Thousands of monkeys infested the jungle surrounding the camp. On one occasion while returning from a boar hunt, something happened which nearly converted me to the Darwinian theory. Near the edge of a coffee plantation I spied a number of monkeys in a mango tree; raising my rifle I fired, dropping a monkey. The animal, merely wounded, came running toward me, bleeding from the chest and uttering a pitiful cry, then, leaning against a tree, placed its hands over the wound and, with a most pitiful and appealing expression, gazed up at me in tearful agony, as much as to say, “What the devil did I do to you?” I ended its suffering, and resolved never to shoot another monkey.
While hunting wild-boar in company with Weismantle, a member of the detachment, we had come across a “wallow” in a ravine near the Rio Grande River. Weismantle, being an experienced huntsman, could tell that the “wallow” had recently been frequented by hogs; he said, “You take a position about forty feet on one side of the ravine, and I’ll be on the opposite side; sit perfectly quiet, don’t even smoke, as the boar is sure to return.” Following his directions to the letter, I sought the shade of a large grape-fruit tree, where, seated on a log with a bramble-bush blind, I awaited the arrival of the game.
In deep meditation I had sat with my rifle cocked for perhaps forty minutes, eagerly awaiting the shadow of a pig, and was beginning to get restless, when hark! a dull thud on the ground attracted my attention to a guava tree near by, where I saw, hanging from and partly wrapped around a low limb, an immense boa constrictor. For a moment I was hypnotized; the snake’s head was hidden by the underbrush, and in fact it was impossible to see
either end of the monster; I could merely see the coils wrapped around the limb and hanging from the tree. To say that the sight of a boa constrictor excited horror in my mind is putting it mildly, for, being unable to see its head, it would have been folly to shoot with a rifle; furthermore, I imagined I was in a den of these powerful life-crushers; every moment I expected to feel myself enwrapped in the monster’s coils, and for this emergency I had drawn my knife. Another twist of this snake, and I was hitting the high places only; I leaped through the tall grass like an Igorrote head-hunter, and now, to add to my mental discomfiture, I ran on to a wild-boar, which gave a most unearthly squeal; this, followed by the report of Weismantle’s rifle, made it seem as though all the demons of hell had been turned loose. After regaining my composure, I tracked the boar by drops of blood for several hundred yards, where we found it in time to bleed it properly. When I told the marine the experience I had had, he wanted to return, but I refused to point in the direction, so the trip was postponed.
After tying the feet of our game together, we cut a long bamboo pole, on which we packed it into the outpost, where it was roasted on a spit.
Chess, pinocle, whist, and poker were popular games in the camp, as they are in all quarters of the army and navy, and in this way many pleasant hours were spent when off duty.
The migration of locusts on the Island of Mindanao is a novel sight; approaching in the distance, they appear like a large black cloud, the forerunner of a tornado; millions upon millions of these jumping insects, totally eclipsing the sun, continue on their flight for hours, leaving leafless trees and devastated fields in the train of their route.
A great character at the outpost was Corporal Jim Iddles, a Scotchman, and a great friend of mine. Jim had a keen appetite for tuber, and, growing weary of the simple life, approached me one morning with the suggestion that we take a hike to a near-by “barrio” in quest of some native sangaree. The nearest barrio was Mongahon, seven miles distant, so, slipping on our belts, with
six-shooters and rifles, we hit the trail over the mountains, informing Sergeant McKenzie, who was in charge of the outpost, that we were going a short distance in the jungle to shoot a deer.
On our arrival at Mongahon, we found the village deserted, with no natives to climb the cocoanut trees, and, as tuber is tapped at the top of the tree, we were out of luck, as an American cannot climb these trees owing to the millions of red ants that infest them. The nearest village from this point was Amadao, in the Amadao Valley, on the Rio Grande River eight miles distant. At this juncture it was decided to toss a coin, head for Amadao, tail for the outpost. As the coin was tossed on the “heads I win, tails you lose” system, it was not long before we were beating the trail, with the valley of the Rio Grande for our destination. The tribes in this section of the island had been very hostile, and a battle had been waged near Amadao some months previous; but, as we had been dealing with traders from this valley, we decided to keep on the alert until we found these, whom we knew would represent us as being amigo Americanos.