As I hiked along the lonely trail, my thoughts were centred on my friend Jim Iddles. I could imagine his lifeless form lying cold in abhorrent demise, and conjectured how if alive we were to escape the punishment of a general court-martial. After many miles of tiresome travel, I was hailed from a branch trail by a friendly Moro, a dwarf of the mountains, whose abode was in the village of Panay and who frequently visited the outpost, selling produce and game. This diminutive spirit of the forest, who reminded me of the elves in Irving’s Rip Van Winkle, aimed straight for me, cutting his way through the jungle with his kreese. He greeted me with the customary “Amigo Americano,” and informed me that he had been sent out in search of me by the commanding officer of marines at Polloc. Leading the way, I followed
him in single file along the trail through banana groves and jungle where parrots and monkeys were numerous. After a weary hike, I spied “Old Glory” waving in the breeze from the old Spanish blockhouse at the outpost; as we drew near, I could see the soldiers gazing intently in my direction; the sentry had spied us and aroused the camp. After a cheer and a hearty handshake from the boys, my mental agitation was relieved when informed that Iddles had been found in Amadao about midnight, by a detachment that had been sent out from the garrison.
Iddles was found asleep in a Moro shack, in front of which patrolled a Moro sentry carrying Jim’s rifle, belt, and six-shooter.
After relating part of my adventure to the boys, the garrison was informed of my safety, and in a few hours the commandant and captain of marines were on the scene to ascertain the facts connected with our absence. Meanwhile both Jim and myself, looking the worse for wear, policed ourselves to a high degree of soldierly immaculateness, and after a confab it was decided that I
should act as spokesman on the arrival of the officers.
The story we framed was this: that, having followed the bark of a deer for a considerable distance in the jungle, we lost our bearings (“lost our bearings” was good!), and, differing in opinion as to the direction of the camp, we were each directed by the influence of our respective opinions, resulting in both getting lost. The circumstances in connection with the finding of James had been withheld from the officers; while my experience had been only partly related to the men, they having heard that I departed from the valley mounted on a caribou driven by a Filipino.
When confronted by the officers, I told the tale of our adventure: of our having followed the bark of a deer leading us into a labyrinth of perplexity (as dears sometimes do!), of our difference in opinion, the friendly attitude of the Moros, and the kindness of a Filipino in conducting me to his casa, where I was provided with quarters for the night. Iddles corroborated my story as far as it related to himself, and dwelt particularly
on the friendliness of the Moros of the Amadao Valley. After asking various questions in cross examination, the captain said, “Well, men, I am glad to see you alive; your adventure has been of some profit.” Then, turning to Sergeant McKenzie, he said, “If two of our men can go into the jungle as these men did, mingling in friendship with the natives without being molested, I can see no necessity of continuing the outpost; stand relieved, break camp, and return to the garrison.”
There was no court-martial, scarcely a reprimand, and the soldiers of the outpost tendered Jim and me a vote of thanks for the hand we played in getting them back to the comforts of the barracks.
It is a singular fact that a few months later, on the renewal of hostilities in the Lake region, a band of Moros of the Amadao Valley, under the leadership of a noted “Datto,” offered their services to the commanding officer at Polloc. Like the American Indians, the Moros are divided into tribes, among whom for ages past there has been strife or contention for superiority.