Part 10 (2/2)
We stretched our army cots that night in the roulette room (this is not a country of hotels), and to the rattle of the b.a.l.l.s and the monotonous drone of the croupier, ”'teen and the red wins,” dropped off to sleep. On the day following the _Dr. Hans_ dropped in with Generals Wade and Sumner, and the jingle of the cavalry was heard as they rode out with mounted escort to inspect the operations of the road. After a dance and a reception at the residence of the commanding officer in honor of the visitors, ”guard mount,” the social feature of the day, was viewed from the pavilion in the little plaza where the exercise takes place. Its dignity was sadly marred that evening when a Moro datto, self-important in an absurd, overwhelming hat, accompanied by an obedient old wife on a moth-eaten Filipino pony, and a dog, ignoring everybody, jogged along the street and through the lines.
I walked out to the camp next morning with Lieutenant Harris. Even for this short stretch the road was not considered altogether safe. We forded the small river just beyond the cavalry corral, where an old Spanish blockhouse stands, and where a few old-fas.h.i.+oned Spanish cannon still lie rusting in the gra.s.s. A Moro fis.h.i.+ng village--now a few deserted shacks around the more pretentious dwelling of the former datto--may be met near where the roadway joins the beach. Pack-trains of army mules, with their armed escorts, pa.s.sed us; then an ambulance, an escort wagon, and a mounted officer.
Two companies of the Tenth infantry were camped in a small clearing near the sea. Leaving the camp, we went along the almost indistinguishable Moro trail to where the mighty Agus River plunges in a greenish torrent over an abrupt wall into the deep, misty cavern far below. The rus.h.i.+ng of the waters guided us in places where we found the trail inadequate. Arriving at the falls, we scrambled down by means of vines until we reached a narrow shelf near where the cataract began its plunge. Upon the opposite side an unyielding precipice was covered with a damp green coat of moss and fern. It took five seconds for a falling stone to reach the seething cloud of mist below.
The trail back to the camp was very wild. It led through jungles of dense underbrush, where monkeys scolded at us, and where wild pigs, with startled grunts, bolted precipitously for the thicket. A deep ravine would be bridged by a fallen tree. The Iligan-Marahui road now penetrates the wildest country in the world, and the most wonderful. Turning abruptly from the coast about five miles from Iligan, it winds among the rocky hills through forests of mahogany and ebony, through jungles of rattan and young bamboo, and spanning the swift Agus River with a modern steel bridge, finally connects the lake and sea. It has been built to meet the military road from the south coast, thus making possible, for the first time, communication _via_ the interior. The new roads practically follow the old Moro trails.
The scene at early morning on the road was one of great activity. Soon after reveille the men are mustered, armed with picks and shovels in the place of the more customary ”Krag,” and long before the tropic sun has risen over the primeval woods, the chatter of monkeys and the crow of jungle-c.o.c.k is mingled with the crash of trees, the click of shovels and the rumble of the dump-cart. The continued blasting on the upper road, near the ”Point of Rocks,” disturbs the colonies of squawking birds that dart into the forest depths like flashes of bright color. As the land is cleared for fifty yards on either side in order to admit the sunlight and to keep the Moras at a proper range, the great macao-trees, with their snaky, parasitic vines, on cras.h.i.+ng to the ground, dislodge the pallid fungi and extraordinary orchids from their heavy foliage. Deep cuts into the clayey soil sometimes bisect whole galleries of wonderful white ants, causing untold consternation to the occupants.
Each squad of soldiers was protected by a guard besides the officer, who, armed with a revolver, acted as the overseer. The work was very telling on the men, and often out of a whole company not more than twenty-eight reported. Some grew as strong as oxen under this unusual routine; others had to take advantage of the sick report. The soldiers were required to work five hours a day, and double time after a day of rain. Considerable Moro labor was employed on the last sections of the road.
A unique feature of the work was the erection of small bridges made of solid logs from the material at hand, and bolted down by long steel bars. The ”elbow” bridge which makes a bend along the hillside near the first camp is a triumph in the engineering line. The camps were moved on as the work progressed, and the advance guard ran considerable risk. The Moros had an unexpected way of visiting the scene of operation, and admiring it from certain hiding-places in the woods. As they could hike their thirty or forty miles a day along the trails, they often came much nearer to the troops than was suspected. Sentry duty was especially a risky one, as frequently at night the Moros used to fire into the camp. Only about one hundred yards along the trail a soldier, who had gone into the woods for a ”short cut,” received one from a Moro who was waiting for him in the shadow of a tree.
The camp at night, illuminated by the blue light of the stars, the forest casting inky shadows on the ground, seemed like some strange, mysterious domain. The officers around the tent of the commanding officer were singing songs, accompanied by the guitar and mandolin. The soldiers also from a distant tent--it was their own song, and the tune ”The Girl I Left Behind Me”--practicing close harmony, began:
”O, we're camped in the sand in a foreign land Near the mighty Agus River, With the brush at our toes, the skeeters at our nose, The jimjams and the fever.
We're going up to Lake Lanao, To the town they call Marahui; When the road is built and the Moros killed, We'll none of us be sorry.
We're blasting stumps and grading b.u.mps; Our arms and backs are sore, O!
We work all day just a dreamin' of our pay, And d----n the husky Moro!
When taps sounded, we turned in beneath two blankets in a wall-tent lighted by a feeble lantern. All night long the restless jungle sounds, the whispering of the mysterious forest, and the distant booming of the sea, together with the measured tread of the night sentry, made a lullaby which ought to have worked wonders with the ”jim-jam”
and the fever patients of the Twenty-eighth.
Chapter XVII.
The Filipino at Play.
As in the pre-Elizabethan days the public amus.e.m.e.nts consisted of performances by priests and monks on scaffolding set up before the church, mystery plays, ”moralities,” and ”miracles,” religious pageants through the village streets,--so in the Philippines, where they have not outlived the fourteenth century, the Church plays an important part in popular _fiestas_. The Christmas holidays are celebrated still by carol singing from house to house, and by the presentation of the old-time ”mystery” by strolling bands of actors, with a wax-doll to represent the Sacred Child.
Each town, besides the regular church holidays--as indicated by innumerable red marks in the calendar--has a _fiesta_ for its patron saint, which is of more importance even than the ”Feast of Aguinaldo” (”Aguinaldo” is their word for ”Christmas present”), which is held annually in December. One of these _fiestas_ is announced by the ringing of the church-bells--big bells and little bells all turning somersaults, and being banged as they go round. During the intermissions the munic.i.p.al band discourses Spanish and Visayan music, coming to the end with a triumphant bang. Only on Holy Friday are the bells abandoned and tin pans and bamboo clappers, sticks and stones, resorted to for purposes of lamentation--functions for which these instruments are perfectly adapted.
People come in from far and near, riding in _bancas_ or on ponies, often spending several nights upon the way. The great church at the morning ma.s.s is crowded; women faint; and, as the heat increases, it becomes a steaming oven. It is more spectacular at vespers, with the women kneeling among the goats and dogs; the men, uncovered, standing in the shadows of the gallery; the altar sparkling with a hundred candles; and the dying sunlight filtering through mediaeval windows. As the resinous incense odor fills the house, through the wide-open doors the sun can be seen setting in its tropical magnificence behind a grove of palms.
Then the procession, in a haze of dust--led by the band, the padre, and the acolytes; the sacred relics borne aloft on floats encircled by a blaze of candles; young men holding each other's hands; children and old women following, holding their tapers and reciting prayers--files through the streets to the eternal clamor of the bells.
The afternoon is given up to tournaments--carabao races, pony races, _banca_ races, c.o.c.k-fights. Bamboo arches, decorated with red banners, are erected in the larger thoroughfares, and under these the hors.e.m.e.n ride together at full tilt, attempting to secure upon their lances the suspended rings which are the favors of the local _senoritas_. On dropping in at that volcanic little town, Mambajo, one hot afternoon, I found a goose hung up upon the bamboo framework which became the property of the compet.i.tor who, riding under it _ventre a terre_, could seize the prize, regardless of the feelings of the goose. The village had turned out in holiday attire, as the dense atmosphere of cocoanut-oil and perfumery proclaimed. The band, in white pith helmets and new linen uniforms, was playing under the mimosa-tree. Down the main road a struggling crowd of wheelmen came, and from a cloud of dust the winner of the mile bicycle-race shot past the tape. The difficulty in the carabao event was to stick on to the broad, clumsy animal, during the gallop around the course. One of the beasts, excited by the shouts, began to run amuck, and cut a swathe in the distracted crowd as clean as an ungovernable automobile might have made.
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