Gregorio Del Pilar, the picturesque Filipino leader, about whomso much has been written in praise, by the war correspondents, wasleading his men back into the dangerfields, inviting the Americanpursuers into every trap which his crafty brain could devise.History tells of Pilar's call to arms. He was attending a greatball in Dagupan, given in honour of his approaching nuptials. Inthe midst of the festivities a messenger dashed in with the newsthat the American troops were closing in on Tarlac, the insurgents'seat of government. Pilar rushed from the ballroom and made hisway to the head of his command. His parting from the bride-to-beis pathetically described by many of the writers who were in theislands at the time. There was no more daring, romantic characterin all the Philippines than young Pilar. Educated, refined, cleverand attractive, he was a favourite with all, admired by friend andfoe alike.
Captain Groce, with a company of infantry, was following him closelyand doggedly into the fastnesses far to the north. Village aftervillage was devastated by the white troops, always a few hours afterthe wily Pilar had evacuated. Amigos laughed in their deceptivesleeves at the Americans and misdirected them with impunity. Ineight cases out of ten the amigo wore arms underneath his garmentof friendship and slew in the dark whenever opportunity arose.Graydon Bansemer was one of this doughty, eager company which blazedthe way into the hills. Close behind came the bigger and strongerforces, with guns and horse, and the hospital corps. It was thehunt of death for Aguinaldo and Pilar.
Shortly after daybreak, one morning, a slim, black figure crept outfrom among the trees and gave the countersign to the challengingsentry. He was soon on his way to the Captain's headquartersbearing news of importance. The brown-skinned scout had travelledall night over a hazardous route, and he was more than welcome. Hebrought news that Pilar's men were off to the east and the north,well intrenched and prepared to fall upon the Americans whenthey advanced blindly into the trap laid for them. The newspapermen pricked up their ears, and at once looked to a box of carrierpigeons which formed a most important part of their pilgrimage. Afight was at hand, doubtless an important meeting of the clashingforces. The whole army was waiting for intelligence of Pilar--waitingwith little less anxiety than that which attached itself to thepursuit of Aguinaldo.
Captain Groce ordered Sergeant Gonnell with a picked squadto reconnoitre. They scurried off in advance of the company withinstructions to locate the elusive enemy, and open up the secret ofhis position. Supposedly, Pilar was ten miles off among the rockyfoothills which guarded the pass through the mountains. As usual,Bansemer was one of the scouts. He snatched his rations with theothers and went forth eagerly to court the danger and the excitementthat was promised. For days they had had no fighting worthy the name.Amigos everywhere, villages peopled only by women and children,treacherous peacefulness on every side; this had been their encounter:an occasional rifle shot from the rice fields, a crackle of gunsfar ahead, a prisoner or two who had not been quick enough intransforming himself from combatant to friend, that was all. Now,there seemed to be real fighting ahead.
Pilar was known to have many men--good soldiers all of them. Thenative scout gave close and accurate directions as to his position;it remained for Connell's men to draw him out, if possible. CaptainGroce and the remainder of his eager company did not march untillong after the scouts were on their precarious way.
Two hours after the party of eleven left the village, a Mauserbullet from the clump of trees far to the right cut through thehat of one of the scouts who was some distance in advance of hisfellows. As he saw the scout stoop to pick up his hat, Rogers turnedto the man nearest him and remarked:
"They'll get him sure as shootin' some day if he hikes along inthat damn fool way."
It was no new experience for the scouts to find the quarry gonewhen they reached the place where they expected to find him. Pilar'sown scouts had found that the ambuscade was destined to fail ofits purpose, and the wily leader drew back into the more accessiblecountry. The scouting party did not come in sight of the littlebrown soldiers. The occasional crack of a Mauser broke the silenceof the advance, keeping the Americans in active touch with thedangers that surrounded them.
They found the deserted trenches and signs of recent occupation.The insurgents had been gone from the position less than two hours.Treachery faced the little squad of Americans on every side,but they did not falter. Connell scattered his men and they stolecarefully into the fastnesses, finding on all sides evidences of hastydeparture. Before noon they were far up in the hills, everywheremet by the physical assurance that the enemy was not far aheadof them. Behind them came Captain Groce and his men and the twocorrespondents.
Amigos along the mountain road gave information that was not worthhaving. A deserted village showed signs of the passage and finallythere was proof ahead that Pilar had stopped to give battle. Hehad reached his vantage ground. Connell and his men drew back andwaited. Nightfall came and with it the spiteful crack of the Mauserrifle. A brawny trooper toppled over with a great hole in his head.Pilar's pickets could see like cats in the night. The native scoutreported that the big village of Concepcion was not far ahead;Pilar's men were making their stand before this rather importantstronghold.
"We'll get a scrap that is a scrap, boys," said Connell, exultingly."These fellows are going to put up a fight, at last. They're likebees up yonder. We've got to fall back on the company; if we don't,they'll chew us up before the little captain can get to us."
Too well did the men know the bellicose temperament of the bigIrishman to think of grumbling at such a command; yet, it was witha certain reluctance which invariably accompanies a backward stepthat the men retired to meet the advancing company.
Young Bansemer in his khaki uniform was not the immaculate, debonnaireman of the drawing-room. Service, though short, had been hard andgruelling. His face was even handsomer with its rugged lines andset features. He was thinner and browner; his eyes were clearerand a darker grey; his hair seemed thicker and fairer than before;his figure more erect and sinewy. The wistful look in his eyesseemed to betray hunger for action; his ever-ready eagerness to beon the move told of his strength and of his weakness. He had thelean, active bearing of the panther and the restless daring of thatlithe animal.
No man in the company had stood fire as valiantly as he. He courtedthe whiz of the bullet, scoffed at the rigours of the march, andinstinctively was a good shot with the rifle. He bore no grudgeagainst the department at home; he had no grievance.
The officers recognised in him a man of parts, a man of station farabove the position which he had chosen in the army. He was a sourceof mystery to the men of his own rank in the line-the ploughboys,the teamsters, the roustabouts, and the ne'erdowells who had goneinto the army from choice or discretion. At first they had calledhim the "dude," and had laughed at his white hands and clean jaws.His indifference to their taunts annoyed them. One day he knockeddown the biggest bully of the lot and walked away without evenwaiting to see whether he could arise after the blow. He simplyglared at the next man who chaffed. It was enough. The company heldhim in a new respect that forbade the reporting of the incident tothe officer of the day.
Every night before he lay down to sleep, In the rice field or thebarrios, he took from his pocket a leather case and gazed at thesmall portrait it sheltered. No one had been permitted to see himin his devotions, for that was what he called these sacred moments.His lean face, full of fierce energy all day long, softened as hiseyes devoured the dainty miniature.
On meeting their company, Connell reported the situation ahead,to his superior officer; orders were given for the men to bivouacfor the night in a small village close at hand. That evening Bansemerwas discovered leaning against the corner of a nipa shack somedistance from his comrades, smoking silently while they talked andmade merry behind him. He seldom joined in the ribald but suppressedconversations of the men.
"Have you fellows ever noticed that he don't get any letters fromthe States-never seems to expect any?" asked Johnny Rogers, theone-t
ime foundry man, who sat watching him. Graydon had not been thesubject of conversation, but all knew whom Johnny meant by "he."
"I've noticed that, too," said Joe Adams.
"I got him sized up all right," said one of the Spurrier boys. "Hispeople don't know where he's at. That feller's a swell at home an'he's had to skip out. I'll bet my breakfast his name ain't Bansemer.An' if his people don't know where he's at, how in thunder can theywrite to him? See what I mean?"
"Think he's a bank cashier?" asked Sim Relander.
"Naw; it ain't money, it's some girl. I know these swell guys,"said Rogers. "You're right about his people not knowin' where towrite. He's a mystery, that feller is. I'll tell what I think:his folks have fired him out--won't recognise him. See? Disgraced'em, an' all that. That's why he ain't expectin' nothin' from home.He knows he won't get it."
"I feel kind o' sorry for a feller like that," mused Tom Reagan."I had a brother that had to skip once."
"That so? Did he ever come back?"
"I s'd say not. He ducked for good. Mother had a letter from himcouple o' months before I left home. He was in Milwaukee."
"Aw, this Bansemer's not that sort. He's made o' different stuff.Milwaukee? Holy Moses, it's only eighty mile from Chicago!"
"Gee, I'd like to have a glass o' the goods that made Milwaukeefamous," sighed Joe Adams.
"I'd like a keg," said Jim Spurrier, with a wistful look in hiseyes.
"S'pose we'll ever see a glass o' beer again?" asked the otherSpurrier, solemnly.
"I'll bet Bansemer's wonderin' if he'll ever taste champagne again."
"Ask him, Johnny."
"Hey, Bansemer. I've got a riddle for you. What 'u'd you soonerhave right now than a bottle of champagne?"
Graydon turned and sauntered slowly over to the group. He pausedfor a moment in passing, a broad smile on his face.
"A pail of beer," said he.
"Good fer you!" shouted two or three vociferously. He strode offto make ready for bed.
"He's all right," exclaimed Sim Relander feelingly, as if thatlaconic reply had been the only thing necessary to establish theyoung man's social standing.
"That feller's been out here only four months, an' I'll bet theyain't any ten men in the Philippines what's had as many clost callsas he's had," said Johnny Rogers. "I was thinkin' about it to-day.He's had more narrow escapes in tight places than---"
"Well, the darned fool rushes right into 'em, don't he? He ain'tgot no sense. Nobody ought to git out where he can be shot at whenthere ain't no need. Take that blamed fool trick o' his'n thereat Tarlac. When he went back all alone after the papers that CapGroce dropped. I'll bet he was shot at two hundred times."
"Well, he didn't get hit, did he? If he gets hit good 'n' properonce he won't be so keen about showin' off," growled one of themen.
"Depends on where he's hit. Then, there was that time when he dumbthe hill back yonder and turned the fire o' the gugus so's we couldget up into the pass. He makes me think o' Lawton. There's the boyfor me. If we had a few more generals like Lawton we'd put a crimpin these niggers so quick it would look like a spasm." Havingdelivered himself of this safe prophecy, Mr. Rogers glared abouthim for opposition. None forthcoming, he proceeded, with a satisfiedsnort, to refill his pipe.
"Lawton's makin' history, and don't you forget it," observed LukeHardy.
"He's from Indiana," piped up a homesick ploughboy from the HoosierState.
"Then, it'll be a historical novel," said the gaunt young recruitfrom Grand Rapids. He was a cynic who had tried newspaper work,and who still maintained that the generals did not have as muchintelligence as the privates.
"I'll never forget Bansemer when he first enlisted," reflected JoeAdams. "He wanted to go out for a cold plunge and a morning stroll,and then asked the sergeant where he could get a good riding horse.He's not so keen about strolls these days."
"He don't turn up his nose at things like he used to, either."
"I don't see why the devil he keeps so clean," grumbled Adams. "Ican't."
"I'll bet one thing," mused Rogers. "He'll be a captain or somethingbefore this scrap is over."
"He'll be a corpse, that's what he'll be."
"It's my opinion he'd just as lief be shot as not," said Relander."The only trouble is that these measly niggers can't hit anythingthey shoot at. If the darned fools would only try to miss him,they'd get him sure. The devil and Tom Walker--what's that?"
CHAPTER XXIII
THE FIGHT IN THE CONVENT
Jane Cable Page 22