Part 8 (2/2)

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

The only one of all his friends who did not fall away from him was one, a little, catlike cavalry lieutenant, booted and spurred, and always dressed in khaki riding-breeches, never saying much, but generally considered the most popular young officer in all the service. And there was one other faithful one, but not an officer. The ”striker,”

who had followed him in many a hard hike, and had learned to admire his courage and to consider him infallible, tried for the sake of the young Southern girl, to keep his master from the wretched drink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”There once was a Philippine _hombre_; Ate _guinimos_, rice, and _legombre_; His pants they were wide, And his s.h.i.+rt hung outside; But this, you must know, is _cos...o...b..e_.

He lived in a _nipa balay_ That served as a stable and sty.

He slept on a mat With the dog and the cat, And the rest of the family near by.

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

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

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

Social wants are small and few; All the ladies smoke and chew, And do other things they ought to know are wrong.

_Presidentes_ cut no ice, For they live on fish and rice, And the soldier sings his evening song.”

There is another stanza, but the song about the ”Brown Tagalog Girl”

demands attention:

”I've a _babay_, in a _balay,_ Down in the province of Rizal.

She's nice and neat, dainty and sweet; She's ma little brown Tagalog gal.”

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