That popular opera “The Sultan of Sulu” has made the island of Sulu one of the most-talked-of places on the map of our new possessions, but in the Philippines it is rarely called Sulu, being better known by its Moro name of Jolo, this being pronounced with the accent on the last syllable, so that it sounds not unlike that vulgar salutation of our Western World, “Hello!”
As first seen from our quarter-deck the village of Sulu was a thing of beauty, with its vivid tints of green and gold and amethyst, its red-sailed boats on the sunlit bay, and over all the strongly blue sky. Nor was this enchantment due entirely to distance, for on going ashore in the late afternoon, we found the town even more attractive than we had thought it from the sea.
On drawing up to the pier in the ship’s launch, all were surprised to find it built solidly of brick and stone, a rare departure in these waters, while at one side rose a round watch-tower, the architectural evidence of Spain’s ultimate victory, after numerous and heart-breaking failures, in establishing a fort at Sulu. Above this watch-tower, which might have been taken bodily from the stage-setting for a melodrama, floated Old Glory against the sunset sky; Moro fishing-boats, the breeze in their crimson sails, dotted the flushed bay; and to the north and east small, detached islands, tinged with a translucent purple like the skin of a grape, faded into the horizon.
Within the town’s mediæval loopholed walls everything adds to this picturesque effect, for the streets are laid out in broad boulevards, with here and there a park or plaza, riotous with bloom; the houses are large and well built, there being no nipa shacks within the four walls, and the only church of the place is refreshingly simple in design.
During our first morning ashore we visited the market, and found it a most interesting sight. The Moros, in their parti-coloured raiment, were squatted on the ground in a great circle, buying or selling fruits and vegetables, while under a covered shed at one end of the plaza stood those dealing in fish and crustaceans of all kinds.
These marketmen were eminently good to look upon from an artistic standpoint, and as they lounged around in groups or singly, one longed to imprison them on canvas in all the gorgeousness of their tropical colouring. One fishmonger, whom I especially remember, sported a ravishing costume, consisting of bright green trousers, skin-tight of course, a purple coat, and a high peaked hat of silver, gilt, and crimson. He might better have been in comic opera than in the humble occupation of selling crabs and lobsters.
The Moro women were particularly interested in the Burnside feminine contingent, but not to the extent of dogging our footsteps as did the natives elsewhere, several American women in town having helped satiate their curiosity. But they stared at us, nevertheless, with a deep and absorbing interest, the quartermaster’s wife, as usual, being the cynosure of all eyes, because of her exceptional height and slenderness, not to mention that astounding walking-skirt, which had apparently grown upon her, there being no visible means by which it could be put on and off.
It was that morning most of us saw for the first time the durian, of malodorous fame, whose taste is said to be as delicious as its smell is overpowering. The fruit was for sale in the market at a few pennies apiece, and had banishment from Sulu not been threatened as a punishment, I should certainly have tasted one, that I might more accurately describe it.
“If you’re bound to eat one of those nasty durians,” said a friend living in the town, “please take it on the ship and have the captain anchor out farther at sea. If you attempt to open one here, you’ll have the Sanitation Committee after you hotfoot!”
So I desisted, but looked at the durians so wistfully that the Moros put them down in price to a penny apiece, evidently thinking that monetary considerations prohibited the purchase.
In appearance the durian is green and prickly, about the size of a small melon, and even through the tough outside rind one can notice a faint nauseating odour. It is said that when one is opened in the market it takes but a few moments to clear the vicinity of Americans, while if a man be courageous enough to brave the strong smell and take a bite of the fruit, his presence will be unwelcome in polite society for some time thereafter; yet the durian is delightful to the palate, and would doubtless be oftener eaten did not one become so steeped in its anything but Sabean odour.
That first morning in Sulu, after a jolly breakfast with some of our army friends, a post officer took me into the Moro village of Tuli, just south of the walled town. There we visited many native house, climbing up steps made of circular logs, which were hard to navigate in shoes, and in every instance the natives greeted us with the utmost cordiality.
In one of the tumble-down shacks near the sea we found the Sultana, Inchy Jamela, mother of the present Sultan, who had preceded her son to Sulu on a little visit. She was a most repulsive old hag, blear-eyed and skinny with blackened teeth, from which the thin lips curled away in a chronic snarl, but she rose on her elbow from the couch where she was reclining, and shook hands in good American fashion. Then she threw us each a pillow, indicating that we, too, should lie down and take it easy, but we preferred our perpendicularity, and sat upright on the edge of her couch, this being the only article of furniture in the room.
As the old lady could not speak Spanish, she leered at us pleasantly from where she lay, occasionally muttering something in her native tongue, that might have been a tribute to our charms of mind or person, but which sounded more like an incantation. I felt she was a veritable witch, and at any moment expected to find myself changed into some animal or other under the baleful light of her eyes. If she had said, “Rumpelstilzchen, rumpelstilzchen,” or any other cabalistic thing the witches in our fairy tales used to say, I should not have been surprised; and I tried to smile as pleasantly as I knew how, for fear she would think me bad tempered, and so change my every word into frogs and toads, instead of diamonds and rubies.
After a particularly scintillating burst of silence the Sultana offered me some buyo, or betel-nut, to chew, and on my refusing it, placidly put a large hunk into her own mouth, and chewed it until the red juice stained her lips as if she were suffering from a hemorrhage.
The dais on which she lounged was as large as a small room, and was raised about three feet from the ground, it being covered with pillows and hand-woven mats of straw and bamboo. Around this thronelike couch were grouped her slaves and attendants, all armed with barongs and krises stuck into their wide sash belts, and attired in many-coloured garments that gave one the impression, both from fit and odour, of being on terms of long and close acquaintance with their wearers. The inevitable naked, brown babies staggered around the room, their little stomachs, in many instances, being swelled frightfully from a diet of too much rice and fish.
When the Sultana wanted privacy a drapery of red and white stuff, hung from the ceiling, could be let down, but otherwise she was constantly in the presence of her slaves and retainers, having the alternative of being smothered to death in privacy or bored to death in plenty of fresh air. We were told the Sultana was a power in the State and a diplomatist of no mean order, but it was hard to believe this in the royal presence, unwashed and unlovely as it was. Still, I remember seeing in a Philadelphia paper that some American living in Sulu had described the Sultana as being “an agreeable, refined, and charming Oriental diplomat.” Her personality was quoted as most attractive, “uniting a rare combination of Oriental elegance and modern grace.” She would be, it was said, in bearing and appearance, a credit to an American drawing-room. Heaven forbid! Unless the writer possibly meant that after due training she would grace the drawing-room in cap and apron, wielding a duster in lieu of her inherited rod of empire.
On the day of our visit, Her Majesty was attired in garments of decided dinginess, soiled and faded, with here and there an ill-made patch, or perhaps a fresh hole, like a gaping wound, in the cloth. But it is said that on the grand occasions when she honours the post with her presence, she is attired in a splendour before which the lilies of the field wilt with envy. Rainbow effects predominate, and much gilt and silver embroidery, the ravishing impression being further enhanced by a pair of white cotton mitts drawn over her bird-claw hands. On these occasions of state the Sultana rides into town on the back of a slave, with another slave holding a parasol over her august head, and accompanied by several outriders, or rather outwalkers, attired in few clothes of many colours.
The Sultan, too, rides pickaback when he comes to town, and as it is considered a great privilege for a Moslem to have kissed the Sultan’s hand or foot, he is often gracious enough to sit astride a slave’s shoulders in some public place, the palms of his hands and the soles of his bare feet obligingly outstretched, so that the thronging people can come by fours and do homage to his state as expeditiously as possible.
One of the officers stationed in Sulu told us of a hunting trip which he and several other men had taken with the Sultan and a high-ranking datto, a royal hunt through royal preserves. To the intense amusement of the Americans, the Moros insisted on taking their respective harems with them on the chase, and at night all slept in one large room, the three factions being separated only by curtains around raised platforms.
For some time the harems and their respective lords called back and forth to each other quite audibly, until the officers, worn out with their day’s shooting, fell asleep. About midnight the Americans were awakened by such frightful shrieks and blood-curdling yells that each instinctively felt for his revolver or rifle, fearing an attack from the fanatical Moslems. It transpired, however, that it was only a slave girl singing the Sultan to sleep! The officer described this musical effort as a most hideous uproar, saying that a note would be held almost to the bursting point, the breath being regained by an agonized, strangled sob, or else a bar would be yelled explosively between hissing, indrawn breaths, the effect not conforming to the laws of harmony as understood by Europeans.
On other hunting trips, when the Americans had been accompanied by Moro guides, great difficulty was found in procuring food suited to Mohammedan restrictions, the Moros even refusing bread because there might be lard in it, or because they had seen the soldier cooks grease the pans with that abomination; sardines were also prohibited for fear they had been soaked in animal fat; and bacon was of course accursed.
The officers were in despair until one old Moro came across some cans of baked beans among the rations. Beans! Assuredly a clean vegetable, and as such to be partaken of freely. So there they sat, good Moslems all, regaling themselves out of cans marked plainly on their gaudy labels, “Pork and Beans.” Moreover, they averred that the American article had an exceptionally fine Bavour, not in the least like the Philippine variety!
So strong is the Moros’ aversion to even touching pork, that while they will guide Americans where boar may be found, they themselves will take no part in the sport nor help carry the game home, and even when offered American prices a pound for the meat, that representing fabulous wealth to a Moro, he will not defile himself by so much as selling it.
Mr. Dean C. Worcester, in his delightful book, “The Philippine Islands,” gives a most interesting legend in explanation of the Moros’ aversion to pork. He says he made numerous attempts in Mindanao, Basilan, and Sulu to find out the origin of this curious distaste, but without avail, until one day the minister of justice, under “his Excellency Paduca Majasari Malauna Amiril Mauinin Sultan Harun Narrasid,” committed a bibulous indiscretion, and when the vivifying spirits were well amalgamated with his own he contributed the following narrative:
“Jesus Christ, called by the Moros Isa, was a man like ourselves, but great, and good, and very powerful. He was not a son of God. The Moros hate and kill the Christians because they teach that men could punish and kill a son of God.
“Mohamoud had a grandson and a grand-daughter, of whom he was very fond. As he was king of the world, Christ came to his house to visit him. Mohamoud, jealous of him, told him to prove his power by ‘divining’ what he had in a certain room, where, in fact, were his grandchildren. Christ replied that he had no wish to prove his power, and would not ‘divine’ (divinar). Mohamoud then vowed that if he did not answer correctly, he should pay for it with his life. Christ responded, ‘You have two animals in there, different from anything else in the world.’ Mohamoud replied, ‘No, you are wrong, and I will now kill you.’ Christ said, ‘Look first, and see for yourself.’ Mohamoud opened the door, and out rushed two hogs, into which Christ had changed his grandchildren.
“Moros are forbidden to tell this story to infidels, because it shows that Christ outwitted the great prophet. When my informant sobered up and realized what he had done, he hung around day after day, beseeching me not to let any one know what he had done, from which fact I inferred that he thought he had told me the truth, and not a fable invented for the occasion.”
That first morning in Sulu, after having paid our respects to the Sultana, we called upon the next greatest personage in town, a Hadji but lately returned from his pilgrimage to Mecca. He was a most intelligent man, with regular features, fine eyes, and a flowing beard, impressively patriarchal. He was a priest as well as a Hadji, and, we were told, had a mighty following among the faithful. Both he and his wife were most hospitable in their manner and courteous in their speech, she beaming toothlessly upon us throughout the call, and as we left they pressed upon me a handful of rather rare shells as a memento of the visit.
The small boy of the family, a youngster of seven or eight, stared at us continually from the moment of our entrance into the house until our exit, seeming especially taken with the young officer; so much so, in fact, that on our leaving, he followed us to the door, and there climbed upon a high seat, from which point of vantage he seized the young man’s hand, kissed it very reverently, and then laid it against his forehead. This was all done so solemnly and with such a calm dignity that even the youngster’s entire lack of raiment could not detract from its impressiveness or the significance of the action. It was evident that he imagined the big, blond lieutenant was a Serif, a direct descendant of Mohammed, or perhaps even a Habi, which means a Serif who has been to Mecca, or a Hadji and Serif in one, than whom none but the Sultan is so great, so good, so omnipotent. I dared not laugh at the child’s earnestness, though I had some trouble in controlling my risibles, the aforesaid young officer not having a reputation for excessive holiness.
Long before reaching the Moro school for boys, which we next visited, we could hear the voices of the pupils in a treble uproar, for they all and individually studied aloud, rocking back and forth in their seats, so that at first the sound was an unintelligible jumble, which finally resolved itself into bits of the multiplication table, detached letters of the alphabet, and pages from geography or history.
As we entered the door, the scholars looked up expectantly from their work, glad of an interruption, and at a sign from one of the Mohammedan teachers, they sprang to their feet with the uniformity of a machine, fairly yelling their “Good morning” at us. Fine little lads they were, all being of Moro, Chinese, or Filipino stock, with here and there a fascinating combination of the three nationalities in one.
Of course the children were put through their paces for us, and, as each recited in turn, he would preface his remarks by a profound bow and a little speech, the words of these formal introductions being exactly alike, as if ground out by a phonograph, and beginning “Ladies and Gentlemen,” till I wondered if perhaps the children saw us double. They were not in the least abashed, these little savages, and in their quaint English recited selections from Eugene Field and James Whitcomb Riley, some of these efforts being in dialect, which must have been a trifle puzzling to one not acquainted with the vagaries of the language.
Finally an arithmetical problem on the board caught my eye, and was surreptitiously transferred to my note-book for future reference. It ran something like this: “A poor old lady owns one thousand cents. She loses 189 of the cents. How many left has she?” The master, observing my interest in the financial difficulties of the aged and destitute lady, had the little slates brought up that I might see there were still 811 pennies to her credit. I inquired of some of the boys how much 811 pennies put into dollars and cents would amount to, but all were so visibly embarrassed that I, remembering my own mathematically tortured childhood, desisted before the schoolmaster could hear. On leaving, the boys again jumped up as one, and shouted their unanimous “Good-bye,” and long after we were out of sight, we could hear their high young voices studying aloud, each for himself, and apparently undisturbed by the scholastic outburst of his neighbour.
Half a mile outside the walled garrison of Sulu, to the west, is a strong outpost built of stone, and still farther out yet another. These outposts are always occupied by American soldiers, not originally because of any expected trouble with the Moros, but because if our men did not occupy them the Moros would, thus giving them an almost invincible stronghold against us in case of some sudden fanatical uprising. Among the Moros, as in Granada, “Love laughs with a grip on the knife,” and preparedness is as essential as good government.
Near these outposts may be seen some very fine kitchen gardens, kept by the frugal Celestial, the Chinaman of Sulu being much more energetic commercially than the Moro. It is from the “Chino” the American housewife buys her fresh fruits and vegetables, while the Moros bring in fish and the Filipinos chicken and game, thus ensuring a well-stocked larder independent of the supply-ships from Manila. In fact, so delightful a place is Sulu, that if fever were not prevalent there at some seasons of the year, it would be a veritable Paradise; but even the sanitary measures taken by the great Spanish General Arolas have not quite stamped out that scourge to white men, which long made Sulu the most undesirable military station in the islands.
Everybody in the Philippines knows the story of General Arolas, and of how, at the close of a brief republican administration in Spain, he was practically banished to Sulu, there to die by fever or be killed by the Moros. But Arolas, instead of settling down into an inactive life awaiting what seemed the inevitable, occupied himself in building up the town, fortifying it strongly, and at the same time making it more beautiful by laying it out in broad streets and avenues, interspersed at regular intervals with flowering squares and plazas. By draining these streets well, building water-works, and establishing a fine new market, he changed its reputation as a fever hole and made Sulu one of the most desirable stations in the south. By his relentless attitude he gained the respect and fear of the Moros, and only once during his administration did a fanatical Juramentado gain access to the town.
But Arolas was probably less popular with the Mohammedans than was the American officer in command at the time of our visit. Indeed, he had been legally adopted by the royal family, the fierce old Sultana calling him “Brother,” and the Sultan referring to him as “Papa,” while a greater proof of their affection may be found in this extract of a letter written to General MacArthur on the Moros being told that they were soon to lose their first American governor.
“ ... I hereby bring to your notice that I have heard that our father, Major Sweet, Governor of Jolo, will be taken away from us. This is the reason of my writing to you, because you are the parent of the Moro people, and it is known to us that you will always do your best for us, as you have done hitherto. Therefore, I beg to you anyhow for the present not to remove Major Sweet from here, as he has been very good to us, and he is very well known to everybody. He is like a parent to us Moro people. It will be just like a child who is left by his parents; he will fret and be longing for the one he loves; the Moro people are the same way. Even if somebody else would come, it would not be the same, as he would be unknown; he will be another man for that reason. To tell the truth, our father, Major Sweet, has opened our eyes; he has been the man to show us the right way to come up to the white man’s ideas, and there are many cases where he has shown us his good-will. Therefore, I, the Sultan of the Jolo Archipelago, am seeking that whatever is good for my people. It is my sincerest wish that my country should go ahead.
“Since Major Sweet, our father, has been in command of Jolo Archipelago, no disturbance of any description has occurred; the reason is, that he has taken great interest in our country and its people. He was the man who saw our poverty, our incapability of paying customs duties, as more than one calamity has befallen our islands; therefore, we thank him and we trust him, although not knowing what he will do in the future, if it will change or not. Therefore, I and my people ask you to consider the removal of Major Sweet, we ask you to leave him here; we would like him to teach us the customs of the white people.”
This, signed by the Sultan himself, is surely documentary evidence of successful American administration with the Mohammedans, who were counted by the Spaniards as quite ungovernable.
Socially, we found Sulu delightful, and in our few days there had many pleasant dinners both on and off the ship, a little dance at the club-house, and a tennis tea. The women all wore pretty frocks, their houses were charming, and their servants as well trained as if they were living anywhere but on a dot of an island in the Sulu Sea. All of which goes to show what American women can do in all circumstances, especially army women. It was often hard to realize, while in Sulu, that just outside the house which encompassed our little civilization, barbarism lurked, but through the open windows one could see the Moros in their picturesque colours, the more soberly dressed Filipinos, and the thrifty Chinamen, with their long queues twisted up under their flat straw hats, while bits of conversation in all three tongues drifted in and mingled with our talk, as foreign to the American ear as was the tropical foliage to the American eye.
Of course we bought all sorts of curios before sailing, embroidered turbans, sarongs, jabuls, handsome krises, chow-covers of beautifully coloured straw, and hats of every variety, while one day, as an experiment in shopping, I bargained for a Moro slave, a handsome, black-eyed boy, but as he could not be purchased for less than ten dollars gold, I informed his owner that he was too expensive. This transaction was carried on with great seriousness by the elderly Mohammedan, while the youngster himself showed great interest in the proceedings, and looked a little disappointed when he found he was not to belong to the Americana after all.
Slave-raiding has of course been forbidden since American occupation, but the authorities have not yet been able to entirely do away with slave-trading, polygamy, nor other like peccadilloes, religious toleration being the password to the ultimate civilization of our new citizens.
Meanwhile the Signal Corps had entrenched the cable, and connected it by a short land line with the telegraph office, which was established in short order, everything being in perfect condition for the return trip to Zamboanga by the afternoon of the 28th. At daybreak on the following morning, we sailed for Zamboanga, only to find orders awaiting us there to proceed at once on a wrecking expedition to Bongao, on Bongao Island of the Tawi Tawi group, a small launch, the Maud, being foundered there on a coral reef. Thus were we hoist by our own petard, for over the cable just laid came the order postponing our return to Manila; but as it meant yet another chapter in a delightful experience, few of us were averse to that.
So, between nine and ten o’clock that night, we sailed for Tawi Tawi, passing east of Basilan and Sulu. The ship, relieved of nearly all its cable, rolled a great deal, both on our way up from Sulu and that first night out from Zamboanga, but on the two succeeding days the weather was calm, the air cool, and the “Sultan’s Sea” a gigantic mirror reflecting every cloud in the sky on its glassy surface. All on board were idle then, and every steamer chair on the quarter-deck was occupied.
On the first day out we saw no land at all, but the second day many coral groups appeared to the east and south of Bongao. Among others were Manuk Manuk, surely a name to conjure with! Then there was also Balambing, which on our ship chart was marked PIRATES! Think of sailing piratical seas in this prosaic twentieth century! We watched eagerly along the coast of Balambing, to which we passed very close, for possible crafts bearing black flags, and were rather disappointed at not seeing even one bearded highwayman of the sea, a gleaming knife between his teeth, his red shirt open at the throat, for, if I remember rightly, it was so that pirates were always drawn in the yellow-covered interdicted literature of childhood.
These southern waters were bluer than any we had seen on the trip, excepting over coral reefs, where the blue changed suddenly to a glittering iridescent green, sparkling and treacherous. This coral is eminently American in its habit of expansion, and has spread itself well over the southwest portion of the Celebes Sea.
Finally Tawi Tawi itself appeared on the horizon, and we recalled that deep in its heart, surrounded by vast forests and jungles, the faintly discernible ruins of Dungon exist, the ruins themselves covered by tremendous growths of trees. This was the ancient capital of the Moros, and there lie the remains of the first Arab Sultan, that fierce old missionary who brought the Koran in one hand and a kris in the other to spread the light of Islam. That his converts were many and their faith was strong and sure is attested by the universality of Mohammedanism in these southern islands, and the exclusive use of the Arabic characters in the writing of the people.
On the afternoon of March 3d, we anchored off Bongao. On our port side, and well forward, lay the wrecked Maud nearly filled with water. Altogether she was in a deplorable condition, but in a few days was raised by the combined efforts of our first officer, his crew, and the soldiers of the fort. Meanwhile, we were all idlers on the Burnside, and in consequence enjoyed our visit there to the utmost.
Despite the fact of its remoteness from civilization, or perhaps because of it, we found Bongao most attractive. Situated on a dot of an island belonging to the Tawi Tawi group, it is the southernmost part of our new possessions to be garrisoned. West of it Borneo looms up on the horizon, and to the south is Sibutu, for which Spain was paid a good round sum because certain gentlemen on the Paris Commission lacked geographic accuracy; while to the east and north are coral islands belonging to the same group as Bongao. The garrison is situated on a mountainous spur of land running down steeply to the water. It is laid out like a park, the soldiers’ quarters, hospital, library, and storehouses being of bamboo and nipa, over which the men have trained vines and creeping plants, while before each door bloom beds of bright flowers.
The officers’ quarters are built higher up on a wind-swept slope overlooking the bay, where it curves around the point of the island, and while these houses are picturesque from the outside, they are roughly finished within, the “banquet-hall,” as they dignified the mess, being especially al fresco. Over the extemporized sideboard, consisting of some rude shelves, on which were piled a heterogeneous collection of tinned fruits and vegetables, hung a motto which read “God Bless our Home. If you don’t like it, get out!” On the reverse side of this somewhat suggestive placard was the pleasing gastronomic intelligence, “Chicken to-day,” chicken forming the staple of diet at Bongao, as of course fresh meat is to be had only at the rarest intervals.
For six months at a stretch the monsoon blows across the coral peninsula in one direction, and then changes and blows six months in the opposite quarter, so that, as an officer stationed there remarked, one could take his choice and be blown off to the crocodiles in the bay or to the sharks in the sea outside. This high wind moderates the climate perceptibly, however, and notwithstanding the fact that Bongao is situated within five degrees of the equator, we found it exceptionally cool, and the officers and men in splendid physical condition.
There was but one company of infantry stationed at Bongao when we were there, comprising perhaps fifty men and three officers. Because of the two hundred miles of treacherous ocean between him and higher authority, the young captain acting as military governor was, so to speak, a small Czar, and he ruled an unique kingdom, untouched by civilization, and peopled entirely by ex-pirates or the descendants of pirates.
The official letter-book of this functionary, at which he allowed us to peep, read like a story of adventure, while some of his own personal experiences, and those of the former commanding officer, seem almost incredible when away from the glamour of the place. In the post records, sandwiched between such mundane things as requisitions for water-buckets or commissary supplies, one would read of atrocious murders committed by the Moros; piratical expeditions headed off, and their instigators punished; or attempted slave-raids against some neighbouring island.
Under the date of February 21, 1900, a thrilling story was told, it being the official and unvarnished account of a disastrous hunting trip taken by five of the post soldiers, the dispassionate routine language but giving it verisimilitude; while the subsequent happenings serve to show what kind of government seems most to appeal to these people.
The story, as nearly as I can remember it, reads that five of the garrison soldiers were given permission to go to a neighbouring island of the Tawi Tawi group on a hunting expedition after wild boar. Relations with the Moros on that island having been, at least, nominally friendly, there was not the slightest hesitation in granting the soldiers’ request, particularly as there had been no fresh meat in the garrison for some time.
The men left in a rowboat and spent the first few hours in Balambing, an ex-pirate community, where they were entertained in the best Moro fashion, leaving amidst mutual expressions of regret and good-will. The Moros’ love for firearms is well known, and about ten of them were so taken with the soldiers’ rifles that they accompanied the party, ostensibly to act as guides, but in reality to witness the sport. Delayed by a strong tide running to windward, they camped that night on a lonely beach, both Americans and Moros in the best possible humour.
After a supper cooked over the camp-fire, all the soldiers, with the exception of one man who was preparing for bed, indulged in a game of cards, the Moros watching the proceeding with apparent interest, but talking a great deal among themselves. Each soldier had his Krag on the ground beside him in case of danger, the rifle of the man who was undressing being in a far corner of the room.
Suddenly, at a word from their leader, the Moros seized their wicked barongs and simultaneously attacked the men playing cards, beheading one poor fellow at a single blow, and fearfully cutting the three others. One died almost immediately, and the second fell unconscious, while the third, who was cut across the side of the head and neck, feigned death and so escaped with his life.
The soldier who was partly undressed, seeing that he could not reach his rifle, felt it was only a matter of seconds before his turn should come. But the Moros, having obtained all the firearms, escaped into the forest, leaving him unharmed. As hastily as possible, he lifted the still unconscious man into the boat, which had been hidden in the bushes against just such an emergency, the wounded soldier who had feigned death helping with all his little strength, though he was so grievously hurt that he had literally to hold on his head with his hands, the cords on one side of his neck being severed. Fortunately, the jugular vein escaped the keen knife’s edge, else he would not have been alive; but it was with no little difficulty he helped the unwounded man push off from shore.
All night they rowed, the wounded man working with one hand, despite his fearful suffering, and all the next day, the blazing tropic sun shining down on their unprotected heads. Once they were beached on a coral reef, and it was all they could do to get the boat off again into deep water. Meanwhile the third soldier died, but at last the survivors of the massacre, in a pitiable condition, reached the post, carrying between them the already putrefying corpse of their comrade.
Scarce waiting to hear their gruesome story, the commanding officer and most of his company put off in bancas for Balambing, the unwounded man accompanying them for the purpose of identification. Arriving late in the afternoon, the soldiers quickly surrounded the town before any Moro could escape in his prau, and the rapidity with which the Philippine Mohammedan can drop from his house, built on poles over the water, and paddle away is little less than miraculous.
The head men of the village were then summoned by the American captain and ordered to hand over the murderers and the stolen rifles, or lead the way to the hiding-place of the criminals before eight o’clock of the following morning, the penalty for their disobedience being the burning of the town.
That night numerous lights and the sound of voices in the village testified to the earnest discussion that was proceeding, and at daybreak six of the offenders were delivered into American hands, the survivor of the outrage testifying to their identity; but the captain was not satisfied and consulted his watch so impatiently as eight o’clock approached that the head men, after much consultation among themselves, finally led the way to where the others were concealed along with the captured rifles.
Here the ten prisoners were rounded up and preparations made for the return to Bongao, when suddenly a simultaneous break for liberty was attempted, and the Moros had a lesson in the deadly aim of the American soldier, for a fearful fusilade was opened on them at short range, and not a prisoner escaped.
To one unacquainted with the Moros, this swift and sure vengeance would seem sufficient to cause the relatives of the dead men to hate Americans and plan blood feuds in retaliation; but it was not so, for they recognized perfectly the wrong that had been done, and accepted the death of their kinsmen as well merited, while any regret they may have felt was at the unlucky turn of fate which put them into the hands of justice. Being captured, it was inconceivable to a Moro that the offenders should be spared, and the break for liberty was doubtless induced by the belief that at the worst they merely advanced the day of execution. For had they not killed, and what is quite as bad in the Moro code of ethics, stolen? No punishment following this outrage, the Moros would have looked on the Americans as white-livered, cowardly, pusillanimous, and that first crime would doubtless have been succeeded by raids on the town, and massacres, and feuds, which only a bloody war could have ended.
As a result of his prompt action, this very efficient young officer had the satisfaction of knowing that the cordial relations with the citizens of Balambing rested on a new and more secure foundation than ever before. That no ill-will is harboured against the Americans may be seen by the large crowd of Balambing natives who weekly market their wares at Bongao, and the invariable respect shown by them to the uniform. Americans go freely without arms all over the island. In truth, it is asserted by different head men that the first attack would never have been made on the soldiery had it not been for the rifles they carried. Human life is cheap among the Moros, and the inconvenience of that life standing between them and what they want is soon remedied by a barong, unless fear of punishment, prompt and pitiless, stares them in the face.
From Balambing of bloody memory comes a Moro love story of some interest and no little humour. It appears that a rich woman there fell in love with a handsome young slave belonging to a man in a neighbouring town. After some difficulty she effected his purchase and married him, despite the fact of his being so far beneath her in the social scale. Not long after this the happy couple went to Bongao on a market-day. The lady, being an inveterate gambler, repaired at once to the cockpit, where she lost so heavily that her remaining funds were inadequate for the return trip to Balambing. Then a happy idea struck her. Why not pawn her husband, awaiting her next visit to Bongao, for although she was married to him, he was still a slave in the eyes of the law, and she could redeem him at her pleasure.
Acting on this happy inspiration, she sought an audience with the Governor, explaining through the interpreter her predicament, and offering her husband as a security for the loan of two hundred and fifty dollars, gold. The Governor, being a bachelor, was skeptical as to this marital transaction, especially as the couple had been wedded beyond the traditional honeymoon. He was afraid that he might have the bridegroom permanently upon his hands did he advance so great a sum. This was made plain to the bride, who protested that life would be quite unendurable without her liege lord, or more properly speaking, in this case, liege subject; but the Governor was unrelenting.
How the lady finally managed to reach Balambing is not told. Perhaps some trusting Moro accepted the risk of the marital loan. Perhaps she induced the owner of a prau to row her across. However the distance was accomplished, it is to be hoped she was less reckless in her subsequent gambling, a husband having proved so bad a hostage.
Another love story of different import comes from a village on the island of Siminor, just south of Bongao. There, it is said, lives an old Moro who so loved his wife, and strange to say, in this polygamous community, his only wife, that when she died he watched her grave long beyond the appointed time, after which he had his house built over her burial-place, and there lives to this day, still faithful to the mouldering bones beneath him. Surely a proof that great love sometimes stirs even savage breasts. Considering the environment, for this man lives in a country where polygamy is not only recognized but encouraged, and where women are bought and sold by the pound, like so much meat, his love is on a par with the idyllic attachments of history and fiction.
Speaking of buying and selling women among the Moros, reminds me of an old Maharajah in Bongao who had never seen an American woman until the arrival of the Burnside. Of course all white women are considered very beautiful by these dusky savages, an evidence of how much they admire Europeans being found in the fact that they firmly believe in the Sultan’s Seventh Heaven all the wives of his harem will have white skins. Noticing the Maharajah’s absorbed interest in our appearance, the Governor, to our intense disgust, insisted upon asking the old fellow what he thought the quartermaster’s wife should be worth in dollars and cents. The toothless Maharajah took it all quite seriously, looked at the lady in question with much discrimination, pulled at his wisp of a billy-goat beard in contemplative silence, and after some minutes of deep thought replied that she should be worth about a hundred dollars, Mexican, an abnormally large amount, as Moro women seldom average over forty dollars, Mexican, apiece.
Then the irrepressible young man turned to me, asking at what the Maharajah thought I should be valued. Without a moment’s hesitation, the old sinner, to my chagrin and the uproarious delight of the whole party, appraised me at only eighty dollars, Mexican, and this despite the fact that I had smiled my pleasantest, in the hope that he would rate me at least as high as the quartermaster’s wife.
Datto Sakilon, whom we met next day, proved more diplomatic, for when asked what he thought we women should be worth in the Mohammedan market, replied that it was impossible to tell, because if Moro women could be bought for forty dollars apiece, an American woman should be worth at least a thousand. Not bad repartee for a barbarian! In return for his consideration, I must admit that he was the best dressed Moro we saw in Bongao. On the day in question he wore a suit of gray drill, made with the conventional tight trousers and vest-like coat, broken out at regular intervals in an eruptive fever of gorgeously coloured embroidery. A fez topped off this costume and added to its picturesqueness, while clumsy tan shoes of undeniable American make well-nigh ruined the whole effect.
Balbriggan undershirts, hideously utilitarian, are much worn by these Moros of Bongao in lieu of the skin-tight gaily coloured jacket, which combines so effectively with the snug trousers buttoned up the side with gold or silver buttons, and the bright turban or scarlet fez. But fancy the shock to one’s æstheticism at seeing coarse balbriggan allied to barbaric splendour. The Moros really looked more undressed so attired than if they had appeared without any coat at all, but they thought these shirts very elegant, and would buy them of the soldiers at every opportunity.
The women’s dress in Bongao, unlike that of northern Moros, is more typical than the men’s, and shows an even greater variety of colour, but because of their blackened teeth, which are often filed to an arch in front, these women, as a rule, are anything but pretty. Their hair is nearly always fringed over the forehead and temples, while at the back it is drawn into a knot, from which one end invariably straggles, giving a most untidy effect. The wealthier women wear their finger nails very long, in some instances almost as long as the finger itself, and often this nail is protected by an artificial shield of silver. All the women have their ears pierced, and many of them wear a round bone or stick, resembling a cigarette in shape and size, thrust through the aperture. Altogether they are as unlike European women as one could well imagine, and I do not blame the Sultan for looking forward to white wives in the hereafter, though I hope the celestial harem won’t have to blacken its teeth!
There was one beauty in Bongao, however, a slave girl of eighteen, so graceful and lithe that her every attitude suggested a bird just alighted for an instant from a flight through space. Her dark eyes were fringed by the longest of black lashes, and even her stained teeth could not detract from the curves of her pretty mouth. She had a self-satisfied consciousness of her own attractions, and was as imperious and overbearing as any American beauty, stamping her tiny foot in rage at our photographer’s lack of haste in taking her picture, and once walking away from the camera with a disdainful toss of her head. When, after much persuasion, she was finally induced to return, it was only to scowl sullenly at everybody with the most bewitching ill temper, poised so lightly that the very wind seemed to sway her slender figure back and forth like a flower on its stalk.
We called her the Belle of Bongao, and said all manner of nice things about her, which she repaid with a bold stare from under those wonderful lashes, and a contemptuous manner which said as plainly as words that American women were not much to look at, what with their ugly clothes and still uglier faces. She was glad she wasn’t so large and clumsy, and that her teeth weren’t white, nor her throat all screwed up in high bandages, and she smiled a little as she thought of her own attractions, for the Belle of Bongao had not learned she was a beauty for nought; and then, too, had she not cost eighty dollars, Mexican, the highest price ever paid in Tawi Tawi for a slave? Small wonder the little beauty rated her charms high.
It was in Bongao we first made the acquaintance of Toolawee, the chief vigilante of Sulu. It seems this personage had been sent to the Tawi Tawi Islands as pilot of the launch Maud, which, under his careful seamanship, was then lying high and dry on a coral reef within sight of the little garrison. Pirate under Spanish régime, chief of police under American administration, Toolawee is known to fame throughout the archipelago, though perhaps most of his reputation depends upon Mr. Worcester’s delightful account of him in “The Philippine Islands.” As all may remember, Toolawee acted in the capacity of guide, philosopher, and friend to Mr. Worcester and Doctor Bourns on their second visit to Sulu, many moons before our occupation of the place. Toolawee was at that time acting as “minister of war” to the nominal Sultan, having for reasons of his own become a renegade. Mr. Worcester says of him:
“A Moro by birth and training, he had thrown in his lot with the Spaniards. As a slight safeguard against possible backsliding, he was allowed a fine house within the walls, where he kept several wives and some forty slaves. Arolas reasoned that, rather than lose so extensive an establishment, he would behave himself. Later we had reason for believing that the precaution was a wise one....
“He was considered a ‘good’ Moro, and we were therefore interested in several incidents which gave us some insight into his real character. After satisfying himself that we could use our rifles with effect, he made us a rather startling business proposition as follows: ‘You gentlemen seem to shoot quite well with the rifle.’ ‘Yes, we have had some experience.’ ‘You say that you wish to get samples of the clothing and arms of my people for your collection?’ ‘Yes, we hope to do so.’ ‘Papa’ (the Moros’ name for their governor-general) ‘told you if you met armed Moros outside the town to order them to lay down their weapons and retire?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Papa does not understand my people as I do. They are all bad. When we meet them, do not ask them to lay down their arms, for they will come back and get them, and probably attack us; just shoot as many of them as you can. You can take their weapons and clothing, while I will cut off their heads, shave their eyebrows, show them to papa, and claim reward for killing Juramentados.’ Toolawee never really forgave us for refusing to enter into partnership with him on this very liberal basis.
“Just before our final departure from Sulu, he presented himself before me and remarked, ‘Señor, I want to buy your rifle.’ ‘But, Toolawee,’ I replied, ‘you do damage enough with the one you have; what do you want of mine?’ ‘My rifle is good enough to kill people with, but I want yours for another purpose,’ my good Moro made answer. Pressed for details, he confided to me that he had heard ‘papa’ was soon going back to Spain, and, after the governor left, he should be ‘afuera’ i.e. offshore, waiting for victims. He explained that he never fired at the people in a canoe, but shot holes in the boat itself, so that it would fill with water. The bamboo outriggers, with which all Philippine boats are provided, would serve to keep it from actually sinking, and the occupants, being up to their chins in water, could easily be despatched with the barong, thus economizing ammunition; and he added, ‘My rifle makes but a small hole in one side of a canoe, senor, while yours would make a much larger one, and the ball would go clear through.’ Toolawee was nothing if not practical.”
While in Bongao, a Moro dance was given in our honour at the house of the governor’s interpreter, a German, who at the time was away on a business trip. His wife, a plump and jolly matron of Moro descent, did the honours, and smiled her good-natured, indiscriminating smile on one and all, shaking each cordially by the hand and indicating where we should sit by many motions of her fat, brown wrists and many shrugs of her still fatter shoulders. Unlike other Moro women, our hostess’s hair was neatly arranged, her teeth were beautifully white, and her costume, which consisted of a nondescript skirt and loose dressing sacque, much affected by Spanish women throughout the islands, was daintily clean.
The other occupants of the big room were Moro—unadulterated Moro—fifty or sixty of them, all in gala dress, the women squatted on the floor, the men leaning against the side of the house, and all staring with unabashed interest in our direction, while we stared back at them quite as interested.
Every man there was armed with at least a barong stuck into his broad sash, and many of them boasted a kris and campilan as well, while the brilliant colours of their costumes, and the still more gaudy sarongs of the women, made them resemble a gathering of strange tropic birds, our European apparel looking singularly dull and sober beside their scarlets, greens, and purples. Over this strange scene flickered the dim light of cocoanut-oil lamps, and outside a shower beat softly against the trees, and the moon looked down at us whitely from a cloudy sky.
Presently a weird noise broke in upon our conversation. The orchestra had begun to play. Now, Moro music is strangely unrhythmical to European ears, consisting as it does of a monotonous reiteration of sound, even a supposed change of air being almost imperceptible to one unaccustomed to the barbarous lack of tone. The Moro piano is a wooden frame, shaped like the runners of a child’s sled, on which are balanced small kettle-drums by means of cords and sticks. These more nearly resemble pots for the kitchen range than musical instruments, but each is roughly tuned, forming the eight notes of the scale. Women, crouching on the ground before this instrument, beat out of it a wailing sound with shaped sticks, while on larger kettle-drums, hung by ropes from a wooden railing at one side, two men accompanied the “piano,” an old woman in the background drumming out an independent air of her own on an empty tin pan.
Meanwhile the dancing had begun, or rather the posturing of the body, for the feet and legs are used but little in the Moro dances, which consist principally of moving the body and arms rhythmically and to music, the wrists always leading gracefully.
Among the women this attitudinizing was very pretty, the bangles tinkling on their round arms, while the sarong half-revealed, half-concealed the curves of their figures. Most of them danced with their heads turned away, but whenever the evolutions of their measured step brought them face to face with us, they would hold up the sarong so that it concealed all but the eyes, evidently a survival of the yashmak, for Moro women do not hide their faces at all times from the gaze of men, as do the women of India.
When the men danced it was far less graceful, and at times bordered on the grotesque. They contorted and twisted themselves out of all semblance to the human body; they made their abdominal muscles rise and fall with the music; they seemed at times to put the body out of joint, and then reset it properly with jerks and jumps and sudden fierce movements; they twitched, and twisted, and twirled, hardly moving their feet from the floor.
Then came sword-dances with naked blades, when some young Moro advanced and retreated, leaped high in the air, or crouched on the ground, waving his barong or kris aloft, now retreating, now coming uncomfortably close to the little party of unarmed Americans, the flickering light gleaming redly on the glittering knife, and reminding one, with a horrid insistence, that the time and place were ideal for a wholesale slaughter.
As the necessities of the dance took the last of these lithe youths farther away, I must confess to a feeling of relief, which mounted to a nervous joy when, after apparently slaying his enemy and grinding him under heel, the dancing combatant gave place to a chubby youngster who stamped, and twirled, and gestured himself into our very hearts. This baby, for he could not have been over four years old, was also a prime favourite with the Moros, who yelled out their delight at his prowess, and even clapped their hands and jumped about in their enthusiasm. But the baby was stoically calm, and moved not a muscle of his little round face in response to their greetings.
Then came the old Maharajah, who had set his price on the American women. Wrinkled, white-haired, and toothless, he danced amidst great applause; and after him a tiny girl posed most picturesquely, throwing out her plump, dimpled wrists, on which twinkled innumerable bangles. Waving each wrist in turn, the little maid would fasten upon it a serious gaze, as if she were a snake-charmer and each arm was a serpent, her hand representing the head, which waved ever back and forth restlessly and in time to the strange music.
Before leaving, a mock marriage was performed for our benefit by the one-eyed Pandita. As is the custom at such times, all the Moro women, including the bride, who is never present at her own wedding, were hidden behind an extemporized curtain. On the ground before this curtain sat the Pandita and the prospective bridegroom, the bare soles of their feet touching and their hands closely clasped beneath an enshrouding cloth. The Pandita then chanted or intoned a service, the bridegroom occasionally joining in, and not infrequently some outsider introduced a facetious expression or joke, which was greeted with uproarious delight by the others, the Moro sense of humour being apparently well developed.
Of course, the mock marriage ended here, but we were told that at this point of the service in a real wedding the groom would go behind the curtain and seize his bride, who was supposed to struggle violently to escape. She would then be carried to the groom’s house, and for three days the feasting and merry making would continue—for everyone but the happy pair, as according to custom, the bride must quarrel violently during this time with the groom, and not allow him to come near her, though when he finally leaves her alone, she must bitterly weep and lament. At the expiration of the three days, this charming state of affairs is discontinued, and they are considered legally married, and thereafter may be as happy as they are capable of being.
On leaving the interpreter’s house to walk back to the ship’s boat, we were lighted by a misty moon which gave the effect of twilight, and in our half lethargic state could hardly be sure that what we had seen that evening was not, after all, a dream or a strange hypnotic memory—the dancing Maharajah, the Pandita performing the marriage ceremony, the terrible sword-dance, and the little snake-charmer fascinating her own plump hands! Was it possible such things had occurred in the twentieth century and on American soil?