. But it turned out that
the speaker was from the Aru Islands off the coast of New
Guinea, where he was engaged in pearl fisheries. I paid
for the drinks. On the strength of our mutual remoteness
from the refining influences of civilization we cemented a




3I6


BULLETS AND BOLOS


steamer friendship, and he traded me the skin of a bird of
paradise from New Guinea for that of a peacock pheasant
from Palawan.
On arrival in Manila I was taken in hand by the Hon.
W. Cameron Forbes, then secretary of commerce and
police, and later the governor-general who gave the Philippines the start in good roads and public utilities which
preceded their great economic progress. As might be expected of a man whose maternal grandfather was Ralph
Waldo Emerson and paternal grandfather John Murray
Forbes, this Forbes was a practical idealist-a builder of
things and of men. He saw not only the economic waste
of a prison system which confined men within four walls.
But he also sensed the tragedies in the lives of broken
men-men who might be reconstructed and of use instead of danger to society. Mr. Forbes believed that men
who had broken society's laws had not necessarily dropped
from the level of intelligent human beings to that of debased brutes. He believed that if the Filipinos were capable of self-government in their municipalities they might
be trusted under certain restrictions to govern themselves
in a penal colony without the irritating restraint of armed
warders. Mr. Forbes in part based his ideas for the betterment of Philippine prison conditions on the successful
conduct of the George Junior Republic, a self-governing
institution of previously refractory boys in New York
State. Nevertheless it took both vision and courage to
apply to renegade Filipino outlaws and fanatics, murderers and cattle thieves, insurgents and political intriguers,
the medicine that had cured American boys, viz., confidence both implied and applied.




FROM WARRIOR TO WARDEN


3I7


At first it looked as though Mr. Forbes's confidence
had been misplaced. The selection of penal-colony officials had been unfortunate, with the consequence that the
several hundred convicts who were sent to a partially
cleared spot in the jungles of Palawan died like flies of
beriberi, malaria, and dysentery, wallowed in their own
filth until at last the remainder rose in revolt, nearly killing the neglectful superintendent. Many of the convicts
fled to the wild mountain interior of the island where
they lived with the pagan Tagbanua tribes. Yet even then,
despite mismanagement and crass stupidity on the part
of the officials, the soundness of the plan was shown, because the majority of the prisoners, responding to the confidence placed in them, refused to join in the outbreak,
and protected the colony officers from the extreme of
violence.
A few months had passed since the mutiny, but conditions had bettered little if at all. Despite the fact that the
superintendent was a doctor, disease was rife, comparatively little progress had been made clearing land or erecting buildings, and the colony was a great expense without
corresponding benefit except that it relieved Bilibid Prison
congestion. Indeed, it relieved the government of the care
of a number of convicts, for the death rate was over 250
per Iooo when I took charge. One man in every fourand that among men in the prime of life-was doomed to
die. Such, in brief, was the situation when on September
I, I906, I was summoned to take charge of the colony.
Mr. Forbes, with a party of other officials, among
whom were General Emilio Aguinaldo and Dr. Victor G.
Heiser, director of health for the Philippines, was to make




318


BULLETS AND BOLOS


an inspection of the colony, and at the same time install
me as the new superintendent. We left Manila in a special
Coast Guard cutter, and after two or three days of pleasant voyaging steamed into the beautiful bay of Puerto
Princesa. The voyage gave me an opportunity to become
acquainted with General Aguinaldo, whom I found to be
a quiet-mannered Malay gentleman, anxious only for the
betterment of his people. From Dr. Heiser I obtained
valuable suggestions about tropical sanitation and its
application to penal-colony problems. Mr. Forbes inspired
me with his own spirit of confidence in the possibility
of applying the Golden Rule to prisoners of Malay race.
Palawan Island is long, narrow, and mountainous, its
length perhaps two hundred miles, its average breadth
eight or ten. It is densely forested. To the south, across
a narrow strait, bulks Borneo, land of orang-utan and
head-hunting Dyaks. To the north lies Mindoro, a huge,
half-explored island. On its western shore thunders the
surf of the China Sea. Its eastern beach is laved by the
soft waves of the Sulu Sea. The interior of Palawan is
almost unknown, except to the half-naked pagan aborigines, the Bataks and Tagbanuas. Along the coast are
occasional villages of semi-piratical Moro fishermen. At
Puerto Princesa, the capital of the island province, are a
few hundred Christian Filipinos, descendants for the
most part of an abandoned Spanish penal settlement. Add
to the above half a dozen American officials-the governor, the Senior Inspector of Constabulary, the commanding officer of the Scouts, the treasurer-one Spanish
and two American merchants; one or two American
ex-soldiers and beach-combers married to native women;








MORO TRENCHES1 ON SUJMMIT OF BU3D DAJO




FROM WARRIOR TO WARDEN


3I9


one white woman, the governor's wife-and you have all
the elements of the social structure in Palawan, near
Borneo and far away from everything else.
The one link with civilization was the monthly mail
steamer. There was no telegraph, cable, or wireless, so our
news came in monthly chunks; and the catch of sea bass
made by the convict fishermen off the coral reef that
guarded the harbor of Puerto Princesa was to all of us
more important than the rise and fall of empires beyond
our ken and our horizon. We lacked cities, hotels, streetcars, telegrams, theaters, and movies. We possessed the
jungle, a palm-fringed plaza, topaz sunsets, and soft
lascivious skies. On the whole it was not so bad.
The anchor plashed into the clear blue waters of the
bay. The governor, Lieutenant E. Y. Miller, United
States Army, chugged out in his Metz and Weiss engined,
kerosene-burning motor-boat. We piled aboard and ran
two or three miles across the bay to the mangrove-fringed
mouth of the Iwahig River, then up the river between
mangrove and nipa palm-clad muddy banks, where, as the
tide was low, oysters and other crustaceans hung from the
boughs. Ospreys hawked and Ceyx kingfishers flashed like
jewels between the palm fronds. Up the river we chugged
against an increasing current until Aao, ipil, and narra
trees replaced the swamp growth, and butterfly orchids instead of oysters hung on the trees. An hour or more from
Puerto Princesa we arrived at the Iwahig Penal Colony,
landing haphazardly on a muddy bank. Mentally I immediately built a wharf. We hiked up a muddy trail
through long cogon grass, where I resolved promptly to
build a road; and on to the central plaza of the colony, a




320


BULLETS AND BOLOS


swampish grass- and brush-covered waste bordered on
two sides by some ramshackle bamboo and palm-thatched
buildings, which housed about five hundred convicts, the
commissary, and other stores, and the three or four
American officials.
Mr. Forbes made an inspection of the colony and convicts and found conditions bad enough. General Aguinaldo made a fine speech, advising the men of coming
improvements and that they should have confidence in
and obey the new superintendent. Dr. Heiser pointed out
obvious and easily to be effected sanitary reforms. The
official party reembarked for Manila. When I saw their
boat float rapidly with the current down the river and
turned to my jungle swamp and my five hundred convicts,
I needed all the optimism and self-confidence I could
summon up.
I took quarters with my predecessor, Doctor M-,
who was to remain until I had checked over and receipted
for the large amount of government property, including
the several hundred prisoners. The superintendent's house
was little more than a squalid hut; and when I say that we
ate our meals on a table made of old boxes while sitting on
other boxes, some idea of the crudity and inefficiency of
administration may be imagined. The near-by forests
were full of the finest of hardwood trees. There were
expert sawyers, carpenters, and cabinet-makers among
the convicts. All that was necessary to provide splendid
furniture was to connect supply with production.
One long building housed nearly a hundred sick men,
who were dying at the rate of five or six a day. This was
little to be wondered at when the air was alive with flies




FROM WARRIOR TO WARDEN


32I


by day and with mosquitoes by night, breeding in the open
cesspools and swampy places around the buildings. The
mosquitoes were of the dangerous anopheles family,
which carried several varieties of malarial fevers, including the dreaded and always fatal "blackwater" variety.
Scores of the prisoners were afflicted with beriberi in
either the dry or wet stages, their limbs withering or
swelling as the case might be. It was pitiful to see them
dragging themselves about. Although the jungle was full
of wild game and the rivers and bay full of fish and shellfish, the staple diet of the prisoners was white rice and
canned salmon, both imported from Manila by the
monthly steamer.
It was a dolorous settlement, steeped in disease and
misery. Yet the very fact that it was so bad made it
really more easy to achieve something. Anything I might
do would be better than what had been done. So almost
joyfully I turned to the task ahead.




CHAPTER XXXIX


A DOLEFUL COLONY
THE first step, naturally, was to establish a more efficient
organization among the five hundred convicts, dividing
them into squads of about twenty-five men, each under
its own foreman or capataz. Then I turned every available
man to work digging drains, cutting grass, leveling
ground, and building paths and roads around the plaza.
About half the men were sick with beriberi, malaria, and
dysentery. But even with about two hundred men an
enormous amount of work can be accomplished. Within
a few days we could work dry-shod around the central
buildings, while the plague of mosquitoes abated slowly
but in a steady ratio to the disappearance of pools and
swamps. Mosquitoes, which had been more plentiful than
leaves in Vallombrosa, were soon a rarity; and flies became entomological specimens rather than pests as soon
as we covered up the open cesspits. As the mosquitoes and
flies diminished, slowly at first but soon with encouraging rapidity, the death and sick-lists from malaria and
dysentery daily dropped. But beriberi persisted. Rarely
a day passed but one, two, three, four, or as many as
seven men, in the prime of life, died. The infection would
reach their hearts, probably already weakened by attacks
of malaria and dysentery. My daily inspections of the shed
322




A DOLEFUL COLONY


323


hospital were often punctuated by the death of a prisonerconvict while I was passing down the ward.
I had a copy of Munson's "Tropical Diseases." Long
after all was still in the colony save the distant moans of
fever-ridden patients in the tumble-down hospital, I used
to pore over his descriptions of diseases which must be
combated in Palawan. Beriberi, a nutrition disease little
understood in 1906, hung on for some months until I
succeeded in obtaining a supply of mongo beans (Spanish
lentils), navy beans, bacon, to supplement the almost exclusively rice and fish diet obtaining on my arrival; and
white, decorticated rice at that. The Japanese later proved
that coarsely milled rice would prevent beriberi. As soon
as we changed the diet at Iwahig the dread disease disappeared almost overnight. The death rate of more than
250 per ioo000 for men in the prime of life, before I took
charge, dropped to less than 8 per 1000 during the second
six months of my tenure.
After the first few weeks I had the able assistance of
an intelligent young Tagalo physician, Dr. Florentino
Ampil, who was, I am safe in saying, of more assistance
to me than many American doctors would have been,
proving again the axiom so often forgotten that a good
Filipino is better than a poor American. Dr. Ampil and I
established a friendship and mutual confidence which persisted long after I left the Colony. He would call me in
for interesting autopsies, and once he showed me a case
of the rare lung-fluke or Paregonimus westermanii; and
he often showed me under the microscope the malarial
bugs in my own blood.
Ampil and I took every measure possible for hygiene




324


BULLETS AND BOLOS


and sanitation. I found that the convicts were netting the
small creeks and sloughs near the plaza and destroying the
fish which preyed on the mosquito larvae: so we stopped
that. Examination of the shores of the Iwahig River
showed that when the tide went down it left pools of
fresh or slightly brackish water in which mosquito wigglers were found. I put scores of prisoners to raking the
shores smooth and draining the pools. Systematic administration of quinine was recommended. We lined up
the convicts before meals and gave three grains of
quinine; and to show that we believed in our own medicine, Ampil and I stood at the head of the line and took
the first doses. Mosquitoes and flies became such rarities
that if I found them in the barracks or kitchen during
inspection a black mark was registered against the man
responsible. A few weeks earlier the air had been alive
with them. It was fascinating to mark the daily physical
improvement in the colonist-convicts and to mark the
dropping sick report and death rate.
Following organization and sanitation came discipline.
Although there had been a mutiny before my arrival, the
men were too sick and listless to rebel at any except the
worst forms of neglect or ill treatment. Nevertheless, there
was a discontented semi-insubordinate element, and during my first weeks at Iwahig I attempted to locate the
man or men around whom a possible disturbance might
center. Finally my suspicions focused on a Chinese mestizo Ilocano prisoner named Singson.
Under my predecessor there had been permitted to
grow behind the convict barracks a mushroom growth of
huts which stretched back along a swampy creek to the




A 'DOLEFUL COLONY


325


ever-encroaching jungle. The place was a regular rabbit
warren and so overgrown by climbing vines and flowering
plants that it was a perfect hiding place where convicts
with sufficient confidence or "pull" might ignore the
calls to work or sleep. Moreover, women either from the
Filipino settlements on the fringe of the colony or from
the wild tribes which denizened the jungle and steeper
mountains, visited these huts for the pleasure of the more
influential convicts. From the points of view of sanitation,
morality, and discipline sooner or later I must issue the
order to raze the excrescent growth. But as the men's
efforts for a little comfort and privacy under the previous
regime were in a way commendable, while the growing of
vines and flowers was the solitary refining influence in
their lives, I stayed my hand until conditions generally
were so bettered that the destruction of their little homes
would fall less harshly. Furthermore, daily inspections of
the huts gave me valuable insight into the character of my
men. The most influential prisoners had the best huts;
and the best of all was the hut of Singson, convicted murderer, a brigand chief, who had been sentenced to life
imprisonment.
Such a man should never have been sent to Iwahig.
But in the early days little care was exercised in the
selection of convict-colonists, who were shipped down
haphazardly from Bilibid Prison on the monthly mail
steamer in batches from twenty-five to fifty.
Singson had gathered around him a gang of the worst
men, and it was clear that unless I broke it up and sent
Singson back to Bilibid my control of the colony would
not be complete. Although it would have been easy for




326


BULLETS AND BOLOS


me to call for a detachment of Scouts or Constabulary
from Puerto Princesa to make the arrest, I knew that to
produce the best effect I must control the situation without
outside help. I had already remodeled the colony police
force of about twenty convicts of proven good character,
and had armed them with long bolos in addition to their
clubs. Before my arrival, incongruously enough, the convicts working in the jungle had bolos, while the policemen
had only clubs. At the head of the police was a fine old
Tagalo, Andres Ascue, gray-haired but still tough and
wiry and with a benevolent face and disposition which
belied the statements in his commitment papers-"Andres  Ascue-Tagalo-Batangas-54-1902-perpetual
chains-assassination." Old Ascue, I felt instinctively, was
loyal to me and would lop off a head or two should it
become necessary.
The only firearm in the colony was the sixteen-gauge
shot-gun which I used for shooting the balud pigeon and
yellow crested cockatoos which abounded in jungle clearings. At the colony discipline was maintained by moral
rather than physical force.
So one evening at retreat formation, when all the
prisoners were mustered in front of the barracks for rollcall and inspection, I walked down the line, followed as
usual by the old chief of police, Ascue, until I reached the
squad where Singson stood all unsuspecting that his misdeeds and plottings were known to the superintendent.
Suddenly I whipped out a pair of handcuffs and with
Ascue's assistance slipped them over the wrists of the
surprised plotter. It was all done so quickly that there
was little disturbance, and while Ascue was marching




A DOLEFUL COLONY


327


the discomfitted Singson toward the improvised guardhouse and gently spurring him with the tip of a bobo
when he hung back, I continued my inspection as nonchalantly as might be. There was a chance that Singson's
men might attempt to rescue their leader. But the Filipino
is a Malay, and that race is always more impressed by a
"grandstand" play than by more solid virtues, which are
less attractive to him than the results of some dazzling
flight of oratory or the flash of a keen-bladed sword.
Singson's men remained quiescent, and the treacherous
Chinese half-breed returned to Bilibid by the next
steamer.
I had to return one or two more convicts to Manila, but
how easy it was to control them may be imagined by the
fact that during my stay at Iwahig there was no jail, any
detention cases being placed in a bamboo and nipa building
from which escape would have been easy. None occurred.
After all, a jail is but the expression in brick and stone
of moral and social failure. It is the protection erected
by a community against itself, and we did not need one
at Iwahig from i906 to i908. I believe that later on a
jail was built there.
Another man returned to Bilibid was Felix Almarines,
a one-legged convict who had lost a limb during the insurrection. Almarines was well educated in the LatinFilipino way; that is, in literary and philosophical
abstractions rather than the less showy but more useful
things of life, and soon after his arrival he began corresponding with the radical Manila newspapers. His
articles were at first most laudatory of the colony and its
superintendent, but I felt that he might later place me




328


BULLETS AND BOLOS


under the ban of disapproval. Nevertheless, I paid
no attention to his correspondence and even gave him a
good position in my own office. But Almarines' studies
had not extended to the Latin proverb, "Timeo Danaos
et dona ferentes," and he grew bolder. Often in the evenings when I strolled around the plaza while listening to
the excellent band which we organized I would find
Senor Felix Almarines, orator-convict, addressing a
crowd of his companions in tones which became less fervid on my approach.
My office backed upon the Iwahig River. At high tide
a boat could row up to the steps which led down a steep
bank from the buildings. One day, near noon, the tide
was high and Almarines was ripe, so I invited him to
accompany me for a little walk which ended at the steps
to the river, down which I considerately helped him into
a rowboat manned by Chief-of-Police Ascue and a police
crew. While the daily life of the colony flowed evenly on,
if with less oratory, Convict Almarines was on his way
back to Bilibid Prison, Manila.




CHAPTER XL


THE IWAHIG EXPERIMENT
BECAUSE of the return of one or two ringleaders to Bilibid it must not be supposed that we penalized intelligence
or ability among the colonists. On the other hand, we
made use of many of the educated Filipinos as squad foremen and division chiefs. We soon organized work divisions of which a few were Farming, Forestry, Health,
Serving, Police, Fishing, Carpentry, Gardening, etc. One
Tagalo convict, Aguedo del Rosario, sentenced in 1902 to
ten years for sedition, became chief foreman and, indeed,
my right-hand man. His influence over the men was great,
and I am inclined to think that if I had not won Rosario's
confidence and support my difficulties would have been
almost insurmountable. Rosario was one of the first triangle of the original Katipunan against the Spaniards,
a friend of Rizal and of all the leading insurgents and
politicians. Just before I left the colony in 1908, I asked
Rosario-who was by that time a paid assistant-what
more than any other thing had inspired confidence in me.
Hle answered that my action in sending an American prisoner back to Bilibid had showed him that I was free from
race prejudice and that I would treat American and
Filipino prisoners alike.
After the first few weeks I am safe in saying that the
329




BULLETS AND BOLOS


330


control of those hundreds of Malayan and half-breed
convicts, many of whom were noted brigand chiefs, gave
me less anxiety and feeling of responsibility than is experienced by the average kindergarten teacher; and certainly not anything like the trouble I would have had if
there had been armed guards and iron-barred cells at
Iwahig. The prisoners knew that I wished them well and
was doing everything possible for the betterment of their
condition.
As I had at night much time on my hands, I occupied it
in part by diving into the prisoners' records, often sending to Manila for the original files with record of testimony taken at the trials. What I uncovered of legal
entanglement and injustice was sometimes astonishing.
For instance, I found three worthy old Ilocano peasants
who were serving life sentences for murder, while the insurgent major who had personally ordered them to kill
an "Americanista," and had assisted in the murder, had
been pardoned some years earlier owing to political influence. I noticed the honest-appearing old taos working
in the tobacco patch. They were from Union province and
understood the culture and curing of the pleasant plant.
They seemed so honest, dull, and bent by toil that I wondered at their life sentences and, after gaining their confidence, uncovered a story which reference to the official
records disclosed as true. They had been ignorant
soldiers in Aguinaldo's army. Their major was an educated politician who made them seize an enemy of his
on the pretext that he was a friend of the Americans.
The three soldiers had no arms, but the major had a
revolver with which he threatened them until they beat




THE IWAHIG EXPERIMENT


33I


the alleged "Americanista" to death with chunks of
bamboo. Later all four were captured and sentenced by
an American military court; the major to death, the
soldiers to life imprisonment. The major's death sentence
was commuted to life imprisonment; and a few years
later, when a civil administration had supplanted the
military, the major was pardoned; but the poor peons,
without influence or money, continued in jail. I obtained
their pardon. Curious to say, some years afterward when
I was chief of the Northern Luzon District, I profess
sionally encountered the major, still a scoundrel and then
attempting to stir up a new insurrection. He was one of
that class of professional agitators which at times makes
the real friend of the Filipino people despair of their
future.
My confidence in the colonist-convicts was not misplaced. Only once did an escape occur. Four ignorant
prisoners, led by a half-educated Tagalo, were missing
one night at retreat. My police force brought back three
of the wanderers the following day; the fourth had an
unhappy existence among the wild Tagbanua tribes in
the mountain jungle for a few weeks and then voluntarily
returned to the home comforts of Iwahig.
There was no safer place in the Philippines than Iwahig. My own house was wide open, day and night; my
personal servants were convicts, nice-mannered Tagalo
and Bicol boys, sentenced to ten or twenty years for
brigandage or murder; and during my two years at the
colony I did not miss a peso or a button. The reason for
such security lay in the fact that the confidence placed in
the prisoners was not half-hearted. Many a penal colony




332


BULLETS AND BOLOS


or experiment in penology has been wrecked by tentative
measures-an attempt to blend the Golden Rule with
warders, shot-guns, cells, and bars; whereas the two
blend no better than oil and water. Yet I think that the
prisoner must always feel that behind the leniency and
kindness of the superintendent lies at least the capacity
for harsh measures should they be necessary. At Iwahig
I found it just as well to synchronize measures tending
to improve the condition of the colonists with disciplinary examples. When they first received small money
allowances for continued good work, the order promulgating this innovation appeared alongside the order
which returned a bad character to Bilibid, and so on. In
the matter of misunderstanding continued kindness the
Filipino is no better than most Orientals-and some Occidentals.
When I took charge of the colony I found two or three
American employees of a cheap type, but these soon left.
It has been my experience in the Philippines, that a good
Filipino is better than a poor American. The failure to
recognize that evident fact has caused more friction in
government bureaus than any other one thing. The
American who would remain in the islands to
work for seventy-five or one hundred dollars a month
without promotion or prospects was, more often than not,
just the cheap, swaggering sort of fellow least suited to
deal with men of different color and race. The prototype
of his class was an American dock foreman who was in
charge of Moro stevedores on the wharf at Jolo. The
Moros were failing to stack sacks of oats as the foreman
wanted, so he exploded like this:




THE IWAHIG EXPERIMENT


333


"You -      niggers, you. Porque no pony este sacks of
oats donde yo tell you? -   you. You  -  sons of
you. Don't you understand your own -      language?
You're a lot of --  fools."
Although the convicts as a whole were easily controlled by common-sense methods as opposed to established penal customs of unnecessary repression and restraint, there were times when individual passions were
let loose. The Filipinos are largely of Malay blood, and
the Malay is noted for the abandon of his passions when
disappointed in love or life. There was the case of Nicasio
Suavison. I was at my desk when there came nearer and
nearer a hullabaloo which increased until a prisoner
dashed up the steps to the sanctuary of my office and
only stopped in front of me, panting out, "Nicasio-va
-matarme." And sure enough in rushed Nicasio, naked
bolo in hand, and followed by a policeman or two. The
pursued one had taken shelter behind me. Nicasio stopped
short and I motioned him to sit down on a bench near
the door. Then I dismissed the others and went on with
my office work and daily routine. Nicasio sat there, bolo in
hand; but after a while the bolo dropped to the floor while
his face, heretofore convulsed with passion, smoothed into
lines of depression and contrition. I knew Suavison
and his record fairly well. He was serving a life sentence for a murder committed in a passing fit of passion
such as had now again convulsed him; so I let him sit
there for an hour or two until passion had turned to complete humility, when I called him to the desk and, without
further investigation, sentenced him to go back a grade
and to be confined for a month to the limits of the plaza




334


BULLETS AND BOLOS


after work hours. Nicasio took his sentence cheerfully,
being only anxious that I did not return him to Bilibid.
Also I relieved him from work in the bake-house and put
him in the Roads Division, cutting trails through the
jungle. Often when making excursions to shoot birds or
hunt the wild boar I took Nicasio along to expend his
surplus energy cutting out the bamboo and rattan from
the trail rather than lopping off the heads of his too
irritating friends.
Among the convicts were men whose names had been
household words in the Philippines even back in Spanish days. Such was old Capitan Valeriano Gazic of Mindoro, for twenty years during Spanish and American
times king of the Mindoro Mountains, perhaps the most
noted bandit chief in the Philippines, certainly on a parity
with my old Negros friend, Papa Isio. Capitan Gazic
wielded more influence in Mindoro, third largest island
in the archipelago, than did the Spanish governor at Calapan; and Spanish methods of pursuit of the bandit band,
involving as they did prolonged daily siestas, a great deal
of verbiage, and very short journeys into the forbidding
jungles and mountain haunts of the outlaws, resulted only
in enhancing the brigand chief's prestige. When the StarSpangled Banner was hoisted at Calapan in place of the
red and yellow flag of Spain, the American Constabulary
officers knew no siesta on the trail. And Gazic was getting
old and rheumatic. My bright young Cotabato lieutenant,
Gilsheuser, then stationed in Mindoro, finally ran him to
ground in a Mangyan clearing in darkest Mindoro.
At Iwahig I found the ex-bandit useful and gave him
a responsible position in the Serving Division. It was




VICE-PRESIDENT FAIRBANTKS AND GENERAL WILLIAM C. RIVERS INSPECTING
THE IWAHIG PENAL COULNY, 1
c.
^\~~~~~~~::::::::




I




THE IWAHIG EXPERIMENT


335


rather pathetic to tee the brown old gentleman who once
had ruled the Mindoro jungles with a rod of iron supervising perhaps the daily cleansing of the colony garbage
cans. Yet he served faithfully, and when he died in 1908
we gave him a funeral that eclipsed all previous interments. The prisoners of his division made a great cross of
ipil hardwood which will long mark the burial place of
Capitan Valeriano Gazic, bandit chief and amiable old
gentleman.
Of the progress we made at Iwahig, of the long
avenue of acacias we planted, the flower gardens and
the orchid house, the vegetable gardens where we grew
nearly every kind of tropical fruit and vegetable, as well as
many from the temperate zone, the coffee, cacao, tobacco,
tree cotton, papcaya, and other plantations-all this progress is told in the reports made to the Philippine Commission. The colony soon became a show place and tourists dropped in, or prominent government officials. I
made trips to Borneo and to Japan and came back laden
with seeds and cuttings. Within two years a disease-bearing swamp had been transformed into a little paradise.
And it was all so easy, or seemed so at that time.
It was not all work. There were hunts for the wild pig
which abounded in the jungle and often did much damage
to our sweet-potato farm. When the moon was high and
full we would gather a few score convicts on the plaza,
some with long stout nets woven in the colony shops,
others with spears, and the remainder, who were to act
as beaters, armed only with bolos to cut through the undergrowth. Off we went through the warm, still tropic night,
over the river with a great splashing and shouting, for




336


BULLETS AND BOLOS


crocodiles were in plenty and voracious; through the
jungle where we cut or pushed aside the sharp-toothed
vines of rattan and other trailing plants, until we reached
a grassy clearing in the forest. Here the coarse cogon
grass was beaten down so that we could stretch from
forest wall to forest wall the stout net which, tight-staked,
would stop the rush of even a large boar.
Away off sounded the cries of the beaters, ever closing
their circle and approaching the net where we stood with
spears ready poised. The cogon grass waved and shimmered in the moonlight as a big tusked boar rushed toward us. Loud rose the yells of my native huntsmen in
many a dialect and song; spears flashed as the boar hit
the net. One slain, on came another. It was wildly exciting
and there were not lacking occasions when the legs of
men were cut by spears or tusked by an old boar. Then
home again with the pigs carried on bamboo poles cut
from the jungle, and there would be roast pork for dinner
next day. The old fellows were tough and only fit for
stewing meat, but young wild pig was delicious dark
game meat.
Those moonlight nights; the plaza, palms, and buildings gleaming incandescent; the scent of the gardenias and
tuberoses; the convict band on the stand in -the center of
the plaza; the dark line of jungle forest that we had
pushed back hundreds of feet beyond the buildings; the
barefoot, contented colonists padding up and down the
good roads and paths which they had built; paradise in
a penal colony, three hundred miles from civilization socalled. No movies and no soda fountains; no white women
and few others; nothing to do but work and improve and




THE IWAHIG EXPERIMENT                 337
make our own amusements; and yet I'm sure that many
a convict now free looks back, as sometimes I do myself,
to the good old days at Iwahig, while perhaps some of
them regret the day when they were set free to battle
again with a less well-regulated world.
And should I live as long as a California Big Tree I
shall never again receive the perfect tribute that was
mine when, in September i908, I stepped aboard the
launch that was to carry me away from my convicts and
my jungle. The colony was there to bid me God-speed, and
many a wrinkled old Filipino prisoner wept as I said
good-by. My own eyes were not dry.




CHAPTER XLI


THE END OF A TROPIC DAY
ONE of my reasons for leaving the penal colony was
that a further stay there meant loss of promotion in the
Constabulary. On my return to Manila I was assigned
as major and executive officer under my old chief, Colonel
Harbord, now acting chief during the absence of General
Bandholtz. Under different circumstances I had again an
opportunity to profit by a study of Harbord's executive
methods. There was one incident that I remember as
proving his independence of thought and action. A prominent American government official had been sentenced
to long imprisonment for embezzlement. He had not been
long in Bilibid before his many friends in lodges and
social life circulated a petition for his pardon. Colonel
Harbord brought it to me, noting that the petition had
been signed by almost every prominent government official, by bureau chiefs, justices of the district courts, and
cabinet ministers. But after a short discussion my chief
said that the man was guilty and the fact that he was
prominent and had many friends only accentuated his
guilt, and he did not propose to sign the petition.
A vacancy for lieutenant-colonel occurring, I was promoted and assigned as District Chief of the Southern
Luzon District, with headquarters at the pleasant town
of Albay, under the shadow of Mayon Volcano. During
338




THE END OF A TROPIC DAY


339


my year in command of the Bicol and part of the Visayan
provinces about the only real adventure was an ascent
of that eight-thousand-foot active volcano. We very
nearly met our death, Captain Julius T. Knox and I, on
that climb. I had picked Knox up on one of my inspections
of Constabulary stations when I visited various parts of
my district by Coast Guard cutter. He was sick and
nervous after too much campaigning against the pulajanes
of bloody Samar, so I put Lieutenant Anderson off at
Pambujan, I think it was, and thereby signed his death
warrant. For Anderson was drowned a week or two later
in the rapids of some interior river of Samar. Knox
rapidly recovered with good food and a little normal
social life, and I took him with me on a reconnaissance of
Mount Mayon, which became an ascent to the summit.
The height of mountains is a relative thing. A fifteenthousand-foot peak that rises from a plateau ten thousand
feet above sea level is not apparently as high as a peak
like Mayon, which sweeps up sheer from sea level. Mayon
is one of the most perfect cones in the world, if not the
most perfect. It is even more graceful than Fuji-yama.
It is a volcano which has not yet "blown its head off."
The lower slopes are covered with plantations of abaca
or hemp to about two or three thousand feet, above
which level are cogonales of long grass and scrub with
some casuarinas; then a zone in which are found delicious blueberries; and then the mountain rises steeper and
steeper in slopes that are sliding lava, rocks, and ashesslopes that are scored here and there by gullies hundreds
of feet in depth.
Report had it that the mountain had been climbed only




340


BULLETS AND BOLOS


once or twice and that from the side opposite the town
of Albay. I reconnoitered a route on several half-day expeditions. On May 29, i909, Knox and I rode horses to
the 3500-foot level, and camped there for the night. Just
after daybreak on Decoration Day we started our climb,
never thinking that we would reach the summit on the
first ascent; but at noon, just as the cannon at the Scout
post were booming the salute, we reached the crater summit. The sulphurous steam from many vents and cracks
was mixed with a fog which enveloped the summit and
through rifts in which we saw half of southern Luzon
in colorful panorama below. We spent but a few minutes
at the summit, for it was bitterly cold to our tropicthinned blood, and, moreover, I was a little anxious about
finding the way back.
When the mist began to form I dropped bits of matches
along our trail which for the last mile or so had been over
a tumbled pile of boulders, insecurely poised on the mountain slope. For a while we followed the broken matches,
but soon we came out on an unfamiliar chute of ashes
and boulders where we began to slide rapidly down, try
though we might to diminish our speed and choose our
route. There was no hold on that steep slope. Down,
down, down we rushed in a cloud of ash-dust and with
large boulders rolling along with us apparently toward
destruction. We dug in our heels and in each hand grabbed
small rocks with which to brake our progress, but almost
without avail. Time and again we were on the edge of
ravines hundreds of feet in depth and into which our
accompanying boulders disappeared. Then we rolled away
from immediate danger and hurtled on again.




THE END OF A TROPIC DAY


341


We were about twenty minutes descending two or three
thousand feet; and when we managed to control our mad
flight and stand erect again in comparative safety on less
steep slopes we found ourselves at some distance around
the mountain from our overnight camp, toward which
we struggled painfully. So rapid had been our descent
that friction had torn off the seats of our trousers, our
heavy hiking-shoes were worn through at the heels where
we had dug into the sharp-edged lava and ashes, and our
finger-nails were torn and bleeding. I had come through
a score of engagements with babayksafes and Moros without any gray hairs; but within a day or two after the ascent of Mayon volcano there were gray hairs around my
temples.
Little of special interest occurred during my year in
command of the District of Southern Luzon, or for that
matter in the next few years as compared with the earlier
Constabulary days. Late in i909 I took several months'
leave of absence and made a journey around the world,
which was punctuated with malarial attacks as long as
I was in a cold climate. In New York in November I
entered a private hospital, and was the center of attraction because doctors found such interesting complicated
combinations of malaria in my blood, the inheritance of
Palawan, Mindanao, and other islands. In England in
December the "blasted English drizzle woke the fever in
my bones" again, and I headed south for Spain and
sunshine. I was not entirely happy until the steamer
headed through the Straits of Singapore toward the
Philippines.
On return to Constabulary headquarters in March,




342


BULLETS AND BOLOS


i9io, I was assigned to command the Constabulary School
for cadet officers at Baguio. There under the pines I met
Mrs. White to be, and married her in Manila in September, i9io. Then there was another tour of duty at Zamboanga, a year as governor of the province of Agusan in
Mindanao, and many expeditions among the liver-eating
Manobos and other wild tribes. But those later years, my
increasing ill health and final retirement from the Constabulary in I9I4, for total physical disability on a pension of $ioo a month for five years only-all that, and
my return to health and participation in the World War,
is another story.
I have told something about the Philippines and the
Filipinos; and perhaps I have achieved the distinction of
writing about the Philippines without expressing an
opinion on their inhabitants' fitness or unfitness for independence. The confidence with which the casual visitor
expresses his opinion in several hundred pages astonishes
us who have spent years among the Filipinos and the
Moros. And we usually note how the slightly informed
author on Philippine subjects confuses his facts with the
theory which he desires to expound.
There was an old Spanish friar who was reputed to
be writing a book on the Philippines. After his death
his executors found a ponderous tome with the superscription, "What I know about the Filipinos." And the
volume was blank. That was at the other extreme. I have
tried to hold the middle course and relate my own experiences and a few adventures without too many opinions.
But now, after many years away from the islands, I




THE END OF A TROPIC DAY                343
look back with a kindly fellow-feeling toward the Filipinos
and the Moros, the Manobos and the Bukidnon, among
whom my lot lay for so many years. When I read the opinions of them held by partly informed authors, the fellowfeeling is intensified so that I often feel like leaping to
their defense. The problem of the Philippines to-day is
scarcely that visualized by President McKinley and his
advisers in i898-i900. To-day the fitness of the Filipinos
for independence is not the only consideration. But, in
fairness to the Filipinos, the general economic and political necessities of the Pacific should be considered on one
side; the Filipinos' fitness should be on another page;
and future authors will speak more accurately and will
be sure of the respect of the Filipinos if they do not mix
the two pages, and do injustice to a people of as many virtues as ourselves, and perhaps not more vices.








INDEX


Abasola, Corporal, 150, 151, 153.
Aglipay, 163.
Aguinaldo, 7, 215, 317, 318, 320,
330.
Agusan, 204, 342.
Albay, 338, 340.
Ali, Datu, 214 et seq., 235, et seq.,
252,260, 290.
Allen, Gen. Henry T., U.S.A., 9,
15, i8, 28, 29, 31, 42.
Alvarez, Eduardo, I96 et seq., 202.
Ampil, Dr. Florentino, 323, 324.
Antonio Gatuslao, 148 et seq.
Apo, 214.
Atkinson, Capt., U.S.A., 50.
Babaylanes, I7, I8, 30, 33, 34, 41
et seq., 60 et seq.
Chap. X, Chap. XI, Chap. XII,
109, 11o, 126, 137 et seq., I60,
167, I75, 176, 178, i8o, 304, 341.
Bacolod, 29, 61, 8i, 1I8, 134 et
seq.
Bago River, 175, 176.
Bagobos, 190, 2I4, 303.
Baguio, 303.
Bagsak Mountain, 312, 313.
Bajaws, 248, 264, 287.
Baki, Datu, 219.
Balabadan, Datu, 219
Baladji, Panglima, 274, 275, 277,
279.
Bandholtz, Gen. Harry H., U.S.A.,
338.
Bapa-ni-manakup, 221, 238 et seq.
Barrows, Dr. David P., I40.
Basubas, Sergeant Melquiades,
37, 96, 99, 102, 103, II0.
Bataks, 318.
Batangas, 126, 326.
Bicols, 117, 193, 231, 292, 331, 339.
Bilanes, 190, 214, 255.
Bilibid Pnson, 15, I6, 8, 105, 155,


I88, 325, 327, 328, 329, 332,334,
338.
Binalbagan Valley, 33, 42 et seq.,
86, 107, 131, I46.
Bliss, Gen. Tasker H., U.S.A., 290.
Bohol, 182, 183, 187.
Bongao, 264, 281 et seq., 301.
Bowers, Capt. P. C., 106, 147.
Bud Dajo, 265, 274, 279, 289,
Chap. XXXVII.
Bukidnon, 74, 83, 92 et seq., 109,
138 et seq., 175 et seq., I90, 343.
Bundy, Maj. Omar, U.S.A., 305,
307, 309.
Cabancalan, 6i, 62, 131, 133.
Cagayan, 182 et seq.
Cagayancillo, 185.
Canlaon, 32, 42, 47, 50, 83, 87,
105, I24, 148, I49, 17I et seq.
Carpenter, Gov. Frank W., 194,
195.
Cavite, 5.
Cebu, 77, 79, 148.
Celebes Sea, 211, 220, 243, 245,
251, 264, 282, 283.
Colmenares, Inspector P. C., I59,
178.
Cotabato, 209, 214 et seq., Chap.
XXIX, Chap. XXX, 242 et
seq., 289, 290, 293, 301, 334.
Dalmacio, the Negrito, 32, Chap.
XVIII, I56, 171, I75.
Davao, 201, 203, 260, 290, 303.
De Witt, Lieut. Frank S., P. C.,
263 et seq.
Don Diego de la Vifia, 144, 145.
Dumankilas Bay, 204, 208, 209.
Duncan, Col. George B., U.S.A.,
304.
Dunleavy, F, J,, 223.


345




346


INDEX


Farrow, Dr., P. C., 254, 257.
Febiger, Col. Lea., U.S.A., 215 et
seq.
Fernandez, Private Eduardo, 94
et seq., 301, et seq., 3II.
Forbes, Gov. Gen. W. Cameron,
Chap. XXXVIII.
Frank, Lieut., P. S., 151.
Furlong, Lieut. Leonard, P. C.,
219 et seq.
Gale, Judge Herbert D., 14.
Gazic, Capt. Valeriano, 334, 335.
Gilsheuser, Lieut. Henry, P. C.,
219, 230, 334.
Guardia Civil, 22, 35, 37, 48, 87,
231
Harbord, Col. James G., U.S.A.,
184, 18, 96, 201, 202, 203,
211, 214, 253, 258, 289, 338.
Haskell, Capt., P. C., i87.
Hayson, Capt., P. C., 195, Chap.
XXV, 202, 263 et seq.
Heard, Capt., M. C., U.S.A., 259.
Heiser, Dr. Victor G., 120, 171,
317, 3I8, 320.
Herrman, Capt., P. C., Chap.
XXIII.
Himamaylan, 33 et seq., 122, 131,
148.
Hopper, Jimmy, 61, 62, I31.
Ilocano, II7, 193, 23I, 324, 330.
Iloilo, 24, 25, 54, I66, 184, 260.
Illanum Gulf, 210, 211, 212.
Inuk, Datu, 236.
Iwahig Penal Colony, 105, 171,
313, Chap. XXXVIII, Chap.
XXXIX, Chap. XL.
Iwahig River, 328.
Isabela, 33 et seq., 114, et seq.
Johnson, Capt. Frederick, P. C.,
203, 253, 254.
Johnson, Lieut., P. C., Chap.
XXIII.
Johnston, Lieut. Gordon, U.S.A.,
ol3    Sulu).
Jo16 (see Sulu).


Julian, the Guide, 68 et seq., Chap.
X, Chap. XI, Chap. XII, 138.
Katipunan, 329.
Kennon, Col. Lyman V., U.S.A.,
33, 51 et seq.
Knauber, Capt., P. C., 13, 14.
Knox, Capt. Julius T., P. C., 339,
340.
Knox, First Sergeant, U.S.A., 307,
3Io, 3II.
Kudarangan, 221, 235, 237.
La Carlota, 33, 41, 42.
La Castellana, 33, 41 et seq., 79, 81.
Lake Liguasan, 236.
Lanao, 201, 215, 290, 291.
Lanuns, 290, 292.
Lebak, 242 et seq.
Lepak Island, 264.
Locsin, Gov. Leandro, I50 et seq.,
173, 174.
Long, Capt. George D., P. C., 263,
265, 274.
Luzon, I6, 117, 189, 331 et seq.
Macabong, 67, 77 et seq., 138 et
seq.
Mac Arthur, Gen. Arthur, U.S.A.,
3.
Maguindanaw, 214 et seq., 260,
264.
Mandi, Datu, 204, 206 et seq.
Mambucal Hot Springs, 170, 171,
175.
Manobos, I90, 214, 255 et seq.,
303, 342, 343.
Mansalanao, 83 et seq., Chaps. X,
XI, XII, io8, I09, 137, 149,
25I, 301 et seq.
Margosatubig, 204 et seq., 250.
Matabalao, Datu, 249 et seq.,
Chap. XXXII.
Matsula, Datu, 238 et seq.
Mayon, 338, 339.
Miller, Lieut., E. Y., U.S.A., 319.
Mindanao, 10, 47, 139, i80 et seq.,
Chaps. XXIV, XXVI, XXVII,
231 et seq., 260 et seq., 284 et
seq., Chaps. XXXVI, XXXVII,
34I, 342.




INDEX


347


Mindoro, 318, 334, 335.
Misamis, 182, 263, 292.
Montgomery, School Supt., 171
et seq.
Moros, 140, I8o, Chap. XXIV,
Chap. XXVI et seq., 260 et seq.,
304, 342, 343.
Mustapha, Datu, 204 et seq., 250.
Murcia, 148 et seq., 170, I75.
Negros, 22 et seq., 196, 219, 232,
251, 260, 30I et seq., 334.
Negros Northern, 56, 147.
Negros Occidental, i8, 25, 28, 27,
I47, 156, 179, i8o.
Negros Oriental, 144, 145.
Negros Southern, 51, 55, 64, 68,
8I, 108, 147, 148.
Orwig, Maj., P. C., 18, 28, 32,
33, 34, 50, 60, 124, 147.
Palawan, 313, Chaps. XXXVIII,
XXXIX, 34I.
Pangiran, Datu, 273, 274, 278.
Panay, 22, 24, 26, 54, 105, 148.
Papa Isio, 33 et seq., Chaps. X,
XI, XII, 108, I09, 139, I49,
150, 334.
Pershing, Gen. John J., U.S.A.,
194, 3I2.
Piang, Datu, 235, 236, 260, 290.
Powell, Judge, 162.
Platka, Capt., P. C., 209.
Puerto Princesa, 319, 326.
Pulajanes, 68, 74, 148, i88, 339.
Rizal, 329.
Rosario, Aguedo del, 329.
Saleeby, Dr. N. M., 140, 220
(footnote).
Samar, 10, 339.
Sayary, Corporal, 306, 307, 308.
Schindel, Capt. Bayard, U.S.A.,
307.
Scott, Maj. Hugh L., U.S.A., 265,
271, 273, 274, 299, 300.
Scott, Col. W. S., P. C., 289.


Scouts Philippine, 8, 32, 36, 42 et
seq., 80, 81, 131 et seq., 170, 204.
221, 223, 293, 3I8, 326, 340.
Serafin Gatuslao, 55, et seq., 63,
8I, 82, 13I, I48.
Siasi, 263 et seq., 314.
Silay, 24, 25, 171, 172, 174.
Singson, 324 et seq.
Smith, Gov. Gen. James F., 106.
Smith, Walter A., Inspector P. C.,
28 et seq., 54, 6I, 62, 134, 152 et
seq., 167, i8o.
Sowers, Lieut. F. M., P. C., 301
et seq.
Subanuns, 190, 196, 208, 253 et
seq.
Sulu, 69, 189, I9I, 202, 215, 2I6,
231, 242, 262 et seq., 286 et seq.,
Chap. XXXVII.
Sulu Sea, 184, 264 et seq., Chap.
XXXV.
Taft, Gov. Gen. Wm. H., 3, 28, 31,
32, I55.
Tagalos, 193, 231, 292, 323, 326,
329, 331.
Tagbanua, 317, 318, 331.
Tagbilaran, I82 et seq.
Talayan, 224 et seq., 249, 253 et
seq.
Taluksungay, 198, 294, 295.
Tapul, 216, 273 et seq.
Taylor, Col. Wallace, P. C., 145,
182 et seq.
Tawi-Tawi, 264, 286.
Tirurayes, 214, 246, 247, 254 et
seq.
Tucuran, 210, 211, 212.
Utu, Datu, 215, 238.
Valle Hermosa, 144, 145, 178, I79.
Van Horn, Capt. R. O., U.S.A.,
223 et seq., 238, 242, 253.
Visayan, 193, 231, 292, 339.
Visayas, 20, 21, 156, 189.


Warren, Inspector of Telegraph
Division, 123.




348                       INDEX
Wood, Gen. Leonard, U.S.A., 189,  Yusay, Judge Estanislao, I50, 156,
195, 196, 197, 202, 2I4, 2i6,    i62, 173.
221, 222, 24I, 258, 290, 300.  Zamboanga,    82,  85, Chap.
Zamboanga, 182, 185, Chap.
XXIV, Chap. XXV, 204, 231,
Young, Lieut., U.S.A., 79.         253, 290, 303, 313, 314, 342.
73
70 172            A AA 30.








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