Terry

by Charles Goff Thomson

  CHAPTER III

  MINDANAO

  The old _Francesca_, directed by a nervous and none too competentTagalog captain, maneuvered in the six-mile tidal current which sweptwest through the Straits making Zamboanga a nightmare to all thenative skippers who called at that port. Crab-like, she crawledobliquely to within a few hundred feet of the low-lying town, then thescrew churned up a furious wake as the anxious Tagalog on the bridgeswung her back into the Straits to circle in a new attempt. Carried bythe tidal rush the old tub circled in a great ellipse.

  Alone at the rail on the dingy promenade Terry stood enjoying hisfirst glimpse of Mindanao. Seven months in Luzon had brought himcountless tales of this uncertain southland--tales of pirates, ofinsolent, murderous datos defiant behind their cotta fortresses, ofkris and barong wielded by fanatic Moros gone amok; of pearls as largeas robins' eggs, of nuggets tossed as playthings by naked children ofthe forests, of mysterious tribes who inhabited the fastnesses ofinaccessible hills.

  He wore the service uniform of the Constabulary, the field uniform ofkhaki blouse and breeches, tan shoes and leggings, and stiff-brimmedcavalry Stetson. The smart uniform set his erect figure off trimlyand added to the impression of alertness conveyed by his steady grayeyes.

  In the two wide swings back into midstream that ensued before thesteamer approached near enough land to get ropes to the little brownstevedores who waited on the dock, Terry had ample opportunity forstudy of the tropic panorama. The sea was dotted with Moro vintas,swiftest of all Malayan sailing craft; tide and wind borne, somescurried at tremendous pace toward the fishing grounds of the SuluSea, others tacked painfully into the Celebes. A Government launch,its starred and striped flag brilliant against the green sea in themorning light, left its jetty and headed south toward the dimcoastline of Basilan. A score of gulls, that had followed the shipdown from Sorsogon, fattening on the waste thrown overboard after eachmeal, circled around the ship aimlessly, uttering unpleasant cries.The young sun mounted swiftly in a cloudless sky, hot on the trail ofthe cool morning breezes, white in its threat of blistering punishmentof all who dared its shafts.

  The hawser snubbed, the drum of the rusty winch rattled and banged onworn bearings to a tune of escaping steam, laboriously warping thesmelly hull alongside the dock. Terry watched the sturdy little Morosspring into agile life as the vessel slowly neared the pier, then heturned to look over the town which was built flush with the edge ofthe narrow beach, extending each way from the shore end of the pier.The galvanized-iron roofs of the taller buildings--church, convent,club, a few more pretentious dwellings,--were visible above the lowfoliage and between the tall acacias and firetrees which jagged theskyline. A heavily laden breeze identified unmistakably several longbuildings as copra warehouses.

  It seemed a busy town, as towns near the equator go. In the streetinto which the pier opened a thin stream of pedestrians passed by inbrief review before the watcher: Moros, a few Filipinos, a Chinostaggering under a heavy balanced pinga, two white-clad Americans,while several rickshaws, Moro drawn, jogged by with patrons concealedunder raised tops. Then a big foreign touring car turned the cornerand drew up in front of the government building to deposit a middleaged American, immaculate in fresh pongee.

  Terry, observing him idly from where he stood at the rail, saw alarger, uniformed American swing the corner with vigorous stride andafter saluting the older man accompany him respectfully to theentrance to the big building, where they stood a moment inconversation. Terry's interest quickened as he recognized the bigAmerican as a member of his own service; he watched him approach theship through the crowd of half-nude sweating Moros who now swarmed thedock.

  Terry, hastening down the ship's ladder, met the tall officer as hereached the end of the pier.

  He was a loosely knit, raw-boned man of about thirty-five, of seriousbut pleasant mien. As he stepped to meet Terry, Terry saw that he worethe leaves of a Major.

  "Lieutenant Terry?" he asked, responding with friendly informality toTerry's stiff salute.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'm Bronner. Mighty glad to know you. We've been looking for you eversince receiving a copy of the Headquarters Bulletin ordering you downhere. Have a good trip?"

  "Well, Major, the _Francesca_ is no Empress liner but we got along allright. I am very glad to know you, Major. Your brother and I wereroommates at college--he used to tell me of your experiences with thehead hunters--"

  "Huh!" the Major interrupted. "Guess he stretched things some. Fineboy. Wants to come over when he graduates this June, but his mothersays one son over here is enough. And she's right."

  Terry liked the big irregular features. In the steady eyes he sawsomething that forced instant credence to the stories told of theMajor's resourceful bravery under difficult situations, a braverywhich had made the name of Bronner famous in a service made up ofintrepid men.

  "Welcome to Moroland," the Major continued. "I hope you like it downhere--I think you will. If I didn't I wouldn't have requested yourtransfer. You are assigned to the most interesting of the Moroprovinces,--Davao. You go there to command a Macabebe company. Yourbaggage still aboard?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Forget the 'sir'! Leave your stuff on board--the _Francesca_ sails atdaylight to-morrow, and you go on to Davao with her. Had breakfast? Ithought not. Pack a bag with what you will need for a day ashore--puton a white uniform for to-night. My orderly will take you to myquarters where you can get a shower and some breakfast. Join me at theService Club for lunch."

  Throughout the abrupt discourse Terry had endured the frank appraisalof the shrewd black eyes. He experienced a pleasant reaction when theMajor again extended his broad hand.

  "Lieutenant, I said a minute ago that I was glad to know you. Let merepeat it--I mean it. Adios, till lunch time."

  He pushed his way good-naturedly through the throng of Moros who werehandling the bales and boxes unloaded from the roach-ridden hull andwalked off the pier, disappearing into the government building. Terryboarded the vessel, warmed by the friendliness of his new chief, andby the time the orderly arrived had thrown a few things into his bagand was ready to go ashore.

  He followed the soldier down the main street, a dusty thoroughfarelined with the usual assortment of structures which adorn Philippineprovincial towns: adobe, tile-roofed business houses honeycombed withlittle box-like shops in which the Chinese merchants displayed theirwares: square wooden houses set high on stone understructures: scoresof bamboo shacks stilted on crooked timbers, unkempt, wry, powderedwith the dust risen since the last rains.

  Though it was not yet nine o'clock, they sought the shaded side of thestreet with the habit which becomes instinctive near the equator, andwelcomed the coolness of Bronner's low house.

  The cook and the houseboy looked after him with the unobtrusiveperfection of service found only in the East. A good breakfast cheereda stomach outraged by the greasy mess perpetrated upon native boats inthe name of Spanish cookery, and a cool shower bath eliminated thestench of stale copra which had clung to his nostrils if not to hisclothing. An hour before noon he left the house and strolled about thescorching town, regardless of where he went so long as he found shadedwalks on which to tread.

  * * * * *

  Most Philippine towns are coast towns, and most coast towns are flatand uninteresting unless you are interested in their peoples--and youare not interested in them unless they are of a different tribe thanyou have known previously.

  Take a couple of dusty--or muddy--streets, unroll them along somefreshwater stream just above a line of palmed beach: place an immense,deserted-looking softstone church in an unkept square flanked with afew straggled acacias and a big convent in which a native priest livesin weary and squalid detachment from a world he knows nothing about:line the two streets with an assortment of rusty bamboo andmixed-material houses which impress one as never having been built butas always having stood there: sprinkle a few naked, pot-bellied, brownchildren staring at each
other in pathetic, Malay ignorance of themanner and spirit of play: set a few brown manikins in the openwindows--women who let life fly by in dull wonder of what it is allabout: add a few carabaos lying in neck-deep content in mudwallows,and a score of emaciated curs which snarl at each other in habitual,gnawing hunger and which greet their masters with terrified whines:spread over it all a pall of still moist heat and a sky arched by amolten sun. Contrive all this, then imbue every object--human andcreature, animate and inanimate,--with an air of hopelessness, of thefutility of effort, and you will have a typical Malay town as theAmericans found them.

  But not so where the American has set his impious foot--impious of thedogma that you can not change the East, nor hurry it. He enjoyed thefinesse of the phrase, quoted it, then jumped in to hustle the East.The old timers,--Spaniards and Britishers for the greaterpart--shrugged at each other over their heavy tiffins and nine o'clockdinners; these crazy Americans would soon learn! But the crazy,enthusiastic Americans, engineers, health officers, executives, schoolteachers, Constabulary, labored on in the glory of service: eradicatedcholera, built roads and bridges, brought six hundred thousandchildren into school that two score tribes might find a common tongue,fought the devastating cattle plagues, wiped out brigandage andpiracy, brought order and first semblance of prosperity to eightmillions of people.

  Young men did it all. The old-timers suddenly found that they wereliving in new times, in clean, healthful towns: found that businesswas increasing by leaps and bounds as the natives fell in behind theyoung Americans with a quicker stride than Orientals had ever known.And they are the reasons--those few thousands of smooth-facedAmericans who laughingly threw themselves at the wall of immemorialsloth and apathy--why Kipling's phrase is seldom quoted east of India,and now not often there. And they are the reasons, those carefullychosen, confident young men of whom too many are buried over there,that we have so much of which to be proud in what has been done in ourname for a backward, unfortunate people.

  But we, you and I, do not know very much about it all: it is so faraway and we are so busy with our affairs, our politics, our--

  ... You know ... we are just too busy to bother about those Tagalogsand headhunters who live over there where Dewey licked Cervera, andAguinaldo was king of the Igorotes or something, and Pershing rosefrom a captain to a general: why, I heard one of those Filipinos makea speech about independence and he was so smart and bright--he hadbeen sent to our congress or something and was handsome and polishedand....

  Yes, he doubtless was. That is why he was sent: but he bore about thesame mental relation to the race he is supposed to represent as aSupreme Court Justice bears to a Georgia cracker!

  * * * * *

  Terry had thoroughly assimilated the atmosphere of the Luzon provincesin his seven months in the Islands, so he found a real pleasure instudying a Moro town which had been under the energizing influence ofthe Army for nearly two decades. He wandered slowly through the nativequarter, cutting down clean cross streets lined with neat nipa hutsinclosed behind latticed bamboo fences, enjoying the novelty of acommunity different from any he had known. Every detail of the wellkept streets testified to the strictness of the standards set by thewhite men who governed the town. The few Moros whom he encountered onthe noon-deserted streets passed him silently and with averted eyes,wary, secretive, entirely alien. One looked him square in the eye,leaving him uncomfortable with the antipathy unveiled, the cold,everlasting contempt of the Mohammedan for the unbeliever whom he doesnot know.

  He walked with lids half-closed against the white glare and the heatwaves which danced above the tortured roads and roofs: by the hour setfor his luncheon engagement he had covered the town thoroughly,including the beautiful post which had been turned over to Scouts whenthe Army at last finished its tedious Moro project.

  He found the Major waiting him at the Club, a large, single-storybuilding set in a grove of tall palms at the edge of the beach andcooled by the breezes from the Straits. He followed him out on thewide veranda built over the water's edge, passing through a friendly,incurious group of young Americans who sat at little round tables ingroups of three and four. Major Bronner responded to a dozen greetingsas they crossed to a table set for two at the edge of the veranda. Ina moment the deft tableboy had their service under way.

  "Well," began the Major, "you will have a busy time of it during therest of your stay--I wish it were to be longer. This afternoon I wantyou to come to the office with me--there are lots of things to talkover about your work down there. The Governor will see you about fiveo'clock. How do you like Zamboanga?"

  "It's clean, and interesting, Major."

  "'Clean and interesting!' That is a boost! Though we can't take muchcredit for the 'interesting'--the Moros furnish that!"

  The white-smocked servants moved noiselessly about the cool veranda,serving the score of Americans with that perfect impersonal care foundnowhere except among Oriental servitors: the subdued clatter of silveragainst dish and the tinkle of iced drinks was often drowned inoutbursts of merriment from one or other of the little tables. Most ofthe Americans were mere youths, though two were evidently in theirforties. Bronner noted Terry's study of a group of three who satnearby, heavily tanned men evidently not quite at home in the club.

  "Davao planters," he explained. "Hemp planters: you will know them.Three good men: they're going down on your boat."

  Lunch finished, coffee and cigars furnished excuse for the white-cladcrowd to linger on the darkened porch: scraps of shop talk reachedTerry's ears, a jargon of strangely twisted English and Spanish words.Bridges, appropriations, rinderpest, lack of labor, artesian wells,cholera--such was their table talk, as such was their life.

  The breeze freshened, gently stirring the potted plants which flankedeach row of tables; the hot stillness of the noon gave way to thesibilant murmur of the cocoanut palms whose bases were lapped by thequickening ripples. The breaking of the withering calm was the signalfor departure to office and field. The veranda cleared rapidly.Bronner, watching the three planters, interrupted their departure.

  "Lindsey--just a minute."

  He took Terry to their table and introduced him.

  "Lieutenant Terry, gentlemen: Mr. Lindsey, Mr. Cochran, Mr. Casey.Lieutenant Terry goes to Davao to-morrow as Senior Inspector. You willbe able to help him, till he learns his way down there--and later hemay be able to help you."

  Terry shook hands with the three in turn. All were out-doors men,bronzed, diffident with the social shyness of men who live their livesalone or among none but alien people. Lindsey and Cochran weresquare-set, serious young men: Casey, older, but of eager,enthusiastic mien.

  The Major discussed them as he and Terry left the club.

  "They're three of the best planters in the Gulf. You'll have notrouble with them. But you may with some others, those who have afancied grievance against the government just now. I had better startat the beginning.

  "You know the best hemp in the world grows down there--soil, climate,rainfall all combine wonderfully to make it the one ideal spot forhemp production. In another twenty years it will probably rate as therichest single agricultural area on the globe--that's why those littlefellows over there"--he indicated a pair of Japanese passing on theopposite side of the street--"are piling into Davao so fast thesedays.

  "The world needs hemp--and areas where it can be cultivated are rare.Three years ago a little stampede occurred into Davao; the pioneersare a mixed lot--about sixty Americans, a few Britishers, a scatteringof Moros and Filipinos and nearly two hundred Japs. The Japs arequiet--you will seldom see them: they stay on their places and 'sawwood'; they're backed by some syndicate--probably their government.But the others are lone handers, working on their own 'shoe-strings'or financed by the contributions of optimistic shareholders in Manila.

  "They are good men, these planters. You will like them. They went intothe fastnesses of Mindanao, braved the wild tribes, cleared theirland, planted hemp, working lar
gely with their own hands--and in aclimate where they say the white man shall labor only with his head.You will hear all about their troubles and difficulties--you won'thear much else down there but hemp--hemp and wild tribes! Hemp andwildmen--that's Davao!

  "About their grievance. They cleared and planted rapidly and haveraised fabulous crops, but when it came time to strip the hemp formarket they found that the wildmen upon whom they had banked aspotential labor would not work. A few came and stayed, but most ofthem quit after earning a few pesos. So the hemp rotted in the field.Desperate, facing ruin, some of the planters went after labor toostrongly, frightened and browbeat the Bogobos into working. The schemeworked, so a condition approximating peonage was developed uponseveral of the plantations.

  "We ordered it stopped. Those planters are very sore, looking fortrouble. That's the story--and the condition you must face, andovercome. You've got to hold down that class of planter, but at thesame time encourage the Bogobos to work for them. It means prosperityfor the planters, and money and comfort for the Bogobos--and it willkeep them out of the hills: we want the Bogobos near the coast, undercivilizing influences. They are newly won to us and apt to fade awayinto the foothills on the least provocation."

  * * * * *

  Crossing the acacia-shaded lawns of the beautiful plaza he stopped infront of the artistic concrete bandstand, jerking a big thumb at thededication inscribed upon the ivy-covered facade.

  "Pershing Plaza," he read aloud. "He was the last military Governor,you remember. I knew him: a good man. No genius--just a good man, hardworker: has two traits that will carry him a long way if he gets thechance--common sense and industry. Wants to know everything abouteverything, and never quits working. Surrounds himself with workers:gives his men their jobs and doesn't bother them while they dothem--just wants results.

  "'Make good or make way!' Some slogan! Pershing, Wood, Scott,Carpenter,--America has sent some of her best into Mindanao. I'm gladto be here--aren't you?"

  At the sudden question Terry turned to him.

  "Yes," he said. "I hope to be--useful."

  They had reached the entrance to the government building: the Majorpaused at the foot of the mahogany staircase to conclude earnestly:"It is fashionable just now in Manila to decry this effort toinstitute civil government among the Moros--but I know you are not ofthe type to be influenced. Governor Mason is making good: you willsee that after you have been here a month. He is a wonder,Terry,--probably the only man who could handle this situation with afew Constabulary. Study, patience, and square-dealing, backed byoccasional use of troops, prepared the Moros for this experiment, andGovernor Mason is carrying it forward almost alone--opposing thebackward tendencies of Sululand with little else save personality,inspiration and a wonderful knowledge of Malay character.

  "You're going to like it down here," he wound up suddenly, confused byhis own unaccustomed oratory.

  Mounting the polished stairway, they passed down the tall concretecorridors and into the Major's office. He drew up a chair for Terryand seated himself behind a desk whose orderly array of accessoriesbespoke his methodical bachelor habits. The walls were covered withlarge-scale maps of Moroland showing location of various tribes,scattered settlements and district boundaries, with great blank areaseloquent of the unknown character of unexplored fastnesses. Thecrosses which indicated the distribution of Constabulary forcescontrolled from his office dotted every sizable island: pins bearingthe names of government agents showed into what remote regions ourtrail-breakers had penetrated. One purple-flagged pin showed aveterinarian warring against a cattle plague in Jolo: a blue flagthrust into one of the blank spaces of Mindanao indicated thewhereabouts of a fearless ethnologist from the Field Museum: a redsticker bore the name of an engineer who had been out of touch for sixweeks, running the line of a new trail across the great bulk ofMindanao. The map was symbolic of the Constabulary, whose duty it isto know all, to protect all.

  Leaving Terry to his study of the maps the Major spent an unapologeticfifteen minutes clearing the mass of papers that had accumulatedduring the lunch hour, then turned to him. For an hour he outlined thesalient problems which would confront the young officer in his newassignment. He was all business, curt, concise, definite. He touchedupon the ordinary service activities of drill, patrol, secret service,supply and report, then took up those phases which required delicateand original handling.

  "Now, Lieutenant, we did not pull you down here to handle an ordinaryjob--you know it means something these days to get a Mindanaoassignment."

  Terry did know it. Only men who had demonstrated unusual ability intheir line had been sent to Moroland under Governor Mason. As themonths went by the northern provinces were being stripped of theircrack men for assignment to the southern experiment, so that detailthere had become a mark of distinction. He had been as surprised aspleased at his summons from Sorsogon, a poor, colorless provincewhere he had spent seven months in uneventful, and as he thought,inconspicuous service.

  The Major detected something of what was passing in his mind: "Youwere selected because of your understanding of native character, yoursympathy with them: that, and your faculty for learning dialects. Bythe way, what is your method of studying these languages--your recordof three dialects in half a year is remarkable."

  "There was little else to do--and I like to study them."

  The Major noted the slight flush of embarrassment. He reached into adrawer and pulled out a card, scanning it carefully before continuing:

  "Your qualification card indicates that you are an unusual pistolshot: it reads 'Pistol rating--two-handed expert, extraordinary inaccuracy and rapidity.'"

  Disregarding Terry's increased embarrassment he pushed the question:"How did you acquire such skill?"

  "Well, as I had to carry a sidearm, I thought to make it useful--it isnot much of an ornament. After I became really interested it cost meabout fifty dollars a month for ammunition."

  "Well, things happen down here! Some day you may be glad you spent themoney--your skill may come in handy!"

  "On--men?" It was the one aspect of the service from which Terryshrank.

  "Well, I hope not. It seldom comes to that. But a number of hardcharacters have been concentrating recently in the Davao Gulf, a batchof discharged convicts who served long terms for brigandage andmurder. We have been watching them, but nothing significant transpiredtill last month."

  The muscles of his heavy jaw tightened as he went on: "You have heardof Malabanan, haven't you?"

  "The ladrone leader?"

  "Yes, he. He was released from Bilibid prison last summer and camethrough here last month. One of our operatives uncovered him on theboat--traveling as an ordinary steerage passenger. He went to Davao,and I fear it means trouble. I think he gathered that tough crewtogether to operate in Davao, thinking to test us out now that theArmy is gone."

  His face was grim as he snapped: "Terry, watch him! And if he makes asingle move--smash him! Make no false starts, do not arrest him unlessyou are sure that your evidence will convict in the courts. Give himplenty of rope--but if he breaks loose ... smash him hard!Understand?"

  Terry nodded quietly, but something in his competent face contentedhis chief. He repeated his warning against premature action:

  "Be sure you can get him before you move--he is slippery and hasfriends in high native circles. We do not want to be turned down inthe courts at this stage of the game, and it may be he intends to playthe game square--plant hemp, for instance. But if he wants ashowdown--smash him good and plenty!"

  He briefly reviewed the substance of his instructions: "You can seethat your work is going to call for a good deal of tact and patience:patience with the angry planters, with the wild people. Everybody isscared and jumpy down there just now, and we want to restore theirconfidence."

  Terry had listened attentively throughout the interview, speaking onlyto answer questions. He broke the silence which followed:

  "Major, I have hear
d a great deal about the Hill People of Davao: willI be near them?"

  The Major eyed him queerly for a moment before answering: "Aboutthirty miles as the bird flies," he said, "but about a million to allintents and purposes! No living man has been among them--those whohave tried have left their bones rotting in the dark forest. They killall who attempt to reach them, expeditions in force find nothing asthe Hillmen simply fade away before their approach.

  "I don't want you to attempt to go among them--in fact I expresslyforbid it, as it means certain death. But some day we hope to open theHills up, to win among them: it is one of the Governor's cherishedambitions. So learn what you can about them from the old Bogobos wholive in the foothills, and report any interesting traditions you mayhear. Pieced together, the tales may make a helpful contribution--mayhelp solve the riddle of how to get to them peaceably. Not that you orI are likely to live long enough to see it done--they are tooconfounded wild, too inaccessible behind their jungled hills."

  He shrugged his broad shoulders in eloquent dismissal of a vain hope,and rose: "I want you to meet the Governor. I'll see if we can get tohim yet."

  He strode out of the office, returning immediately to inform Terrythat the Governor was closeted with the two Moro datos whom he hadfetched to the capitol by launch.

  "They haven't promised to be good boys yet," he chuckled, "but theywill before he finishes with them! His Secretary says that he expectsyou and me to go down to San Ramon with him to-night at seven sharp,to dine with Wade, the prison superintendent. You're in luck,Lieutenant. It will be an evening you won't soon forget."

  So it proved to be.