A WAR OF FRONTIER AND EMPIRE
THE PHILIPPINE-AMERICAN WAR, 1899–1902
DAVID J. SILBEY
HILL AND WANG
A DIVISION OF FARRAR, STRAUS AND GIROUX
NEW YORK
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Contents
Map
Introduction The Urgency of the Asking
One A War of Frontier and Empire
Two McKinley and American Imperialism
Three “At the Cannon’s Mouth”
Four A New Army Arrives
Five One War Ends, Another Begins
Six “Satisfactory and Encouraging”
Conclusion A Most Favored Race
Further Reading
Notes
Acknowledgments
Index
Copyright
Introduction: The Urgency of the Asking
For Americans, it was a war of frontier, and of empire. It was a war that brought together the dominant American experience of the nineteenth century, the chaotic and defining expansion westward, with a new and at times uncomfortable imperial ambition. Manifest destiny, though still powerful, seemed less manifest and more ambiguous; less fate than one path among many. Americans had come to feel that the continent was perhaps too small to contain them and their nation. But what form was American entry into global power to take? The war did not provide an answer, but it did confirm the urgency of the asking.
That energetic American nationalism would have been unfamiliar to most Filipinos. In fact, to label the inhabitants of the Philippines as Filipinos in 1899 would be to use a misnomer. Few Filipinos felt an overarching sense of the archipelago as a single united nation. Ordinary loyalties to region, to patron, or to family were much more likely. The war they fought was, in many ways, a war of those loyalties. Thus, while the Western powers fighting for dominance in the Philippine Archipelago—Spain and the United States—were relatively unitary actors, the forces resisting them were not. There was, despite the later assumption of both Filipino historians and post–Vietnam War American historians, no Philippine nation. There was no single central conception of state and nation that animated those fighting (or not fighting) against their colonial powers. There was, instead, a shaky coalition of groups that resisted. These groups were fundamentally different in their strategies and tactics, and the attention they paid to the titular leader of the revolution, Emilio Aguinaldo, varied greatly, even before his capture in 1901. They were made up of different ethnic groups, speaking different languages, and fighting in different ways.
But a peculiar thing happened. The Philippine-American War became, as seen dimly in retrospect, a war of national striving. At the time it was not a revolutionary war, in the same pungent and independent sense that Americans think of their revolution. But in the decades afterward the war became that kind of conflict, held up as the first unified Filipino experience of the modern era. Many had fought and almost everyone had experienced the war. Because of that, it gained status as a first struggle for independence and national pride. “To understand the Filipino-American War,” a Philippine historian said, “is to understand a large part of the groundwork of contemporary Philippine society.”1
This retroactive reordering sometimes has odd effects. For example, what should we call the conflict? War? Revolution? Insurgency? All of those labels have been applied, and all have been disputed. Who was the United States fighting? The Philippines? Filipinos? A Tagalog insurgency? These too have all been suggested and criticized.
Could the conflict even be called a war? By the standards of the day, sovereignty had passed legitimately from the Spanish to the Americans, the Philippines had not been an independent nation for centuries before that, and the inhabitants of the Philippines did not conceive of themselves as part of a single unified social, political, and cultural body. If there was no Philippine nation to engage in war or be conquered, then would not labeling the fight a “war” be a grave misrepresentation? In such an analysis what happened in the archipelago from 1899 to 1902 was an insurgency, not a war.
Filipino historians starting in the 1950s saw the conflict as one of a nascent nation coming into its own, cruelly subjugated first by the Spanish and then by the United States. They explicitly denied such an interpretation. This Filipino nation had become unified under the lash of war, and had fought—if unsuccessfully—against its conquerors. The war was a war. To reduce it to an “insurgency,” these historians believed, was to betray that nation, and was to take part in a larger effort to subjugate the Filipinos and their past. Filipino history, Renato Constantino wrote, had been “used to capture [Filipino] minds” and make them believe that their “conquerors” were really “altruistic and self-abnegating partners.”2
How, then, should we refer to it? There are arguments of merit on both sides of the question, and—as frustratingly usual in history—arriving at a definitive conclusion is difficult. Brian Linn, for one, simply avoids the issue by referring to the conflict as the “War in the Philippines.”3 But perhaps we can place a layer of sophistication over the issue. At the time of the conflict, the Philippine nation was barely formed. Tagalogs, Moros, and the other Filipino tribal groups did not connect themselves to each other in a single, imagined community. Local loyalties—whether tribal or client/patron—remained more powerful than national ones. This certainly changed during the war, and, at its height, it could be argued than the Philippines was closer to sociocultural unity than at any time before. But the islands ruled by the United States after 1902 were still only a single unit in an administrative sense. Having said that, however, the legal argument that sovereignty passed without interruption from the Spanish to the Americans should be treated with some skepticism. By the standards of the day, the handover from Spain to the United States was indeed transacted according to law and custom. But any number of treaties during this period—the 1885 Treaty of Berlin to name but one example—legally handed over the rule of captive peoples to one Western power or another. That such handovers gave anyone, American or otherwise, anything but the most formal sort of “sovereignty” is open to question. Moral suasion did not come hand in hand with dominance.
While the conflict at the time was hardly a war between two sovereign nations, for Filipinos, that struggle became the central event of their national myth. They reimposed the idea of a nation onto the warring tribes of 1899–1902, and traced the birth of the idea of a larger Filipino nation to those years. Though there was no Filipino nation in the conflict, the Filipino nation could not have existed without the war. To label it an insurgency ignores that foundational importance.
Finally, there is the quiet misgiving that comes from refusing to call a conflict what the people most intimately affected by it would prefer. Too much of Philippine history has been organized and conceptually framed from an outsider’s perspective. A series of imperial masters—Spanish, American, and Japanese—have ruled the Philippines and ruled histories of the archipelago. Even the names of the historical eras—“Later Spanish Colonialism,” “American Colonialism,” “the Japanese Occupation”—reflect this.4 When it comes down to it, the conflict was fought in the islands, Filipinos fought and died (on both sides) in it, and they may well have earned the right to call it what they wish. Unless we are willing to call the North American period from 1776 to 1783 the Colonial Insurgency, perhaps we should honor that wish. Thus,
while understanding all the caveats, complaints, hedges, and ambiguities connected with it, I shall nonetheless refer to the conflict of 1899– 1902 as the Philippine-American War.
Before leaving off this discussion, let me point out one more thing. Whether we refer to 1899–1902 as an insurgency, a revolution, or a war, we are essentially implying that it was a single event or collection of events. That, as we shall see, is not true. If anything, the war is better understood as three separate and distinct conflicts. The first was a war between the Spanish and the allied United States and Filipino forces. The second was a conventional war between the U.S. Army and Navy and the Army of Liberation of the Philippine Republic. The third was a guerrilla war between the U.S. Army and Navy and an insurgent alliance of remnants of the Army of Liberation and other groups. The three conflicts happened consecutively but differed significantly. Lumping them together under one name dangerously obscures those differences, something we should bear in mind as we go. A name, however carefully considered, is not the thing itself. As always with historical events, the name is merely shorthand for the multitude, for the people, places, and events sprawling untidily through the chronology. That multitude is the subject of this book.
One
A WAR OF FRONTIER AND EMPIRE
A Summit
President Emilio Aguinaldo sat beneath a mountain one December day of 1899 and wondered what had happened to his revolution. More than a year before, he had been the head of an Army of Liberation which controlled the great majority of the Philippine Islands. The Filipinos of that army had swept aside their centuries-long imperial overlord, the Spanish. All that remained for them was to take the capital city of Manila and declare themselves an independent republic.
Manila did fall, but not to the Filipinos. Instead, a force of Americans won a series of shattering naval and military battles, captured Manila from under the noses of the revolutionary army, and then had the temerity to buy the islands from the Spanish crown. What the Filipinos had paid for in blood, the Americans had paid for with gold.
Aguinaldo found to his sorrow that he could do little to prevent it. The follow-on conflict between the Americans and the Filipinos had run almost entirely the Americans’ way. Filipino defeat had been so stunning and complete that Aguinaldo had been forced to dissolve his government and army in mid-November 1899 and flee into hiding, hoping to reconstitute his forces as a guerrilla army and shadow republic.
He could not even guarantee his own safety. Fleeing the central plains of Luzon in mid-November 1899, Aguinaldo was pursued by relentless American forces who were not stopped even by the near-total sacrifice of a Filipino rearguard. His bolthole, in the northern valleys, had been surrendered by a treacherous general. So now Aguinaldo, in mid-December, sat in the small settlement of Banane on the slope of Mount Polis and wondered what he should do. He could not stay there. The Americans were likely to catch up soon; in any case, Banane was inhabited by the Igorots, tribal warriors of uncertain loyalties. Aguinaldo and his escort had been greeted when they arrived by the kanao, an Igorot ceremony celebrating the taking of a trophy: the head, hands, and feet of an enemy. Whether the Igorots intended this as a warning is not clear, but Aguinaldo certainly took it as one. He and his sister, one of a number of women accompanying the group, wistfully discussed traveling in Europe once the war was over. Such fantasies, however, did nothing for the short term.
Thus, on the night of December 16, in a grove near his camp, Aguinaldo called a council of war. He and his officers and political associates discussed what to do. The discussion was reluctant and difficult, with several officers refusing to give their opinion and preferring simply to follow Aguinaldo’s lead. Aguinaldo himself remained cagey. Finally, Simeon Villa, one of his medical officers, spoke up and suggested that the group “should separate from the women, who constitute such a great impediment or obstacle to any plan,” and continue deeper into the mountainous highlands to find a place to hide and continue the fight. To this Aguinaldo agreed, and so committed himself to going on with the war, hoping that conventional defeat might be followed by irregular victory. He left behind family, friends, and allies to wage this guerrilla war, one that would last a further two years. That decision would not bring the Filipinos victory, but Aguinaldo would live to see the day that independence came to the islands, and know that it had in some small way originated in the efforts of the 1890s.1
Geography and Colonization
The geography of the Philippines imposes a sense of disconnectedness. Thousands of islands, roughly sprinkled through the western Pacific, make up the archipelago. The distances between the islands vary from a few hundred yards to many miles. It is possible to swim easily from Leyte to Samar, while Palawan sits by itself to the west, stretching for hundreds of miles into the Sulu Sea. At their farthest south the Philippines reach within a few dozen miles of the island of Borneo. At their northernmost limit the islands come close to Taiwan. To the west is the South China Sea, surrounded in the late nineteenth century by the colonial outposts of a range of European powers: French Indochina due west, British Hong Kong northwest, and the Dutch East Indies southwest. And looming over all was the massive, ponderous, and decayed Chinese empire, home to hundreds of millions and bloated by centuries of lacquered ritual. By the turn of the century China was less a nation than a prize: a target that every major power eyed with anticipation.
To the east was the Philippine Sea, an open swath of ocean bounded by New Guinea on the south, a necklace of small islands farther east, and, to the north, Japan. By the last few decades of the nineteenth century, the power of newly industrialized Japan was becoming apparent. The Japanese had not yet had their coming-out party, the moment they stepped onto the world stage and announced themselves as a power of substance. That would come a few years later in the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–1905.
In the middle of all this was the sleepy Spanish colony of the Philippines. Imperial Spain had acquired the islands centuries before, during the burst of exploration that marked the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Magellan had planted the Spanish flag there in 1521, and had planted himself as well, after an ill-considered meeting with hostile natives. Only one of Magellan’s ships returned, captained by his first mate, Juan Sebastián de Elcano, who made it home, but, somewhat unfairly, not into historical memory. The Spanish were not the first outsiders to visit the Philippines. Certainly the great Chinese fleets of the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries had stopped by. And Muslim explorers had broken out of the Indian Ocean even earlier, settling in some of the southern islands. But only the Spanish came to stay throughout the archipelago. In the 1560s, led by Don Miguel López de Legazpi, who became the first governor and captain-general of the islands, they arrived in force, aggressive, imperialistic, and awash in the gold and silver of Central America.
Spanish overlordship of the Philippines was more benign than their control of Central America. Critically, without silver and gold to mine, the Spanish had less need of slave labor to work to death in the dark underground. Instead, the Philippines, and the city of Manila in particular, served as the primary trading hub for the Spanish in the Pacific. They shipped silver from Mexico to Manila every year—the Pacific counterpart to the famous Atlantic flota that so obsessed pirates and privateers like Sir Francis Drake in the sixteenth century. From China came junks carrying silk and other precious items. The two met in Manila, and there the goods were exchanged for the enrichment of both sides.
The Spanish brought with them a well-established body of law to organize and run the colonies, developed in the hard laboratory of Central America. Governors-general of the islands were, for the first few centuries, experienced men from either the Americas or from Spanish Flanders. The result was a thriving and sophisticated economy in the Philippines, a fierce trade rivalry with Portuguese merchants based at the Chinese port of Macao, and, not least, a growing Chinese population in the Philippines.2 It would not be the last time that the importance of the Philip
pines was seen largely for its relationship with China.
The Spanish also brought with them a structured set of economic relationships, based on the domination of a Spanish elite, and a series of client-patron relations that would characterize the Philippines for centuries to come. People defined themselves in a complicated web of social networks in which a relatively small number of wealthy Spanish held the allegiance of hundreds if not thousands of both Spaniards and Filipinos. To call these relationships landlord-tenant would be to oversimplify desperately. The client-patron relationship might include landlordism and tenantship, but it was rarely limited to mere geographical allegiance. Clients looked to their patrons for a whole range of economic, social, and cultural protections, and patrons looked to their clients for corresponding services.
Catholicism and Empire
But perhaps the most critical European import was Catholicism, and all the trappings of that church: priests, the Latin Mass, and the Inquisition. The lack of Spanish government interest in anything outside of Manila left the field open for the clergy, and the Catholic church—fired with the energies of the Counter-Reformation—soon developed an extensive network throughout the Philippines that, unlike almost anywhere else in Asia, converted a substantial majority of the populace to Catholicism. Many Filipinos might see no Spaniard but a friar for their entire lives. The conversions were long-lasting but not universal. Though the populations of the northern islands largely became Catholic, many in the southern islands remained true to their first conversion, to Islam.
This reliance on the church for governing most of the Philippines had, however, an interesting side effect. Conversion was accomplished in the native dialects while masses were in Latin. The result was that, throughout Spanish control of the islands, the great majority of Filipinos never learned the tongue of the imperial motherland. A universal language was never imposed on the colony. The archipelago instead remained something of a Tower of Babel, with hundreds of groups speaking different dialects and unable, to a large extent, to understand one another.3
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