CHAPTER XI
IN THE FIRST BRUSH WITH MOROS
At times, while the detachment in the woods covered that last mile thefiring ahead cropped up briskly. Then it died down into an occasional,sputtering shot or two. But every discharge of a rifle ahead was nowdistinctly audible to Uncle Sam's men marching to the relief.
At last the marching men came so close that the young lieutenantwhispered to the boyish sergeant:
"I'm going to join the 'point,' Overton. Bring the men on at the sameinterval, but keep your eyes ahead for signals from me."
"Very good, sir."
Ahead the marching men could now see that the trees were thinning out.Still further ahead they knew that there must lie either plantationfields or the houses themselves.
Many a soldier in the column tightened his grip on his rifle as hethought how soon, now, the raiding Moros would find that they had morefighting on hand than they had bargained for.
The "point" presently halted at the edge of the forest and LieutenantPrescott signaled back by raising his hand with a downward gesture.Sergeant Overton halted the main detachment.
Over a broad field the soldiers looked, but it was now plain that thebesieged planter's house lay on the other side of a belt of timber atthe further edge of the field. Then the officer signaled for the maincolumn to be brought up.
"I don't see any of the enemy in sight, men," declared Prescott. "Youwill deploy into line of skirmishers and then we'll run across thefield. Be prepared for the order to lie down in case the enemydevelops."
A moment later, and the men, in one straight, thin line, withconsiderable intervals between them, charged silently across the field.
At the edge of the timber they halted again. Lieutenant Prescott,revolver in hand, moved forward, accompanied only by Corporal Cotter.
After some minutes the pair came back again.
"You'll go forward as skirmishers," said Prescott. "Keep your intervals.Forward!"
No further word was spoken, but the lieutenant, at the right of the lineand slightly in advance, moved so stealthily that those nearest him feltthat the enemy could not be far off.
Suddenly the stick that the lieutenant carried in place of a sword washeld aloft, then the point lowered. The advancing line halted.
"When you move forward again," went the low, almost whispered andrepeated order down the line, "crouch low and do not hurry. A hundredyards ahead is a position from which we can rake the rascals with aflanking fire. Forward!"
Very soon the advancing soldiers caught sight of the planter's housebetween the trees. It stood some seven hundred yards from this neareredge of the clearing.
Now the soldiers, crouching as they moved, until they appeared to bebent nearly double, came in sight of a trench. It spread away obliquelybefore them, but everything in the trench was visible to them. At arough estimate there were some seventy-five brown-skinned Moroscrouching in the trench behind a line of hard-packed dirt thrown upbefore them.
At this moment most of the brown fellows were loafing in the trench.Only occasionally one of them showed himself, raising his gun quicklyand firing toward the house. The planter's return fire did not cometoward Prescott's command, but well to the right of the soldiers.
"The Moros are up to their same old rascally tricks," whisperedLieutenant Prescott to Sergeant Hal Overton. "They fire heavily, once ina while, and then pepper the house occasionally with single shots. Theiridea is to keep those in the house firing until the defenders have usedup all their ammunition. When the Moros are satisfied that Seaforth'sparty have no more cartridges, then those brown pirates plan to rush thehouse, with little loss to themselves, and run creeses through everydefender left alive."
A moment later Prescott's order was repeated down the line of soldiers,now lying prone on the ground:
"Load magazines! Remember to fire low. At the pistol shot begin firingat will, but keep cool and try to make every cartridge tell. Better toshoot slowly than to waste any ammunition."
As noiselessly as they could the prostrate men opened the magazines oftheir rifles and slipped the cartridges in.
Lieutenant Prescott, revolver in hand, waited until he saw that all hadhad time to obey the order. Then the stick, now in his left hand,pointed forward, and the various squad leaders whispered:
"At four hundred yards, aim!"
It was a tense moment for the new men.
Bang! Lieutenant Prescott's revolver rang out, the muzzle pointed towardthe enemy.
Instantly following it came a sputtering of reports, then a settled,heavy fire. The noise of so many soldiers firing at will was like thatmade on Fourth of July by a hundred packs of cannon crackers all goingoff at once.
Yet over all the din rose the yells of the surprised Moros in thetrench. It had caught them hard, for most of the soldiers were doinggood shooting.
Heedless, now, of the fire from the planter's house, the Moros in thetrench rose to flee. Some of them dropped where they stood. Others ranaway as fast as their brown legs could carry them, some brandishingtheir rifles with defiance, a few others throwing down their firearms asthey started to bolt.
About a dozen of the rascals tried to return the fire of the soldiers,but fired too high. None of the khaki-clad men were hit.
"Cease firing!" shouted Lieutenant Prescott, but he addressed his orderto the bugler who stood beside him. No voice could carry over such a dinof firing.
Ta-rar-ta-ra-ta! rang the bugle. As the men obeyed the command to ceasefiring one would again have been reminded of exploding packs of firecrackers, for the fire died down sputteringly, with here and thereanother report or two from soldiers who felt that they had a fine beaddrawn and ached to "get" another enemy or two.
Fully twenty-five of the Moros had fallen, either in the trench at thefirst crash of fire, or else while running to cover.
These, however, were not the only enemies at hand, for, from a grove offto the left of the planter's house a heavy fire now crashed out, andbullets began to clip twigs from the trees among which the soldiers lay.
Other bullets whizzed by over the heads of Uncle Sam's men as they laythere. There was a peculiarly spiteful sound to the passage of thesebullets. "Whew-ew-ew!" they sang, for most of the Moros were using the.43 Remington, with the brass-jacketed, heavy bullet, this being afavorite arm in the islands among the natives. There are alwaysadventurers at Hong Kong who, for a price, will land any number ofRemingtons and any amount of ammunition at lonely spots along the coastof the islands.
Shading his eyes with his left hand Lieutenant Prescott tried to locatethis other firing party of Moros. Smokeless powder gives no clue to thehiding places of an enemy, and even if there be any kind of echo it is aconfusing guide.
But at last Prescott was sure he had located the second Moro fightingparty and he pointed out the place to his men.
"Send them a volley over there, all together," ordered the youngofficer. "Ready; load! At six hundred and fifty yards, aim. Fire!"
Prescott's face beamed with satisfaction as he held his field glass tohis eyes and saw where the bullets threw up the dirt.
"Splendidly done, men!" he cried. "We'll send 'em another. Ready; load.Aim--fire!"
Once more the volley crashed out splendidly. Then the men lay on theirhot-barreled rifles.
No more shots came their way just then.
"We've silenced their fire for the time being," chuckled the officer. "Iwonder if the enemy are retiring?"
In the silence Uncle Sam's men could hear a frantic cheer rise from theinterior of the planter's house.
"Yes; I'll warrant they're glad," cried Prescott, his eyes shiningmistily. "But we haven't reached them yet!"
It looked easy. All the detachment had to do was to run across a fieldand halt before the planter's house.
Yet how could the young commanding officer know that he would not losehalf his men by ambushed fire while crossing that open space?
Uncle Sam's Boys in the Philippines; or, Following the Flag against the Moros Page 11