Part 10 (1/2)

Piang had been given the honor of renaming the boats. The smallest one bore the name of his mother, Minka. The next was dedicated to the memory of his tribe's greatest hero, Dato Ali, and characteristically, on the bow of the flags.h.i.+p, beneath the boy's feet, glittered the bright gold letters, ”P-I-A-N-G.”

EIGHTH ADVENTURE

THE JURAMENTADO GUNBOAT

The transport _Seward_ was approaching Jolo. Far in the distance the sunset tinged the coast with myriads of delicate tints, softening the harsh outline of the jungle. A flock of wild pigeons hovering over the town, suggested domestic peace, which was far from the actual state of affairs in that hotbed of intrigue. Gla.s.ses were trained on the isolated garrison, a mere speck of civilization, hurled at the foot of the jungle, and the excited tourists covered themselves with glory by their foolish questions.

Queer, dark-skinned people in dirty, many-colored garments, looking like a rainbow fallen in disgrace, greeted the newcomers in sullen silence, their disapproval very evident. A quarantine officer boarded and asked for the young lieutenant who was to join the Siasi garrison.

”h.e.l.lo, Lewis! There is some uprising in Basilan. Jekiri again, I guess. They want you up at headquarters immediately.”

The chug-chug of the engine was the only sound as the trim little gunboat _Sabah_ slipped along. Lewis had been given command of a squad of cavalry and ordered to proceed to Basilan to put down any outbreak that might threaten. ”Juramentado,” was whispered, and his orders were not to allow the troops to become involved but to quell any trouble that was brewing.

”A pretty big order for a shave-tail (greenhorn) Lewis,” General Beech had said at parting, ”but I bet you and that dark shadow of yours will make good.” The hearty handclasp and kind smile warmed the young officer's heart. General Beech was unusually young for his post as division commander, and he had endeared himself to his followers by his kindly manner and dignified directness, and Lewis would have faced death for him.

”Thank you, sir,” was all that he said, and ”the dark shadow” salaamed according to his custom.

That night as the Americans swung along under the dome of brilliant stars, a question arose as to the meaning of juramentado.

”Piang,” Lieutenant Lewis said, ”tell us about this custom of your people, won't you?”

Bashfully the boy hung his head and wriggled his toes. He was ashamed of his fierce people since the good American had taken him into his home, but they prevailed upon him to explain, and among them they gathered the following story from his funny, broken English:

When a Moro wearies of life and wishes to take a short cut to paradise, he bathes in a holy spring, shaves his eyebrows, clothes himself in white and is blessed by the pandita. The oath he takes is called _juramentar_ (die killing Christians), and he arms himself with his wicked knife and starts forth. Selecting a gathering, well sprinkled with Christians, he begins his deadly work, and as long as he breathes, he hews right and left. Piang told them that he had seen one strong Moro juramentado pierced by a bayonet, drive the steel further into himself, in order to reach the soldier at the other end of the gun, whom he cut in two before he died.

The horror on the faces of his listeners made Piang pause, but they urged him on.

”Since we are headed toward Jekiri's sanctum, I guess it behooves us to get all the dope goin' about these fellows,” interjected a recruit.

Piang's big, black eyes filled with mystery when he described how the juramentado rides to the abode of the blessed on a shadowy, white horse, taller than a carabao, just as dusk is falling. Indeed, he a.s.sured them that he had seen this very phenomenon himself and s.h.i.+vered at the recollection of the unnatural chill and damp that crept through the jungle while the spirit was pa.s.sing.

”Bosh, Piang, you mustn't believe those fairy tales now. You are a good American.”

”Sure, me good American, now,” grinned the boy.

There is nothing to differentiate the island of Basilan from the many others in the Sulu group. The natives seemed far from hostile, however, and Lieutenant Lewis remarked upon their docility to Sergeant Greer.

”Don't let 'em fool you, sir; they're not to be trusted,” he replied.

”Oh, Sergeant, I think we are all too scared of the dirty beggars. If we ever stop dodging them, they will stop lying in wait for us.”

The old man's face did not reveal his misgivings, but he wondered where this young upstart would lead the men and inwardly cursed the war department for sending troops into the jungle under the command of a baby. He was soon to change his opinion of this particular ”baby.”

Camp was pitched near the water's edge in a tall cocoanut grove that supplied them with food and water as well as shade. The ch.o.r.es over, liberty was granted to explore the island. The sergeant shook his head; he seemed to feel the inexperience of the new officer and overstepped the bounds of discipline when he warned him again of the treachery of the natives, advising him to keep the men in camp.

”That will do, Sergeant,” replied the lieutenant. The old man stiffened into a salute, wheeled, and disappeared down the company street.