A United States Midshipman in the Philippines

by Yates Stirling

“To your posts,” Espinosa cried out in alarm. “Open fire with that gun.” The surprised and terrified leader raved like a madman, taking all to task for their stupidity. Phil had been released so promptly, while all was uproar and confusion, that as yet the insurgents had not realized that Lopez and his men were against them. Espinosa, in a fever of excitement, himself ran to the howitzer and with his own hands pointed and fired the first shot. But that was the last shot the gun would ever fire, for Lopez with a number of his men pushed quietly forward, cutting its binding ropes and shoved it over the edge of the cliff from which it crashed downward to the river below.

Espinosa turned aghast and met the cold, defiant eye of Lopez. In them he read his doom. Lopez’s sharp bolo was already circling about his head. But the next second it had flashed harmlessly by and rattled on the rocky ground. Fearful of his life Espinosa had dodged the blow aimed at him and had taken flight, screaming as he ran for his men to open fire on the traitors. The shells of the gunboat seemed to fall in every part of the stronghold and the havoc of their explosions was terrible to witness; but the small band under Lopez remained unharmed.

Mad with fear, the natives who had been witnessing Phil’s torture, upon hearing the terrifying words of their leader and seeing the awful havoc behind them caused by the bursting shell, charged boldly on the natives in their front, believing that in that direction lay their one avenue of escape, but a well directed volley from Lopez’s men made them recoil in disorder.

Like one who is chained, powerless in the grip of an unnerving nightmare, Phil felt rather than saw the wild scenes about him. He heard the sharp rattle of musket fire and the sonorous discharge of cannon, the wild, vibrant cries of the natives as they dashed now forward and again retreating from the clash of contact and the avenging strokes of bayonet and bolo. By a mighty effort he struggled to his feet and leaned heavily for support upon the bamboo frame of his prison. His lungs seemed on fire and a red mist was still in his eyes. The riot of forms about him confused his brain and made him dizzy. Then his eyes fell upon the body of O’Neil lying on the ground where the natives had dragged him; the cruel marks of the rope stood out in blue welts on his muscular neck. His eyes were closed, but the lad saw with joy that he was alive. He knelt by the sailor’s side ministering to him as tenderly as if he were a child. Then in great anxiety he saw that Lopez’s men were slowly giving ground. Stubbornly they fought, but the overwhelming ranks of the enemy, now alive to the actual conditions and spurred forward by their leaders, came frantically forward across the open ground.

Phil dragged the senseless body of the sailor back until they were on the very edge of the hill and then a sight which made him mad with joy caused him to stand upright and swing his hat jubilantly, unheeding the leaden missiles on all sides. There scarcely a hundred yards below him struggling forward and upward was Captain Blynn and his five hundred soldiers. Dropping the sailor’s head he rushed madly into the company of loyal natives.

“Charge them,” he cried, beside himself with eagerness, for he saw that if the enemy, one thousand strong, should obtain possession of the top of the trail the struggling men below would never reach the top alive, and their retreat could mean but one thing—a rout and massacre.

The natives did not understand the lad’s words, but his meaning was only too plain as he snatched a rifle from the ground and led the remnant of that plucky band.

The next moment he was in the midst of the shrieking horde. In his nostrils was the reek of the Malay, almost sickening in its overpowering pungency. Blow after blow at his body he warded off with the barrel of his rifle.

Now the savage horde had given way and his men had quickly closed in, warily protecting their flanks, knowing full well the cunning of their enemy. To his left the lad saw hundreds of natives hurling rocks into the river below them, and he cut a lane toward them, yelling to the loyal natives to prevent what he feared would be the destruction of his ship. From below the ominous rattle of a Colt gun gladdened his heart and he saw with delight the men on the cliffs flee in terror, leaving great boulders balanced menacingly on the very edge of the abyss. An American cheer rang out from behind him and he became dizzy with joy at the good news it brought. He read in the natives’ eyes a look of terror at the sudden appearance of an unlooked for enemy, and at the same instant he realized that if he and his loyal natives were to be saved he must extricate them from this dangerous position between the fire of the two opposing forces. He looked wildly about him for Lopez, but he was nowhere in sight, and already the soldiers had begun to open a withering fire in their direction. Mad with their exertions, brought suddenly face to face with the enemy, the soldiers would have no discretion; friend and foe alike were mixed in one writhing mass of brown.

Then a sinister face showed itself on his right hand and all thoughts of safety were thrown to the winds. Espinosa, the tyrant and murderer, was within his reach. With a score of men as a body-guard he was hurrying away, deserting the field of battle. The midshipman pressed against the enemy to his right, fighting his way even through the remnant of the loyal natives, crying out to them to follow, while behind him he could hear the heavy footfalls of the soldiers.