A United States Midshipman in the Philippines

by Yates Stirling

The inside of the room was but dimly lighted by a single oil wick, and the darkness became blacker toward that part of the house where no windows had been cut. Phil had heard the captain give instructions to his orderly as he left headquarters to have a guard follow the carriage. But would the guard be sent here to aid them, or would Captain Blynn send them elsewhere to make arrests?

“Let’s get out of this trap,” Phil whispered anxiously to Sydney at his side, his idea being to order the men at the point of his revolver to pass out to the street.

Suiting the action implied in his words, Phil opened the door leading from the living-room. He saw by the aid of the additional light from outside that the five men had cautiously and stealthily moved backward toward the wall nearest them, and were apparently supporting their weights upon it. Suddenly he felt a jar and read in the eyes of the Filipino nearest him revenge battling with fear. Then the floor shook, and grasping Sydney by the shoulder Phil threw himself bodily through the open door as the floor of the building crashed down twenty feet into the cellar below. The natives, he could see, were hung on the wall like so many old coats, while through the bamboo floor on which he and Sydney had just stood numberless bamboo spears bared their sharp, venomous points. The lad shuddered as he realized the murderous trick which had failed. If they had fallen with the floor, heavily weighted as it was with stones at the side, and resting on supports, which had been dislodged by a rope in the hands of one of the villains now hanging on the wall of the room, they would at this moment be lying pierced through and perhaps dying before the eyes of their cruel enemy.

He raised his revolver and covered the nearest cringing native, a terrible anger in his eyes. In another second he would have pulled the trigger, but Sydney’s hand closed firmly over his wrist, forcing his revolver upward and the ball sped harmlessly over the terrified native’s head.

“They are more valuable alive,” Sydney exclaimed to Phil’s angry cry of protest. “Come, let’s get outside before more of this hinged floor is loosened. We can better prevent their escape in that way.”

Phil followed his companion down the bamboo stairs and into the street, where a crowd of curious natives had gathered on hearing the startling shot. The lads moved their weapons menacingly, not knowing or trusting the temper of the crowd which backed away cringingly from the Americans. A glance down the street brought a glad cry from the midshipmen as they saw a squad of soldiers advancing from the direction of headquarters. A loud voice in the Visayan tongue from the building they had just left was answered by many excited voices in the gathered crowd, and then several women advanced slowly, holding up their hands in sign of peace, their bodies close together as if for mutual protection. The lads scarcely noticed the approach of the women, so occupied were they in watching the building in which were imprisoned five of the traitors who had been biting the hand of the master that fed them. A swift glance over his shoulder showed Phil that the advancing women were scarce ten paces away from Sydney, who was guarding one corner of the house, while he was some thirty feet away, guarding the other three sides. The soldiers were not over a block away and hastening toward him; he could hear the rattle of their gun slings, and the thud of their heavy shoes on the hard road-bed. Then again as he cast an uneasy glance at this line of women his heart froze within him while his voice failed, for he had caught a fleeting glimpse of a savage face peering over their shoulders.

“Look out for yourself,” Phil cried, directing his revolver at the line of women and firing blindly. In that second his disgust and wrath were so great at the dastardly strategy under the guise of friendship that he would not have felt a qualm of conscience if one of these unnatural women had fallen before his bullet.

The women halted, sudden fear on their faces, while from between them dashed a half dozen savage natives armed with bolos. As they charged on the surprised midshipmen they cried out lustily in their guttural language the war-cry of the bolo-man who has received the charm of the Anting-Anting which to his superstitious mind makes him invulnerable against the Americans’ bullets. They came boldly on while Sydney jumped backward quickly to Phil’s side and the two lads emptied the contents of their revolvers into the mass of naked brown men flourishing their keen blades above their heads in an endeavor to close with their hated foe. The women had run screaming with terror back to the safety of the crowd, taking refuge within the densely packed houses.

With their revolvers empty and but three of their half dozen assailants writhing in the road, the plucky midshipmen faced the onrush of the fanatics. Converting their revolvers into clubs, they awaited what seemed to them certain death. Their one hope for safety lay in running away from the charging bolo-men and toward the soldiers now scarce two hundred yards away, but turn their backs on an enemy they could not.

Within ten feet of the midshipmen the fanatics suddenly stopped and a fear crept into their superstitious faces. The next second, to the lads’ astonishment, their sharp swords dropped from nerveless fingers, and the three natives prostrated themselves in the dust of the road.