As we drew near the “barrio,” we noticed Moros here and there withdrawing from the fields toward their casas or shacks, evidently apprehensive of impending danger, as a Moro, on seeing two or three soldiers within their territory, infers at once that they are an advance guard of a larger body. Many Moros, in addition to their own lingo, speak a mixture of Spanish and Visayan, so that with this help we were able to trace our traders. Resting at a shack in a large cocoanut grove while an apparently friendly native went in search for a trader, we were soon greeted by old “Montone,” a native warrior, but friendly to the Americans. Montone had a complexion as black as the ace of spades, and was reputed to have been a formidable pirate in his palmy days, operating along the coast of the Celebes Sea. He bore evidence of this reputation by the valuable ornaments he possessed; on his wrist he wore a jade bracelet, above each elbow a bracelet of solid gold, while two massive rings hung from his ears; his kreese was priceless, containing pearls and other precious gems, the blade being inlaid with
gold, while surmounting the hilt was a solid gold helmet. Besides, he was tattooed from his shoulders to his wrists; truly he was “the king of the cocoanut grove,” and, while not a “Datto,” had all the authority and appearance of one.
Montone at once sent a native for a stick of tuber (a bamboo cylinder holding three quarts). Tuber is a cool tropical beverage, the sap of the cocoanut tree, which can only be drawn by tapping the top of the tree. It has a sharp sweet taste and, like champagne, its effects are lasting. After finishing the first order we sent for more. I believe we were on the fourth order when the Scotchman endeavored to entertain an imaginary audience, and the last I remember of him before a profound slumber claimed me, he was standing on a stone pile singing, “Green grow the rushes O, Green grow the rushes O,” et cetera, to an imaginary audience of about twenty thousand, it seemed to me.
Dawn was breaking when I awoke, I knew not where; my first thought was of my six-shooter; it was gone; my rifle, belt, and
ammunition were gone, and several moments were spent in conjecture as to the reality of my personal existence. I tried to think, but all seemed blank; I had reached the abysm of oblivion, when I recalled that last song of my partner Jim, the tuber, and alas! the sequence mysteriously puzzled my brain. Had I been sleeping like Rip Van Winkle in the Catskills? or was it the hallucination of a dream, that would vanish with the awakening? I was soaking wet. Quietly crawling to an aperture through which the rays of a moon-beam shone, I discovered that I was in a nippa-shack on the brink of a ravine. Suddenly I heard deep breathing. Quietly tiptoeing in the direction of the sound, I saw in another compartment several natives scattered about in peaceful slumber. Satisfying myself that they were Filipinos and not Moros, I awakened one of the men, who arose, exclaiming, “Ah! amigo Americano, mucho bueno grande hombre.” Fortunately, this Filipino was a friendly native who had formerly been employed by the provost in the town of Polloc.
He informed me that he was en route
from Cota Bato (a small shipping port), where he had taken a shipment of hemp, and, passing through the village of Amadao, had seen me in the company of hostile Moros, and had invited me to ride on the back of his caribou to his casa. In fording the Rio Grande River, the animal had stumbled, throwing us into the stream, and this accounted for the wet condition I was in.
On making inquiries about my rifle, the native went to the adjoining room, returning with my six-shooter, rifle, and belt. Both weapons I had made useless by taking the drum and pin from the revolver and the bolt from the rifle, a custom a soldier is taught early in his military career, for cases of emergency.
When I inquired about my partner Jim, the Filipino said that I was the only white man he had seen in the valley, but that, at about midnight, he had heard rifle volleys in various directions. Here I concluded that the garrison had been turned out in quest of the two missing marines, and the shots had been fired with the hope of getting an answer.
By this time the other members of the household had awakened, and, after being served with hot black coffee, I was directed to follow the trail along the Rio Grande River, which led through tall grass and bramble.