The Great White Tribe in Filipinia Part 9

The army officers and their families still form the aristocracy of the Philippines. While army life is not all like Camp Wallace and the gay Luneta, in the larger posts throughout the provinces, both the officers and soldiers are housed very comfortably. The clubhouse down at Zamboanga has a pavilion running out over the water, where the ladies sit at night, or where refreshments are served after the concert by the band. Although their ways are not the ways of the civilian; although to them the possibilities of Jones's promotion from the bottom of the list seems of a paramount importance, you will not find anywhere so loyal and hospitable a cla.s.s of people as the army officers. Whatever little jealousies they entertain among themselves are overshadowed by the fact that "he" or "she" is of the "service." And the soldiers, rough as they are, and slovenly compared to the red-coated soldiers of Great Britain, or the gray-coated troopers of the German army, are beyond doubt the finest fighting men in all the world.

Chapter XIV.

Padre Pedro, Recoleto Priest.--The Routine of a Friar in the Philippines.

It might have been the dawn of the first day in Eden. I was awakened by the music of the birds and sunlight streaming through the convent window. Heavily the broad leaves of _abaca_ drooped with the morning dew. Only the roofs of a few _nipa_ houses could be seen. The _tolo_-trees, like j.a.panese paG.o.das, stretched their horizontal arms against the sky. The mountains were as fresh and green as though a storm had swept them and cleared off again. They now seemed magnified in the transparent air.

All in the silence of the morning I went down to where the tropical river glided between primeval banks and under the thick-plated overhanging foliage. The water was as placid as a sheet of gla.s.s. A spirit of mystery seemed brooding near. As yet the sun's rays had not penetrated through the canopy of leaves. A lonely fisherman sat on the bank above, lost in his dreams. Down by the ford a native woman came to draw water in a bamboo tube. I half expected her to place a lighted taper on a tiny float, and send it spinning down the stream, as is the custom of the maidens on the sacred river Ganges. In the silence of the morning, in the heart of nature, thousands of miles away from telegraphs and railroads, where the brilliant-feathered birds dipped lightly into the unruffled stream, the place seemed like a sanctuary, a holy of holies, pure, immaculate, and undefiled.

The padre had arisen at six. At his command the sacristans ascended the bell-tower and proceeded to arouse the town. The padre moved about his dark, bare room. Rare Latin books were scattered around the floor. His richly embroidered vestments hung on a long line. The room was cluttered with the lumber of old crucifixes, broken images of saints, and gilded floats, considerably battered, with the candlesticks awry. The floor and the walls were bare. There was a large box of provisions in the corner, filled with imported sausages done up in tinfoil, bottles of sugar, tightly sealed to keep the ants from getting in, small cakes of Spanish chocolate, bottles of of olives and of rich communion wine. Donning his white robe, he went out to the ante-room, where, on the table spread with a white napkin, stood a cup of chocolate and a package of _La Hebra_ cigarettes.

There was a scamper of bare feet as the whole force of dirty house-boys, sacristans, and cooks rushed in to kneel and kiss the padre's hand and to receive his blessing. When he had finished the thick chocolate, one of the boys brought in a gla.s.s of water, fresh and sparkling from a near-by mountain stream. Then Padre Pedro lighted his cigarette, and read in private for a little while before the morning ma.s.s began. Along the narrow pathway (for there were no streets) a string of women in black veils was slowly coming to the church. Stopping before the door, they bowed and made the sign of the cross. Then they went in and knelt down on the hard tiles. The padre's full voice, rising and falling with the chant, flooded the gloomy interior, where pencils of sunlight slanted through the apertures of the unfinished wall, and fell upon the drowsy wilderness outside.

Returning from the ma.s.s, the padre refreshed himself with a small gla.s.s of gin-and-water, as his custom was; nor could the appeal of any one persuade him to take more than a single gla.s.s or to take that at an earlier or later hour. The ancient _maestra_ had arrived--a wrinkled old body in a black dress and black carpet-slippers--and she knelt down to touch the padre's outstretched hand with her thin, withered lips. The little children, who were waiting for their cla.s.ses to be called, all followed her example, and before long, the monotonous drone of the recitations left no doubt that school had actually begun. Benches had filled up, and the dusky feet were swinging under them as the small backs bent over knotty problems on the slates.

The padre, pa.s.sing among the pupils, made the necessary erasures and corrections, and occasionally gave unasked to some recalcitrant a smart snap on the head. The morning session ended by the pupils lining up in a half circle around the battered figure of a saint--the altar decorated with red paper flowers, or colored gra.s.ses in a number of empty beer-bottles--and, while the padre played the wheezy harmonium, singing their repertoire of sacred songs. Then, as the children departed with the "_Buenos dias, senor_," visitors, who had been waiting on the stairway with their presents of eggs, chickens, and bananas, were received.

"Thees man," the padre explained to me, as a grotesque old fellow humbled himself before us, "leeves in one house near from ze sh.o.r.e. He has presented me with some goud rope to tie my horses with (_buen piece, hombre_), and he says that there are no more fishes in ze sea."

"See, they have brought so many breads and fruits! They know well that eet ees my fast-day, and that my custom ees to eat no meat. I can eat fish or cheecken, but not fish _and_ cheecken; eet ees difficult here to find enough food to sustain ze life on days of fast."

"Thees girl," he said, "loves me too much. She is my orphan, she and her two brothers. I have bought one house for them near from ze church, and, for the girl, one sewing-machine. Their mother had been stealed [robbed] of everything, and she had died a month ago. Ze cheeldren now have n.o.body but me."

She was a bright young girl, well-dressed and plump, although, when Padre Pedro had received her, she was wasted by the fever, and near starved to death. But this was only one of his many charities. He used to loan out money to the people, knowing well that they would never be able to return it. He had cured the sick, and had distributed quinine among families that could not have secured it otherwise. He went to visit his paris.h.i.+oners, although they had no means of entertaining him. Most of them even had no chairs for him to sit on when he came, and they would stand around in such embarra.s.sed silence that the padre could not have derived much pleasure from their company.

At the padre's "_aver, bata!_" after the last visitor has gone, the house-boys run in with the noon meal. The padre had a good cook, who understood the art of fixing the provisions in the Spanish style. I was surprised at the resources of the parish; for a meal of ten or fifteen courses was the usual thing. A phalanx of barefooted waiters stood in line to take the plates when we had finished the respective courses, broth, mutton stew, and chicken, and bananas for dessert. The padre, I am sorry to say, ate with his knife, and was inclined to gobble. Two yellow dogs and a lean cat stood by to gulp the morsels that were thrown them from the table. When the dinner was completed, a large tumbler of water and a toothpick were brought on. After a smoke the padre took his customary nap, retiring to the low, cane-bottomed bed, where he intrenched himself behind mosquito-bars.

The convent was a rambling building, with adobe walls. It was raised up on pillars as long as telegraph poles, and the ground floor was divided into various apartments. There was the "_calaboos_," where Padre Pedro's chickens were encouraged to "put" eggs. There were the stables for the padre's ponies, and a large bamboo stockade for pigs and chickens. The little friar took a lively interest in this corral, and he would feed his stock with his own hand from the convent window. "Ze leetle goat," he said, "eet ees my mind to send to Father Cipriano for a geeft." The sucking pig was being saved for Easter-time, when it should be well roasted on a spit, with a banana in its mouth. There were just sixty-seven chickens, and the padre used to count them every day and notice their peculiarities.

During the afternoon the padre's time was taken up by various religious duties, and the school was left in charge of the old _maestra_. There would be a funeral service at the church, or a baptism, or confession. Some days he would be called away to other _barrios_ to hear a last confession; but the distance or the weather never daunted him, and he would tuck his gown well up, and, followed by a sacristan, ride merrily away. On his return a cup of pasty chocolate would await him. Padre Pedro used to make a certain egg-fizz which was a refres.h.i.+ng drink of a long afternoon. The eggs were lashed into a froth by means of a bamboo brush twisted or rolled between the palms. The beauty of this beverage was that you could drain the cup, and, like the miracle of loaves and fishes, stir the batter up again, and have another drink of the same quality. "When Padre Cipriano comes here," said the friar, "eet ees very gay. Ah! Cipriano, he can make the foam come up three times. He knows well how to make thees drink."

When he would take his ebony cane and go out walking about sunset, followed by his yellow dog, the village people, young and old, would tumble over each other in their eagerness to kiss the father's hand. He would mischievously tweak the noses of the little ones, or pat the tiny girls upon the head. The friend of the lowly, he had somehow incensed the upper ten. But he had shown his nerve one Sunday morning when he had talked down one of these braggadocios who had leveled a revolver at him in the church.

The little padre was as brave as he was "game." He was a fearless rider, and there were few afternoons when we were not astride the ponies, leaping the streams and ditches in the rice-pads, swimming the fords, and racing along the beach, and it was always the little priest that set the pace. One evening he received a message from the father superior of that vicinity, old Padre Jose, living ten or fifteen miles up the road in an unpacified community. The notice was imperative, and only said to "come immediately, and as soon as possible."

Padre Jose was eighty years old, and he had been in Mindanao nearly all his life. He spoke Visayan better than the natives, and he understood the Filipinos just as though each one of them had been his child. He had been all around the island and among the pagan tribes who saw their spirits in the trees and streams. He had been back to Spain just once, and he had frozen his fingers over there. As I remember him, he was a dear, grandmotherly old fellow, in a long black gown, who bustled around so for us (we had stopped there on a certain expedition), cooking the eggs himself, and cutting the tough bologna, holding the gla.s.s of _moscatel_ so lovingly up to the light before he offered it, that I almost expected him to bring forth crullers, tea, and elderberry pie. His convent was at that time occupied by the munic.i.p.al authorities; and so he lived in a small _nipa_ house with his two dogs, his Latin library, and the sacristans who at night slept scattered about the floor. The local conditions were unsettled at this time. The garrison at Surigao had been attacked by the so-called ladrones. Night messages were flying to and fro. Padre Jose's summons seemed a harbinger of trouble. But, in spite of the fact that Padre Pedro had been sick for several days, he obeyed the command of his superior like any soldier, and at midnight saddled the ponies, tucked a revolver under his gown, and started at a gallop down the road. When he arrived at Father Jose's house, nothing serious was found to be the matter. Only the dear old soul was lonesome and had wanted company.

Often at evening we would sit on the veranda till the evening star appeared--"the star that the shepherds know well; the precurser of the moon"--and then the angelus would ring, and Padre Pedro would stand up and doff his cap, and, after a moment spent in silent prayer, "That is good-night,'" he used to say, and then we would go in for dinner. Dinner was served at eight o'clock, and was as formal an affair as the noon meal. The evening would be spent at study, for the padre was a scholar of no mean ability. He had translated some of Stockton's stories into the Visayan language. Speaking of Stockton, Padre Pedro said that he "knew well the spirit of your countrymen." His work was frequently disturbed by the _muchachos_ running in with sums that they had finished on their slates; but the padre never showed the least impatience at these interruptions.

Sometimes the "musickers" would come, and, crowding around the little organ, practice the chants for some _fiesta_ day. The princ.i.p.al "musicker" was a grotesque old fellow, with enormous feet, and gla.s.ses rimmed with tortoise-sh.e.l.l. He looked so wise when he was poring over the ma.n.u.script in the dim candle-light that he reminded one of an intelligent gorilla. One of his a.s.sistants, meanwhile, would be making artificial flowers, which were to decorate the battered floats to be used in the festival procession on the morrow, carried aloft upon the shoulders of the men, sparkling with lighted tapers, while the bells up in the tower would jangle furiously. Or there would be a conference with his secretary in regard to the town records, which that functionary kept in the big book.

One night the padre was called out to attend one who, as was explained to me, was bitten by a "fool" dog. On entering the poorly-lighted shack, we found, surrounded by a gaping crowd, the victim foaming at the mouth. He had indeed been bitten by a "fool" dog, and he died a few hours afterwards, as we could do but little to relieve his suffering.

We spent the remainder of the evening looking over the long ma.s.s for Easter Sunday. And the padre said navely, "Will it not be necessary that I take one beer when I have reached this place, and then I can continue with the ma.s.s?" He looked back fondly to the days when he had sung his part in the antiphony in the magnificent cathedral at Manila.

The town was always at the friar's service. And no wonder! Had he not sent all the way to Manila for a Christmas box of goodies for the schoolboys,--figs, and raisins, and preserves? I caught him gloating over them one evening--when he gave his famous supper of roast kid and frosted cake for his American guests from the army post--and he had offered us a taste of these almost forgotten luxuries. How he antic.i.p.ated the delight he had in store for all the boys! Then in the time of cholera, when the disease invaded even the convent, although a young man, Padre Pedro never left his post.

The only time I ever knew him to complain was when the people came in hundreds to confession. The confession-box was too hot, and the breath of the penitents offensive. "Eet ees a work of charity," he said; "they pay me nothing--nothing." The priest was only human when he feigned the toothache in order to secure a transfer to Cebu. The little station in the wilderness was too monotonous. He packed his effects in secret, fearing that the people would discover his intention and detain him. The father superior had granted him a leave of absence. His suspicions had not been aroused. When he had reached Cebu the _freile_ would be under different authority, and it was even possible that he be stationed in Manila or returned to Spain. He had not seen his parents for ten years, but his education had prepared him for a life of sacrifice. For the first time he felt neglected and forgotten. On arriving at the trading port, he learned that his paris.h.i.+oners had found him out. They sent a delegation to entreat him to remain. The little padre's heart was touched. "They love me too much," he said, "and they have n.o.body but me."

My friend the padre might have been an exception to the general rule. He was a "Friar in the Philippines," a member of a much-maligned religious order. Still I have met a number of their priests and bishops, and have found them charming and delightful men. They are such hospitable entertainers that they have been frequently imposed upon by traveling Americans, who take the convents for hotels, regardless of the public sentiment. It was the friars of San Augustin who, in 1565, subdued and pacified the Cebuanos when the arms of Spain availed but little. It was the _Freile_ Pedro de San Augustin, the "fighting padre," who, in 1639, defeated the lake Moros. And, in 1754, a Spanish freile, Father Ducos, commanding the fleet of Iligan, defeated the armada of the Moro pirates, killing about a thousand of these buccaneers.

Of course there have been friars good and bad. But "Father Peter,"

though he might have had good cause to dislike the Americans, had always expressed the greatest admiration for them. They were "political" (diplomatic) men. His mastering the English language was a compliment to us such as few Spaniards have seen fit to pay. He might have been narrow in religious matters, but, above all, he was conscientious. While he could bathe his hands or face in the Aloran River, he could not go in. His education was a Spartan one, and narrowing in its influences. All the society that he had ever had was that of a hundred students with the same ideals and inclinations as his own. The reputation of the friars in the Philippines has been depreciated by the conduct of the native priests. There was a padre named Pastor, an arrant coward, and wholly ignorant and superst.i.tious. Sly old fox, he used to bet his last cent on the c.o.c.k-fights, hiding up in the back window of Don Julian's. Once, on a drunken spree, he let a layman wear his gown and rosary. The natives, showing more respect for the sacred vestments than the priest had shown, went out to kiss the hand of him who wore the robe. The work of the friars can be more appreciated by comparing the civilization of the Christian natives with the state of the barbarians and pagans. Whatever its defects may be, instead of the head-hunters and the idol-wors.h.i.+pers, the Filipino who has come within the influence of Spanish priests, though often lavish and improvident, is neat, polite, and sociable. But the friars can do better still. If they would use their influence to abolish the c.o.c.k-fights Sunday afternoon, and try to co-operate more with the civil government in the matter of public education, they would find that there is plenty of work to be done yet. But some of the accusations against the friars are unfair. Extortion is a favorite charge against them; but it must be kept in mind that there are no pew-rents or voluntary contributions, and that Spain has now withdrawn the financial support that she once gave. The Church must be maintained through fees derived from weddings, funerals, and christenings. And if the Filipino, in his pa.s.sion for display and splendor, orders a too expensive funeral, he has only himself, and not the priest, to blame. Indeed, the friars can derive but little benefit from a rich treasury, because, when absent from their parishes, they are allowed to have no money of their own. All of the funds remaining after the expenses of the Church are paid must be sent to the general treasury. The padre in his convent has the use of the Church money for his personal needs and charities, but nevertheless he is expected to make large returns each year. Perhaps, then, after all, the friars--Padre Pedro, anyway--are not so black as they are painted.

Chapter XV.

General Rufino in the Moro Country.

Introduction.

The story of Rufino's expedition to the Moro country in the summer of 1901 reads like a chapter from _Anabasis_. It has to do with _Capitan_ Isidro's curious experiences as a hostage in the home of Datto Amay Bancurong, at Lake Lanao. It deals with the last chapter in the history of two American deserters, Morgan and Miller, of the Fortieth United States volunteers, who, under General Rufino, served as officers--soldiers of fortune in a lost campaign--and who, as a last tribute of the treachery and faithlessness of those they served, received their death-blows at the hands of Filipinos who had caught them off their guard.

The information published by Rufino shortly after his surrender has been valuable to the officers of our own army who are now exploring the mysterious interior of Mindanao. _Capitan_ Isidro's intimacy with the Moros during the long period of his captivity should render his interpretation of the character, the life, and customs of this savage tribe authoritative. General Rufino, being one of the last _Insurrectos_ to surrender, has not been as yet rewarded by the Government. This fact will be of consequence in case of any further outbreak on the northern coast of Mindanao. General Rufino lingers still about the scene of his exploit, and may be met with almost any time in Oroquieta, or, still better, in the sullen and revengeful village of Palilan, near the border of the Moro territory.

Rufino's Narrative.

We left Mount Liberdad on June 1, 1901, with eighteen officers, and privates to the number of four hundred and forty-two. Our destination was the town of Uato, on the sh.o.r.e of Lake Lanao, where, in obedience to our instructions from the Filipino _junta_ at Hong Kong, we were to arrange a conference with the leading dattos in regard to an alliance of the Filipino and the Moro forces to conduct a joint campaign against the American army of invasion.

Among our officers were two deserters from I company of the Fortieth United States volunteers, Morgan and Miller, who were mere adventurers, and who desired to clear the country and embark for Africa. Morgan was supposed to have been wanted for some criminal offense in the United States. He claimed to have deserted as a consequence of punishments received by him which he considered to be undeserved. His comrade Miller followed him; but I have heard that Morgan took it hard because his friend had followed such a questionable lead. An understanding had been previously arranged between our officers and Morgan, so that when the latter left the lines at Oroquieta we received him and his comrade at Aloran, six miles north.

Our first stop was to be at Lintogout, a station on the river by the same name, that flows into the long estuary that divides our country from the Moro territory. As you can see, our march was very rough. The mountain chain, of which Mount Liberdad, Mount Rico, and Mount Esperenza are the most important peaks, is very wild and hazardous. A few miles from the coast the country breaks into ravines and hills. There are no villages; no depots for supplies. The trails are almost imperceptible, and can be followed only by the most experienced _Montesco_ guides. Back in the mountains there are many natural strongholds, which are practically inaccessible. The mountain wall, with its Plutonic canons and precipitous descents, wrapped in a chilly fog, continually towered above us on the west.

To add to our embarra.s.sments, we were hara.s.sed by a detachment of United States troops that had been pursuing us. Their plan was to close in upon us in two sections, from the front and rear. Near Lintogout we came to an engagement with Lieutenant Patterson's command. My army was by this time seriously crippled. We had lost one hundred and forty men the previous day by desertion. The deserting men, however, did not take their arms. Lieutenant Patterson's command must have been quite exhausted, for they camped at night on a plateau along the precipice, where an attack by us would have been inadvisable. The troops were new and untried; the experience for them was something they had not antic.i.p.ated. Yet they kept at it stubbornly, slinging their carbines on their backs, and climbing up hand over hand in places where they had lost the trail. Their guides were evidently somewhat of a puzzle to them, as the Montese idea of distance is indefinite. "When I have finished this cigar we will be there," they say; and "_poco distancia_"

with them means often many miles.

We were not inconvenienced much by the engagement. Our American lieutenants superintended the construction of intrenchments, back of which we lay, and fired a volley at the enemy. At their advance our army scattered, and a number of our soldiers, taking inexcusable advantage of the opportunity, deserted. On the next day we set out, reduced in numbers to two hundred and fifty-two. None of our men were killed or wounded in the fight.

We then proceeded overland to Lake Lanao, the journey occupying sixteen days, during which time the army had no rice, but had to exist entirely on the native fruits. Our tardiness in reaching Lake Lanao was caused by two attacks by Moros, June 15th. In order to avoid this enemy we made a detour, coming dangerously near the coast at Tucuran. At Tucuran three men deserted. Thence our march led inland to Bacayan, following the south sh.o.r.e of the lake. Before we reached Bacayan we were met (June 29th and 30th) by Dattos Casiang and Pindalonan, with their combined forces. Our side lost two killed, three wounded (who were taken captive); and the Moros, thirteen killed, three wounded. Arriving at Bacayan July 1st, we waited there twelve days.

Then we set out along the south sh.o.r.e to Uato on the lake, which place we reached without engagement on the nineteenth of July. We stopped at Uato ten days, there borrowing $500 "Mex" from Datto Bancurong. We were obliged to leave Captain Isidro Rillas with the datto for security. The very money that we now were borrowing the Moros had received from us for their protection during our campaign, and for their promising not to molest us all the time that we were in their territory. Having loaned us money, they now sold us rice, in which negotiation, just as in the former one, they took advantage of our helplessness. The deal, however, was a necessary one, because the army had been for a long time without funds or rations. Leaving Uato we proceeded to Liangan, on the north coast, opposite Tudela (on the Jolo Sea). We left the Moro country on the recommendation of the two American deserters, who had been dissatisfied for some time at the turn affairs were taking.

We were attacked the first day out of Uato by the combined forces of three powerful dattos, who had previously borrowed rifles from us on the pretext of desiring to kill game. The engagement lasted until sunset. Of the Moros, ten were killed and many wounded. Night coming on, the enemy withdrew for re-enforcements. They returned the next day several thousand strong, and would have utterly annihilated us (for we were worn by fever and starvation) had it not been for Datto Bandia's advice, which finally discouraged the attack.