That first morning in Sulu, after having paid our respects to the Sultana, we called upon the next greatest personage in town, a Hadji but lately returned from his pilgrimage to Mecca. He was a most intelligent man, with regular features, fine eyes, and a flowing beard, impressively patriarchal. He was a priest as well as a Hadji, and, we were told, had a mighty following among the faithful. Both he and his wife were most hospitable in their manner and courteous in their speech, she beaming toothlessly upon us throughout the call, and as we left they pressed upon me a handful of rather rare shells as a memento of the visit.
The small boy of the family, a youngster of seven or eight, stared at us continually from the moment of our entrance into the house until our exit, seeming especially taken with the young officer; so much so, in fact, that on our leaving, he followed us to the door, and there climbed upon a high seat, from which point of vantage he seized the young man’s hand, kissed it very reverently, and then laid it against his forehead. This was all done so solemnly and with such a calm dignity that even the youngster’s entire lack of raiment could not detract from its impressiveness or the significance of the action. It was evident that he imagined the big, blond lieutenant was a Serif, a direct descendant of Mohammed, or perhaps even a Habi, which means a Serif who has been to Mecca, or a Hadji and Serif in one, than whom none but the Sultan is so great, so good, so omnipotent. I dared not laugh at the child’s earnestness, though I had some trouble in controlling my risibles, the aforesaid young officer not having a reputation for excessive holiness.
Long before reaching the Moro school for boys, which we next visited, we could hear the voices of the pupils in a treble uproar, for they all and individually studied aloud, rocking back and forth in their seats, so that at first the sound was an unintelligible jumble, which finally resolved itself into bits of the multiplication table, detached letters of the alphabet, and pages from geography or history.
As we entered the door, the scholars looked up expectantly from their work, glad of an interruption, and at a sign from one of the Mohammedan teachers, they sprang to their feet with the uniformity of a machine, fairly yelling their “Good morning” at us. Fine little lads they were, all being of Moro, Chinese, or Filipino stock, with here and there a fascinating combination of the three nationalities in one.
Of course the children were put through their paces for us, and, as each recited in turn, he would preface his remarks by a profound bow and a little speech, the words of these formal introductions being exactly alike, as if ground out by a phonograph, and beginning “Ladies and Gentlemen,” till I wondered if perhaps the children saw us double. They were not in the least abashed, these little savages, and in their quaint English recited selections from Eugene Field and James Whitcomb Riley, some of these efforts being in dialect, which must have been a trifle puzzling to one not acquainted with the vagaries of the language.
Finally an arithmetical problem on the board caught my eye, and was surreptitiously transferred to my note-book for future reference. It ran something like this: “A poor old lady owns one thousand cents. She loses 189 of the cents. How many left has she?” The master, observing my interest in the financial difficulties of the aged and destitute lady, had the little slates brought up that I might see there were still 811 pennies to her credit. I inquired of some of the boys how much 811 pennies put into dollars and cents would amount to, but all were so visibly embarrassed that I, remembering my own mathematically tortured childhood, desisted before the schoolmaster could hear. On leaving, the boys again jumped up as one, and shouted their unanimous “Good-bye,” and long after we were out of sight, we could hear their high young voices studying aloud, each for himself, and apparently undisturbed by the scholastic outburst of his neighbour.
Half a mile outside the walled garrison of Sulu, to the west, is a strong outpost built of stone, and still farther out yet another. These outposts are always occupied by American soldiers, not originally because of any expected trouble with the Moros, but because if our men did not occupy them the Moros would, thus giving them an almost invincible stronghold against us in case of some sudden fanatical uprising. Among the Moros, as in Granada, “Love laughs with a grip on the knife,” and preparedness is as essential as good government.
Near these outposts may be seen some very fine kitchen gardens, kept by the frugal Celestial, the Chinaman of Sulu being much more energetic commercially than the Moro. It is from the “Chino” the American housewife buys her fresh fruits and vegetables, while the Moros bring in fish and the Filipinos chicken and game, thus ensuring a well-stocked larder independent of the supply-ships from Manila. In fact, so delightful a place is Sulu, that if fever were not prevalent there at some seasons of the year, it would be a veritable Paradise; but even the sanitary measures taken by the great Spanish General Arolas have not quite stamped out that scourge to white men, which long made Sulu the most undesirable military station in the islands.
Everybody in the Philippines knows the story of General Arolas, and of how, at the close of a brief republican administration in Spain, he was practically banished to Sulu, there to die by fever or be killed by the Moros. But Arolas, instead of settling down into an inactive life awaiting what seemed the inevitable, occupied himself in building up the town, fortifying it strongly, and at the same time making it more beautiful by laying it out in broad streets and avenues, interspersed at regular intervals with flowering squares and plazas. By draining these streets well, building water-works, and establishing a fine new market, he changed its reputation as a fever hole and made Sulu one of the most desirable stations in the south. By his relentless attitude he gained the respect and fear of the Moros, and only once during his administration did a fanatical Juramentado gain access to the town.