Treachery, or the same thing, Filipino strategy, was strongly suspected. They were playing some game, and the senior officer at the convent determined to learn the trump.
Just as the shades of evening began to gather, on the day when the Tagalos made their mysterious disappearance, “Carabao Bill,” who was in command of his company on outpost, and had it quartered in a church which had once been held by the natives and abandoned under pressure, turned out his men to do the daily police. While he was busy reprimanding a private, who was noted for laziness and shirking his duty, and had just been adding to his reputation for such, a battalion adjutant, a tall and handsome fellow with a slight partiality for legs, came dashing up on a native pony. His knees were bent and elevated toward his chin in order that his pedal extremities might not collide with the frail limbs of his steaming mount.
Owing to the shortness of his stirrup-straps, he dismounted rather ungracefully, but soon gathered himself into military shape and smartly saluted “Bill,” saying: “Sir, the Commanding Officer presents his compliments and directs that at twelve o’clock to-night you take a non-commissioned officer and fourteen privates of your company and make a thorough reconnaissance of the grounds between here and the enemy’s position on the south, and determine if possible their whereabouts, strength, and probable intention; and report to him immediately on your return.”
His message delivered, the dashing young officer remounted and rode rapidly back to headquarters.
Van Osdol slowly ran his freckled fingers through his auburn locks, and gave a shrill whistle, his signal for his first sergeant to report to him. That worthy of multitudinous duties immediately appeared and received orders to arrange the detail for the reconnaissance duty.
The night was blindingly dark. There was a density to the darkness that almost excluded the penetration of thought. The mind could pass no farther than the immediate vicinity. Since the sun had set a thick layer of clouds had lined the canopy of heaven, veiling the winks of the brightest stars and the benignant light of the moon.
Sergeant Schriner, with soldierly punctuality, reported with the detail just as the sentry over the rifle-stacks at the church called in a subdued voice the hour of twelve.
The little party promptly started on its hazardous mission, feeling its way through the matted bamboo jungles fringing the station—the officer leading, the sergeant and men following in “goose formation,” single-file; each keeping in touch with the person before him.
The advance was slow, for during the day the border around the place was almost impenetrable—the darkness served to multiply the difficulties.
It was a night to try men’s souls. Bolo parties frequently lay in ambush in these places of perfect hiding, and suddenly pounced upon the unsuspecting Americanos, and cut them to pieces before a hand could be raised in defense.