CHAPTER IX
MALABANAN STRIKES
Next morning Terry rose as the first sleepy cock challenged thepink-streaked day. Shaving in the dim light, he watched the plazamerge out of its darkness and fill with the natives passing listlesslyto field or waterfront. A few short minutes and the day arrived hotand still: hens sauntered forth to begin their tireless, day-long,scratching search: bony curs, sleepy after their instinctive vigilsthrough the night, made couches in the dusty road: across from whereTerry stood at his bedroom window, the four daughters of his Tagalogneighbor sat in a little circle on a sunny bamboo porch structure,each intently examining another's loosened hair in a community searchfor--well, for whatever might be found.
By nine o'clock he had snapped the company through a sharp drill andby noon had finished the weekly inspection. The afternoon passed inpreparation of monthly reports scheduled to go on the mailboatexpected in that evening. It is the function of the Constabulary toknow everything that transpires: health conditions, state of crops,appearance of any strangers, activities of native demagogues,movements of suspicious characters, morale of the people. Everythingis observed and reported, and summarized at headquarters to form thebasis for intelligent handling of a difficult problem.
Of the epidemic he wrote: "A disease identified as a particularlyvirulent form of pernicious malaria appeared last week among theBogobos in the barrio of Dalag. The Health Officer is on the scene andin conference with the undersigned decided that the use of our troopsfor quarantine duty was not necessary. It appears that he has thedisease under control."
Under the heading "Recommendations" he set down: "Request that the oldprovincial archives be searched to ascertain if a Spanish familyliving in this Gulf during the last months of Spanish occupationsuffered the loss, by abduction, of a female infant. An interestingstory to this effect has been communicated to me by Bogobos, whoattribute the crime to the Hill People."
The mailboat limped in early in the afternoon, waking the torpid towninto semblance of interested activity during the brief duration of itsstay. But before she had disappeared over the horizon native Davao hadrelapsed into stupid placidity, and the Chinos had stored the meagercargoes dropped for them--print goods, cigarettes, matches, rice, afew small agongs, and, probably, a little opium. The lethargy of thetropics during the hot hours is entire and complete: the angel Gabrielhimself will fail of unanimous native response unless he toots hischeerful summons during the cool hours between dusk to dawn.
Terry still sat in the cool orderly room at the cuartel, energeticallyclearing his desk of the last accumulations of the paper work he founda chore, when the dapper sergeant entered with his mail. Sortingquickly through the dozen official envelopes in anxious search for oneaddressed in the neat hand that always quickened his pulses, hediscovered, miserably, that there was none from her. Fighting off thediscouraged feeling that accompanied lapses in her correspondence withhim, he slowly opened a letter from Ellis. Ellis' letters, few innumber, had always been cheerful but brief statements of how matterswent on at home, usually business affairs. He put Ellis' letter in hisblouse pocket to read after dinner, then attacked the pile of officialmail: he wanted no unfinished office work to keep him in the morrow,as he planned another quiet look at Malabanan's place. When theSergeant bore in the lighted lamp Terry ordered him to have the launchready at daylight.
Night had wrapped the town when he crossed the plaza to his quarters.Matak, silent as ever but of more cheerful countenance, set the table.At his second laconic announcement Terry rose and crossed to thedinner table, and as he seated himself a white missile was tossedthrough the open window by an unseen hand and landed with a thud onthe bare floor. Matak brought it to him, and unwrapping the paper fromabout the pebble Terry read the note. It was from the secreto whom hehad planted near Malabanan's plantation.
Sir:
At eight o'clock last night Malabanan left here with a newcomer named Sakay and 22 of his "laborers."
From my post I could not see if they were armed.
They have not yet returned. (9 A.M.)
I will follow in banca. They sailed south in a large lorcha.
Will report further when I return.
"47"
Leaving his unfinished dinner, he paced the floor. The midnightdeparture of Malabanan with his chief lieutenant and a majority of hisfollowers might mark the beginning of outlawry, or it might be alegitimate excursion into the deepsea fisheries. Yet the secreto hadsaid nothing of nets, and a party of twenty-four men would be in eachothers' way. Terry hastened over to the cuartel, checked up the patrolchart, then called the Sergeant, who verified the position and routeof each of the two-man patrols who were covering the countryside.Satisfied that his men would discover and report the landing of anystrangers within a few hours after they touched soil, Terry returnedto the house.
He sat on the wide ledge of the window, thinking. The night seemedunusually warm despite the stiffening breeze which blew off the Gulf;he opened the collar of his blouse.... Where was Malabanan--what washe doing? He saw a man's form outlined against the bright Club windowand answered the arm waved at him: it looked like Lindsey, hethought.... "Give 'em plenty of rope and if they make a break--Smash'em!" He shivered at the thought of sighting a gun against a fellowman, and again in sudden rush of memory of the night in Zamboanga....He saw Lindsey appear again at the Club window to peer in hisdirection, then turn abruptly. In a moment he saw him leave the Cluband cross the plaza, hatless.... Deane--why had no letter come--he hadexpected one, wanted one....
He slid off the window ledge as Lindsey came in, sincere and direct asusual.
"Terry," he began, "I saw you sitting here alone and came over to askyou to join us at the Club."
"I can't, Lindsey."
Lindsey studied the unusually pallid skin: "Why not?" he demanded."You're working too hard, Terry, and worrying too hard. Let's forgetit all for an hour or two!"
"I'm much obliged, Lindsey, but I can't come to-night."
"The fellows asked me to get you, Terry. They think it is queer youcome so seldom."
Understanding something of Terry's weariness of spirit he strove hardto persuade him to spend the evening in the pleasant Club, but wasunsuccessful. Desisting, he talked a few minutes with Terry and thenleft, a little embarrassed, wholly disappointed.
Alone again, Terry slumped into a big cane chair drawn up by thetable. His cheeks burned; he thought, vaguely, that he must haveshaved too closely. Loosening his stiffly starched blouse, he crackledthe letter from Ellis, opened it without much interest: then his wholebeing tensed.
Crampville, Nov. 23, 191-.
Dear Dick:
Everything lovely here--and things are going to pick up with you when you read this!
Yesterday Deane's father came in the bank and asked to see me confidentially. Thinking he had come on bank business I took him into my private office. Well, he just sat there facing me for several minutes, not knowing how to begin. You would have thought he had been robbing a train or something, he looked so absurdly guilty!
I just sat there watching him, taking a most unchristian joy in his trouble, whatever it was: I have had it in for him ever since--since you know what. I liked the way his Adam's apple chased up and down his throat.
Finally he swallowed hard and began: "Ellis, I came over to--to ask you to--to send over that fox skin that Terry gave Deane last Christmas."
Just like that! It sure was a pill for the old boy to swallow but he went the whole hog like the old Puritan he is. Once started he kept going, though still phased. Said that he was glad that you had found something worth doing and were doing it well, that he took a lot of interest in your goings-on--as he called it--and that Deane always read your letters aloud. And the last thing he said before he went out was that
he hoped you would soon get spunk enough to write her some letters she "wouldn't dast read out loud!"
He said THAT about my brother-in-law! Great leaping frogs! What is the matter with you?
Get busy! Write--and make 'em sizzle!
ELLIS.
P.S.--I forgot to say that I am sure she made him come to see me. Also that Sue took the skin over last night. And also that Bruce is more than professionally interested in the nurse he imported from Albany to look after his office. It has been some time since he hung around Hunter's--and as to why, I do not know, but I sure am some little guesser!
Terry had never questioned the decision he thought she had made thatChristmas eve in returning the fox skin, had thought it hers, andfinal. As the burden of a year fell from him he sat quietly, smoothingat his stubborn, crown lock, the wistful twist of mouth ironed out bya faint smile. He bent to read the letter again but after a few linesthe words were blurred out by a salty rush to his steady gray eyes.Rising, he went into his bedroom and closed the door quietly behindhim, emerging in a few minutes. Perfect peace lay in his eyes and theyshone with the light that will never die in this world as long as menlive, and women.
Two days to Christmas, he thought, and he had sent her no remembrance.He stood at the window, tasting the cool thickness of the evening,breathing the fragrance of ylang-ylang: leaf and frond, stirred by themonsoon, purred in gentle contact. In the starlight the old stonechurch outlined its old-world, old-time architecture in friendlyshadows which veiled the pitiful scars and age-stains: the bambooshacks across the square--wry, flimsy, smutted by a hotly jealoussun--had yielded to the magic of the night to become little goldenhouses in which the fairies abode till the morning stars should fade.
A present for her ... he pondered long, the while he stifled hisdesire to go outside and shout the joy that tugged at his restraint.Suddenly he started, tightened as the idea fastened upon him, thenfairly ran to his desk. A hurried search for cable blanks and he wrotein desperate haste that consumed four misused forms before heaccomplished an intelligible message:
Miss Deane Hunter, Crampville, Vermont.
Christmas greetings from palmed coast to snowy shore. Please cable will you accept so humble a Christmas offering as an equal share in the future of one
RICHARD TERRY.
Buttoning his blouse as he ran, he raced down out of the house andover to his orderly room, where he typed the message and sent it outby a soldier. The dozen Macabebes lounging in the _cuartel_, who hadsprung to attention when he passed, stared at him and then at eachother--this joyous, whistling boy was new to them! He crossed the darkplaza: natives, looking out of raised windows, wondered who thatAmericano was who walked in and out of the shadows of the greatacacias, singing:
When in thy dreaming Moons like these shall shine again:
Being natives they did not understand the English words, but beingnatives and instinctively attuned to the most ancient of emotions thatthrobbed in the low baritone, they listened silently and stared outinto the night long after the singer had passed.
He reached the house, hesitated. Lindsey had said that the fellowswanted him to come over to the Club ... he had neglectedopportunities to be with these good friends. He sailed his cap upthrough an open window and crossing a corner of the square went upinto the gayly lighted building.
That night at the Club became a sort of tradition in the Gulf. Theystill tell, wonderingly, of how he entered--a laughing, mischievous,fun-loving boy, and of how the crowd welcomed this new Terry that noneof them had ever known before. They talk, still, of his deviltries,the clean jests and keen wit he whetted--always at his own expense,and as rough old Burns put it the next morning when they talked itover: "And he niver took a drink and he niver cussed once, I'll be---- if he did!" As the story of Terry's night at Club spread over theGulf all of the planters found excuses to bring them into townafternoons in the hope of being present when he came again. They rodein by pony or launch every night for two weeks, and then they ceasedcoming.
For two hours he held them in the spell of his infectious deviltries.Irrepressibly gay, impish, it seemed as if he vented all of the storedup boyishness in him, spilled it in one heaping measure. Storyfollowed story, in quickly shifting brogues that rocked the buildingwith the sidesore laughter of the transported audience; they followedhim through a seemingly inexhaustible series of anecdote, through adozen ridiculous parodies he sang to a one-handed accompanimentchorded on the battered piano the while he pantomimed with free handand roguish face.
"Why," whispered the astonished Cochran, "the--the--son of a gun!"
The uproar stilled suddenly as, seated at the old piano, he forgotthem for a moment, saw a vision on the white wall that was not visibleto the others. A few deep chords from knowing fingers, then his lowvoice, rich with the depth of his happiness:
Love, to share again those winged scented days, Those starry skies: To see once more your joyous face, Your tender eyes ...
The song, or something in the deep voice, pulled at the heart-stringsof those lonely men, who, womenless, never discussed women. Burnssniffled, then glared belligerently at the others.
Cochran whispered to Lindsey: "Just what is there about--about thatboy? Is it because he's so pale?"
"Yes, that's it--you poor fish! But it's about time you quit pinchingmy arm--it's getting numb!"
Flushing slightly in realization of his lapse, Terry had sprungastraddle the corner of the billiard table, where, absurdly solemn, hedeclaimed tragically, combing the classics for sepulchral passages,plunging the intent listeners into deepest melancholy but concludingwith a droll extemporization that swept them from verge of tears toconvulsed mirth.
Lindsey, flinging a laughter-helpless arm across a call-bell, rang aninadvertent summons to the steward that cost him the price of thedrinks and gave Terry a breathing spell. He sat astride the billiardtable under the acetylene lights, vainly trying to smooth down hisscalplock, his eyes dancing in eager enjoyment of the hour and of thefriends who crowded around him in affectionate amazement, laughing andshouting at each other and at him.
Cochran's voice rose above the clamor of the room in a raucous whoop.They all turned toward where he stood near the bulletin board readinga message he had just torn down.
He waved the sheet joyously: "I saw the steward tacking it up a minuteago--it just arrived--from Casey. He couldn't wait to tell us--thelong awaited day has come for Casey!"
He bent with laughter, then straightened and sobered to read it aloud.
"Casey talks like the Congressional Record but he sure minces hiswritten words. Listen.
Davao Club, Davao.
Horray! American mare had a filly colt last night. Also sixteen pigs by Berkshire boar.
CASEY.
A roar of merriment greeted the phraseology in which Casey hadhurriedly couched the double event of his day of days. The terse--tooterse--message passed from hand to hand till it reached Terry. Hestudied it, his head cocked to one side like a puppy's and withsomething of a puppy's quizzical expression. A moment and he slidslowly from the billiard table and crossed to the corner of the roomwhere a typewriter had been placed for the convenience of clubmembers.
They watched him, glancing uncertainly at each other, as he inserted asheet of paper, spelled out a few hesitating words, then jerked itout, crumpled it in his hand. Slipping in a fresh sheet he startedslowly, pausing, rapt, after each few works. As line followed line theroom became quiet save for the click of the machine, the planterseyeing each other, waiting impatiently for disclosure of the newdeviltry his whole attitude betokened. Pausing after each few lines toseek inspiration at the roots of his thick tumbled hair, he wrote forabout fifteen minutes.
Then, tearing out the sheet, he mounted the chair and with a faceowlish in i
ts affectation of heavy wisdom, he thrust his hand in hisblouse in classic barnstorming attitude and read his creation.
"CASEY"
The palm-fringed gulf of fair Davao-- The garden-spot of Mindanao-- Has been the Theater where Surprise Has pried apart our mouth and eyes. But bounteous Nature, in her last, Has all her former deeds surpassed!
What now are Burbank's grafting deeds Marconi's stunts, whose genius speeds A message on a wireless tack And makes of space a jumping-jack? Where now does Edison hold sway? Or radium's finder, Pierre Curie?
Does not this deed alone suffice To render all that men or mice Have wrought since days of Tubal Cain Infinitesimal, and vain?
No man before has seen a dam Provide the rudiments for a ham. And not content with razor-backs Produce a quota for the tracks.
It seems like thistles yielding figs-- A blooded mare with sixteen pigs! And Truth receives a serious jolt To find the seventeenth a colt! Can anything on earth compare With this performance of a mare?
But hold! For while I eulogize, There is another claims a prize And puts to shame all gone before; I mean this humble Yankee boar! What lowly hog did yet aspire To ribboned fame as race-track sire?
Consult the annals of all time, Great deeds extolled in prose and rhyme, Delve deep in Clio's treasured store, Exhaust encyclopedic lore-- You will not find in one edition A hint of such high pig-ambition!
Had he but lived in days gone by When Richard raised his voice on high And offered Kingdom for a Horse, To him he might have had recourse.... Imagine bristly Berkshire swine Upon the throne of Coeur de Lion!!
But, while we give our meed of praise To those who would these isles upraise, Forget not him who planned all that-- For it was Casey at the bat!
Forget not him whose Celtic head Outdid, when all is done or said, That classic stunt--the herculean Minerva sprung from Jovian bean!
Where else but in the Philippines Amid these sunny tropic scenes That lull the senses into rest, Could come this genius of the West? For, not content with colt and swine, He must produce domestic kine-- To heap the brimming measure full He perpetrates an Irish Bull!
Finished, he still stood on the chair, frankly happy in the uproariousresponse to his effort to amuse them.
The clamor subsided in a sudden and almost incredulous appreciation ofhis swift composing: and in the momentary silence during which theygazed at the happy, laughing boy, a pair of heavy shod feet sounded onthe bare stairway--loud, hurried.
All eyes shifted from where Terry stood on the chair to the sternvisaged Macabebe sergeant who had stopped in the open doorway. Hehesitated a moment, then urgency overbore his instinct againstviolation of the white man's domain, and he stepped toward his chief.
Terry met him in the center of the room. The Macabebe saluted, thenreported in a savage grating voice that carried clear to everystartled ear.
"Sir, Patrol Number Seven reports that ladrones raided Ledesma'splantation at one o'clock last night: killed one servant, stole all ofLedesma's carabaos and money, and stole his daughter."
Malabanan had dared! The ladrones had struck!
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