War Alarms and the Suffering Poor
A Surprise Party of Bolo-Men—Forty Insurrectos Arrive in Our Neighborhood—Anecdotes of Encounters with Insurgents—Anxiety Because of Treachery of the Natives—A False Alarm—Five Hundred Starving Persons—Great Lack of Institutions for the Poor—Smallpox Patient in the School Building—The Newspaper a Creator of Hysteria.
As I said before, Capiz had never been a warlike province, and there had been comparatively little resistance to the American occupation. Antique province to the west of us had fought stubbornly and was still infested by ladrones, or guerilla troops. One engagement took place at Ibajay, a town on the north coast close to the western border of Capiz, quite worthy of description.
There was a small American garrison at Ibajay—about seventy-five or a hundred—and the Filipinos planned to surprise and massacre them just at day-break when the reveille was sounded. But the bugler was an astute youth, with an observing mind, and as he made his morning promenade, it seemed to him that there were far too many ladies squatting about on the plaza. So he got as close to quarters as he could, and instead of blowing reveille, blew the call to arms with all his soul, and then ran for his life. The American troops swarmed out in their underdrawers and cartridge belts, and that surprise party turned right about face. The squatting women on the plaza, who were bolo-men in disguise, left for the hills with the yelling undergarmented in pursuit. A Filipino girl who saw it all described the affair to me, and said, “Abao,” as she recalled the shouts of enjoyment with which the Americans returned after the fray. They seemed to regard the episode as planned to relieve the monotony of life in quarters and to give them a hearty breakfast appetite.
I had been little more than a month in Capiz when the rumor went abroad that a parao with forty insurrectos from Samar had landed at Panay, just east of us, and the occupants had scattered themselves out between Panay and Pontevedra. Pontevedra was supposed to be an insurrecto town, thirsting for American gore.
As we at Capiz were protected by a company of the Sixth Infantry and one of the Tenth Cavalry, and the Islands were theoretically at peace, we were not very much alarmed by this. But it gave us something to talk about, and we enjoyed it just as we do telling ghost stories on winter nights, when the fire is low, and there is plenty of company in case the ghosts materialize. Shortly after, however, came the shocking details of the affair at Balangiga, and we—I speak of the feminine portion of our colony—did not feel so secure by any means. The Supervisor’s wife insisted upon having a guard at her house, and when any two American women got together they discussed what they would do in case of a sudden alarm.
I am certain that there is no braver soldiery in all the world than ours. But I am equally certain that when war is a man’s profession, on which all his chances of honor, pay, and promotion hinge directly or indirectly, the wish in his mind is father to the thought, and unconsciously he scents danger because he wants danger. Of an officer it may be said, as of Thisbe’s lion, that his trade is blood, and “a lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing,” But nothing pleased me more than to hear the officers tell tales of the old campaign and speculate on the possibilities of a new one.
Our Supervisor had been a captain of volunteers in a Minnesota regiment. He was a thoroughly interesting talker, and an inimitable story-teller, a man who did not lose his sense of humor when the joke turned on himself. I heard him tell one or two stories well worth repeating.
Our valorous Supervisor was stationed in Antique province, while in Capiz was a detachment of the regular army. And in full sight of both on the top of a precipice, an insurrecto flag flaunted its impertinent message.
The Supervisor said he waited a decent length of time to give the regulars a chance to pull down the flag, as it lay in their province, but when they failed to act, he went out, full of hope and good United States commissary valor, to destroy the insurrecto stronghold and to give an object lesson in guerilla warfare to the regulars. His men hacked and hewed their way through the jungle and cogon grass, with never a shot from the insurrectos. Then at the last they came to a clear slope, and when they were about half-way up this, the insurrectos opened fire, not only with rifles but with great boulders. The Supervisor said it took them over two hours to get up, and they went down in less than twenty minutes. One little Dutch private was in so much of a hurry that he punched him (the officer) in the back with a gun butt and said, “Hurry up! get out of the way.” Most of the shots flew high, however. The flag came down later, but it required four hundred men and a battery of artillery to bring it down.
On another occasion the Supervisor, his wife, a constabulary lieutenant, and I were out on the playa (beach) when we came to a little hollow almost hidden by grass, so that I stumbled in crossing it. This started the two men into retrospect of a day’s fight over on the beach of the west coast. The insurrectos at last took to flight, and the Supervisor started after one whom he had noticed, on account of the beautiful kris, or fluted bolo, which he carried. As they ran, the Supervisor stumbled over such a grass-hidden hollow, and without his perceiving it, his revolver flew out of its holster. He kept on gaining slightly on his quarry, who glanced apprehensively over his shoulder now and then, expecting to see the big Colt come out. At last, when he thought the range was good, the officer reached for his revolver. He described the sort of desperate grin with which the Filipino glanced back expecting the end, and the rapid change to satisfaction and triumphant ferocity as pursuer and pursued realized what had happened. Then the race changed. It was the Supervisor who panted wearily back toward his scattered fellows, and it was the Filipino with a kris to whose muscles hope of victory lent fresh energy. Fortunately, this young constabulary lieutenant, who had been a non-commissioned officer of volunteers, saw what was going on, and picked off the Filipino with a long range shot from his rifle. The kris was secured, and its beautiful blade and tortoise-shell scabbard, inlaid with silver, went as a present to Mrs. Wright when she visited the province.
Somewhere in his “Rulers of the South” Marion Crawford speaks of the wonderful rapidity with which news flies among the native population in warfare, and he cites as an illustration that “when Sir Louis Cavagnari was murdered in Cabul, in 1879, the news was told in the bazaar at Allahabad before the English authorities received it by telegraph, which then covered more than half the whole distance between the two places.” This same condition beset the American officers in the Philippines. Secretly as they might act, they found the news of their movements always in advance of them, and the crafty native hard to surprise.
Among the leaders in Panay a certain Quentin Salas who operated both in Antique and Iloilo provinces was noted for his daring and cruelty. The American troops spent much time in pursuit of him, and among others the doughty Captain of volunteers. The Captain said that Salas made his headquarters in a certain pueblo, and often word was brought that the insurrecto would be found there on a certain day. The Captain tried all devices, forced marches, and feints on other pueblos, but to no purpose. He always arrived to find his quarry gone, but breakfast waiting for him (the American) at the convento, or priest’s house. The table was laid for just the right number of persons, and the priest was always affable and amused. The Captain grew desperate. He gave out false marching orders, and tried all the tricks he knew of. Finally, he let it be known that he intended to march on Salas’s pueblo the next morning, and he did so, and actually arrived unexpectedly, or at least so nearly so that breakfast was not ready. The Filipinos had assumed that his announcement cloaked some other invention, and had expected him to branch off at the eleventh hour.
Procession and Float in Streets of Capiz, in Honor of Filipino Patriot and Martyr, José Rizal
The Captain searched the town from garret to cellar, but no Quentin Salas. He unearthed, however, the usual score of paupers and invalids. One of these was a man humped up with rheumatism, as only a Filipino decrepit can be. The Americans finally departed, leaving this ruin staring after them from the window of a nipa shack. Months afterward, when peace had been declared, the officer heard his name called in the government building at Iloilo, and saw a keen-eyed Filipino holding out his hand. The Filipino introduced himself as Quentin Salas, and owned that he possessed a slight advantage in having viewed the officer in propria persona, while he, Salas, was in disguise. He confessed that the American had caught him napping on that day, and that he had been forced to assume hurriedly the garb and mien of an aged pauper. The American owned himself outwitted, and shakes his head to this day to think how near he came to victory.
We lived in a maze of war talk all that autumn. I doubt not that, to the officer commanding, much that was mere excitement to us was deadly reality and anxiety, for although peace was declared, the treachery of the natives had been demonstrated at Balangiga, and there was no certainty that the affair would not be repeated elsewhere. The American people have little conception of the burdens laid upon the army. These were to hold a people in subjection while denying that they were in subjection; to assume the belief of peace and yet momentarily to expect war; to rule without the semblance of rule; to accomplish when all the recognized tools of accomplishment were removed; to be feared and yet to be ready to bear cheerfully all blame if that fear expressed itself in complaint. I cannot but feel that the army had much to bear in those early days, and bore it well.
One little incident will serve to illustrate how lightly and yet how seriously the circumstances of life were viewed at that time. The open sea beach, or playa, two miles north of the town, was the favorite afternoon drive, and one day Miss C——, who lived with me, was invited by the wife of Dr. D—— to share her victoria. They left for the playa about half-past four, the Doctor accompanying them on his bicycle. He never permitted his wife to leave the borders of the town unaccompanied.
Mrs. D—— was in poor health and found long drives unendurable, so when seven o’clock came and Miss C—— had not returned, I concluded that she was going to dine at Dr. D——’s. However, before sitting down without her, I sent Romoldo up to the Doctor’s to inquire if she was there. He came back saying that the D——s had not returned, and that their servants were quite upset, as such a thing had never happened before. I waited till eight and sent Romoldo again for news. Again he brought back word that the D——s had not appeared. I thereupon went over to Lieutenant C——’s house, who instantly picked up his hat and left to talk the matter over with the officer of the day. Thence it was reported to Captain M——, who ordered out searching parties for each of the three main roads leading out of Capiz. Just as the men were ready to start, the victoria and bicycle appeared. Our friends had stopped at a Filipino house where a saint’s day celebration was in full swing, and had found it impossible to leave. The Filipino hosts had brought up ice all the way from Iloilo to make ice-cream, but as they were not adepts, it didn’t freeze properly, and they would hear of no guest leaving until the ice-cream had been served. Miss C—— said they were worried and tried to get away, but I declined to believe her. Ice-cream, I insisted, might excuse four times the delay, and I flatly refused to be convinced that they had intended to turn their backs on it after a compulsory fast of seven months.
The troops bundled themselves back to quarters, and it all ended in a laugh. Only the commanding officer leaned out of his window to chuckle at me.
“Well, did you get your chicken?” and I went home and vowed that Miss C—— should perish four times over before I would stir up an excitement about her again.
If we lived in a slightly hysterical state as concerns the possibilities of war and bloodshed, we soon learned to be phlegmatic enough about disease and pestilence. Nearly five hundred starving people had gathered in Capiz, and their emaciated bodies and cavernous eyes mocked all talk of the brotherhood of man. This condition did not represent the normal one of the whole province,—but rather these people represented the aggregate of starvation. Of course, following the war, there was a short crop and no little distress. But a certain Capiz politician with his eyes on the future caused word to be sent out through the province that if the needy would come into Capiz he would see that they were fed. Of course he did no such thing. They came and starved to death; but meanwhile the report of his generosity was spread abroad, and nobody took any pains to tell the story of how the miserable wretches had been cheated. So the politician profited and the poor died.
No one whose life has been passed in American rural prosperity can wholly realize one’s helplessness in the face of these conditions. Capiz was a town of twenty-five thousand people rejoicing in many commodious and luxurious homes and a fine old church. It would seem a small affair to tide over the distress of so small a number as five hundred starving. But the greatest obstacle was the fact that they were not temporarily starving. They represented a portion of the inhabitants who either from voluntary or involuntary helplessness would always need assistance, and the people of the town did not see a clear way of assuming the burden.
I confess in my unsophistication I went out among them consuming with fine altruistic zeal. A woman with a starving child in her arms begged of me in the plaza. Instantly my purse was out, and instantly I was mobbed by the howling, filthy crowd. My purse was almost torn out of my hand, my hat was knocked over my eyes, and a hundred eager claws tugged and pulled at my garments. I had fairly to fight my way out of the mob, and learned to bestow no more alms in public. Then I took to throwing pennies out of the window, and found as a consequence that there was no rest day or night from the wailing and howling in the street. Little by little the fountain of my philanthropy dried up, and I contented myself with giving what I could to the Church to be bestowed in regular channels.
At that time there was not a single hospital (American military hospital excepted) in the Philippine Islands outside of the city of Manila, and with the exception of one or two missionary establishments, no poorhouses, no orphan asylums,—in short, no properly organized eleemosynary institutions conducted by the State. The result was one at which we Americans were first appalled, then indignant, then, through sheer helplessness, indifferent. We simply became hardened to sights and sounds which in our own land would stir up a blaze of excitement and bring forth wagon-loads of provisions.
Between the two stone schoolhouses at Capiz was a connecting house of nipa where in ante-insurrection days the native teachers had their quarters. At first the horde of beggars were allowed to make their headquarters in this; but on the arrival of the Division Superintendent, he protested against sowing the seeds of disease among school children in that way. So the paupers were driven forth and found shelter wherever they could, in barns and unused houses.
In the following June a part of the older pupils were separated from the others and placed in a room in the tribunal, as the nucleus of an intermediate school. I was in charge of them, and noticed one day a heap of rags lying on a pile of boards underneath the opposite wing of the building. Presently the rag heap began to twist and turn and throw arms about and then to scream. I went over to investigate, and found a girl of fourteen or fifteen nearly dead. Her skeleton body was covered with sores, her eyes seemed sightless, and the flies had settled in clouds around them and her nostrils. She would lie on the hard boards a few minutes until the torment grew unendurable, and then break into screams and lamentations. The rooms of all the municipal officers were about her, she was in full sight of the police, and yet there she lay and suffered with no human being to help her. Naturally I went to the Mayor, or Presidente. He wanted to know, with some irritation, what was to be expected when the School Superintendent refused to let the school building be used by the poor. After some talk the girl was removed to a house and assistance given her. She was past the need of food, and died in less than twenty-four hours.
The aforementioned nipa house between the two schoolhouses was utilized for janitors’ quarters, and the arrangement was such that pupils leaving the room temporarily passed through it. One day one of the children casually remarked that some one was sick in there with viruela (smallpox). I went in and found a child apparently in the worst stages of confluent smallpox. Now in our own dear America this would have meant almost hysteria. There would have been head lines an inch deep in the local papers, the school would have been closed for two weeks, a general vaccination furor would have set in, and many mammas and little children would have dreamed of confluent smallpox for weeks to come. But we did none of these things in the Philippines. We merely requested the authorities to remove the smallpox patient, and ordered the janitor to scrub the room with soap and water. Nobody quitted school; nobody got the smallpox; and the whole thing was only an incident.
Later I was destined to pass through the cholera epidemic of 1902–03, and I realized how great a factor a daily paper is in creating public hysteria. Part of the time I was in Manila, where the disease was under much better control than it ever was in the provinces (where it was not under control at all), and there was about five or six times as much worry, talk, and excitement in Manila as ever prevailed outside,
I have lived in towns with newspapers and in towns without them, and have come to believe with Gilbert Chesterton that the newspaper is used chiefly for the suppression of truth, and am inclined to add, on my own account, the propagation of hysteria.