For six months at a stretch the monsoon blows across the coral peninsula in one direction, and then changes and blows six months in the opposite quarter, so that, as an officer stationed there remarked, one could take his choice and be blown off to the crocodiles in the bay or to the sharks in the sea outside. This high wind moderates the climate perceptibly, however, and notwithstanding the fact that Bongao is situated within five degrees of the equator, we found it exceptionally cool, and the officers and men in splendid physical condition.
There was but one company of infantry stationed at Bongao when we were there, comprising perhaps fifty men and three officers. Because of the two hundred miles of treacherous ocean between him and higher authority, the young captain acting as military governor was, so to speak, a small Czar, and he ruled an unique kingdom, untouched by civilization, and peopled entirely by ex-pirates or the descendants of pirates.
The official letter-book of this functionary, at which he allowed us to peep, read like a story of adventure, while some of his own personal experiences, and those of the former commanding officer, seem almost incredible when away from the glamour of the place. In the post records, sandwiched between such mundane things as requisitions for water-buckets or commissary supplies, one would read of atrocious murders committed by the Moros; piratical expeditions headed off, and their instigators punished; or attempted slave-raids against some neighbouring island.
Under the date of February 21, 1900, a thrilling story was told, it being the official and unvarnished account of a disastrous hunting trip taken by five of the post soldiers, the dispassionate routine language but giving it verisimilitude; while the subsequent happenings serve to show what kind of government seems most to appeal to these people.
The story, as nearly as I can remember it, reads that five of the garrison soldiers were given permission to go to a neighbouring island of the Tawi Tawi group on a hunting expedition after wild boar. Relations with the Moros on that island having been, at least, nominally friendly, there was not the slightest hesitation in granting the soldiers’ request, particularly as there had been no fresh meat in the garrison for some time.
The men left in a rowboat and spent the first few hours in Balambing, an ex-pirate community, where they were entertained in the best Moro fashion, leaving amidst mutual expressions of regret and good-will. The Moros’ love for firearms is well known, and about ten of them were so taken with the soldiers’ rifles that they accompanied the party, ostensibly to act as guides, but in reality to witness the sport. Delayed by a strong tide running to windward, they camped that night on a lonely beach, both Americans and Moros in the best possible humour.
After a supper cooked over the camp-fire, all the soldiers, with the exception of one man who was preparing for bed, indulged in a game of cards, the Moros watching the proceeding with apparent interest, but talking a great deal among themselves. Each soldier had his Krag on the ground beside him in case of danger, the rifle of the man who was undressing being in a far corner of the room.
Suddenly, at a word from their leader, the Moros seized their wicked barongs and simultaneously attacked the men playing cards, beheading one poor fellow at a single blow, and fearfully cutting the three others. One died almost immediately, and the second fell unconscious, while the third, who was cut across the side of the head and neck, feigned death and so escaped with his life.
The soldier who was partly undressed, seeing that he could not reach his rifle, felt it was only a matter of seconds before his turn should come. But the Moros, having obtained all the firearms, escaped into the forest, leaving him unharmed. As hastily as possible, he lifted the still unconscious man into the boat, which had been hidden in the bushes against just such an emergency, the wounded soldier who had feigned death helping with all his little strength, though he was so grievously hurt that he had literally to hold on his head with his hands, the cords on one side of his neck being severed. Fortunately, the jugular vein escaped the keen knife’s edge, else he would not have been alive; but it was with no little difficulty he helped the unwounded man push off from shore.
All night they rowed, the wounded man working with one hand, despite his fearful suffering, and all the next day, the blazing tropic sun shining down on their unprotected heads. Once they were beached on a coral reef, and it was all they could do to get the boat off again into deep water. Meanwhile the third soldier died, but at last the survivors of the massacre, in a pitiable condition, reached the post, carrying between them the already putrefying corpse of their comrade.