Timmons was a recruit private in an infantry regiment, and, when stationed in a temperance community, was a mighty good soldier. True to his steel, he met death in the general advance from San Fernando, in August, 1899. He was one of those jolly, good natured fellows who can sit in the mud and crack jokes, and sing standing in water to his arm-pits. And what is better, he possessed the happy faculty of imparting his exuberance to his long-faced, homesick, and downcast fellow-privates. His temper was as smooth as a becalmed sea, and seldom was it that a ripple passed over the smooth surface. There was just one word in the soldier’s vocabulary that would disturb him, but this word never failed to bring on a typhoon. This innocent yet magic word was “carabao,” the name of the water buffalo, the beast of burden that formed the American “cracker line” in the Philippines before the introduction of the ever-faithful mule. This is how it came to have such a terror for poor Timmons:
His regiment was undergoing its training on the “firing-line,” and his company furnished twelve men daily for the “lunette,” a kind of detached bastion about 800 yards in front of the line in the direction of the enemy. This was a lonesome detail. Just twelve men to man an isolated little fort, the enemy known to be in great numbers not more than four or five miles away. It came Timmons’ turn to go on this duty for, the first time. The detail, in command of a sergeant, marched out at sundown and relieved the men who had been on the previous twenty-four hours. The old guard turned over its orders and at the same time reported having seen some armed “gugus” in the direction of the Mariquina River, which ran in front of the “lunette” about a thousand yards away, the intervening space being an open rice-field.
The old guard marched off and the new one on, throwing off their blanket-rolls and making themselves as comfortable for the night as possible. But two men at a time were required to remain awake and vigilant.
Night came on as black as the enemy they were fighting, and with it all the breath-stopping and hair-raising noises that the myriads of flying and crawling animals of that war-ridden country produces. There was the “vantriloquest” bird, gifted with a voice that is the essence of all that is frightful and hideous in sounds—forty demons running amuck and coming your direction.
In painful harmony was the low, deep tones the “chuck me,” whose vocal cords are tuned after the left end of the key-board of the pipe organ. Then there were slimy lizards, chameleons, tree-frogs, scorpions, and wonderful bugs, all with voices peculiar to their families. There were lightning-bugs as big as jack-o’-lanterns, and tarantulas with round and velvety bodies, and a spread of legs that would cover a frying-pan. All this and the known presence of a sneaking enemy was enough to test the nerves of veterans, so its effect on recruits can easily be imagined.
Timmons’ time to remain awake and go on post duty arrived. Jones, who called himself an old “vet,” because he had served in Cuba, went on with “Tim,” as his comrades called him. Their turn began at midnight. The Sergeant, who had posted them, was soon lying down taking a non-commissioned officer’s sleep—one eye closed, the other on the qui vive. Both sentries were on the alert. Many suspicious noises came to their ears, and imaginary murderous-looking “niggers” were seen lurking in the grass, behind rice-dykes, and lying crouching on the ground. If “Tim” discovered something that he was certain was a death-dealing boloman, he would tiptoe over to Jones and hold a council of war. That worthy—the old “vet”—would dispense nerve-soothing whispers in his ears, and he would return to his post a less nervous “rookey.”
The time dragged wearily on, and finally arrived when they were about to be relieved. The blackest of the night was on. Jones left his post to arouse the Sergeant and acquaint that official with the hour. “Tim” was now alone. A slowly moving figure loomed up before him not fifty yards away. Then came the sounds of heavy tramping feet. The sounds were rapidly drawing nearer. There, before his dilated eyes, dimly outlined, and within pistol-shot, was the enemy in great numbers, who would soon close around the little garrison and murder them to a man. What should he do? His orders were strict about giving undue alarms, but if he wasted a moment longer, there would be no time for defense. If he left his post to arouse his comrades, the enemy would rush upon them. No. He would give the alarm by firing and one dead Filipino would be the result of it. He nervously raised his rifle, took deliberate aim at the advancing figures, and fired. There was a sickening thud, a heavy fall, and low, deep moans. The men were aroused and manned the fort. The Sergeant ordered a general fusillade. The regiment was in the trenches in a moment and remained there till dawn.
The first light of day revealed, lying in a great pool of his own blood, “Big Bill,” the bull buffalo that drew the headquarters water-cart, who had been out grazing that night.