Schools of porpoises are a daily sight on either side, while millions of flying-fish skirt the billows off every quarter.
On the spar-deck of the transport could be heard: “Come on, fellows, give us a bet; loosen up and take a chance; Steve Brodie did; when this war is over we’ll start another; come, soldiers, get on the field; double up; you’re sure to win some time.” About this time a soldier, who has put some “dealer” to the bad, grabs the dice and yells: “How much money have you got? I’ll tap your pile. Ninety dollars! Throw the bones.” As this gamester skilfully manipulates the dice which he rattles in his hand, and blows on for good luck, he affectionately remarks, “Bones! don’t refuse me this time; you’ve been good to me, old pals.” He rolls the dice and throws a ten. “Two to one he don’t ten; I’ve got you covered,” is heard on the side lines; another throw is made, a four this time, and bets are made on the side, that he comes. In the parlance of the soldier, the “bones” are talking friendly; as the dice roll over the green cloth for the third time, a six and four turns up; “Ten she is!” he
shouts, as lie tucks away one hundred and eighty simoleons (a soldier’s word for money) and exclaims, “Good old bones.”
“Two bits he comes”; this is the tantalizing epithet directed at a fellow whose death-like form hangs over the taffrail a victim of sea-sickness.
Games are numerous on an army transport, everything from “keno” to “faro,” and this greatly breaks the monotony of the voyage. Every evening the regimental band discourses music, and dancing is indulged in. There are always plenty of girls who accompany the officers’ families as domestics (all colors, of course); these afford partners for the soldiers, and maybe there isn’t some class to the “rag”; everything goes, from the “barn-dance” to the “Frisco dip.”
A prize-fight is advertised between a “chocolate soldier” and a “pale-face.” Every man in uniform buys a ticket, the returns from which go to make up a purse for the winner. There are no Turkish baths taken to reduce weight, no skipping the rope or punching the bag to improve the respiratory organs; this was completed before leaving
the Philippines, by way of mountain “hikes” in heavy marching order, from early morn till dewy eve, subsisting on an emergency ration, on which you are guaranteed to exist for at least a while. Each soldier is so confident in his prowess, that training is out of the question; each imagines he will land a hook that will send his opponent to the arms of Morpheus for the customary count. Steps are removed and a hatch is battened and roped; as the time arrives for the combat, soldiers crowd around the arena, hang from spars and davits, all eager to see the “black” and “white” contest for superiority. The contestants arrive with their seconds as the band strikes up a warm selection, the gloves are slipped on, and the men take their corners. The referee is a man who holds little value on life and must be able to fight himself. Time is called. The men shake hands, then spar awhile for an opening. A soldier cries, “Fake! why don’t they fight?” They now slam each other to body and head; both are bleeding when the gong sounds. Round second opens wild; they swing, hook, and duck, hammering
away with one arm free in the clinch; each man dances as he awaits a lead from his opponent; both take their corners pretty much exhausted as the gong sounds. The third round begins viciously, though each man cautiously parries off the blows; both are fighting in good old military style, when they clinch; in the break-away they mix things, and the pale soldier drops to the mat as the crowd yell, “Foul! foul!” and he is counted out. A little ammonia revives him, and he is awarded the decision on a foul, though badly whipped by his dark opponent. “Can he come back?” No one cares. The referee is the hope of the white race!
As the transport approaches the Island of Hondo, soldiers are seen polishing their ornaments and buttons, pressing their uniforms, and making general preparations for a visit in Nagasaki. The conversation drifts to the way they are to spend their shore leave. “The first thing I do is to visit the bazaar,” remarks a soldier; “I want to buy a satsuma dinner set for my sister Peggy and a silk kimono for my sweetheart, some lacquer ornaments inlaid with mother-of-pearl,
bronzes, and some silk.” “Well,” remarks another, “I am going to pick out the prettiest silk sunshade in Nagasaki, some cashmere shawls, and I guess a lace mantilla will suit Juana, my Creole friend in New Orleans.” “What’s the matter with having a nice colored ‘dragon’ and a ‘Tycoon in a jinrickshaw’ tattooed on your arms? and don’t forget to buy some amber cigar-smokers; there are beauties in Japan and very cheap,” speaks a soldier who has been there. “The first thing I am going to do,” another ejaculates, “is to hie me to a restaurant for a good square dinner; a Japanese duck with all the trimmings will do, with a bottle of ‘Rising Sun saki’ on the side.”