OUR ISLANDS AND THEIR PEOPLE.
moisture had drenched and set to dazzling. A white and ghastly glow from the stars was in the mist hovering above the rice swamps. The trail was as soft as paste from the seasona s rains, and the bare feet of the little scouts sucked and splashed in the ooze. It was the only sound which the advancing column made.
a That sweet, heavy odor of moist tropic earth was in the air. There is something animal about this odor. It makes one feel the strength which is in hima especially in the night. Meanwhile the full moon was racing across the sky-distances toward the great, black cone called Arayat.
a At dawn the Macabebe trailers crawled up on the works of their ancestral enemies. The nucleus of the defense was an old stone sugar-house, partially screened by tall pampas grass. Suddenly a formidable fire crashed out of the works, and Batson saw that moment what terrible little fighting machines his men were. They hurled themselves in the form of a lariat about the enemya and closed in.
a The Filipino seldom allows himself to become surrounded; but when this happens he becomes the color of a chameleon on a poplar bough, which is the color of a brown man when he pales. He crosses himself and loses his gun. He forgets that he ever wanted a republic of his own. The Filipino has only one passion at such a moment. It is a combination of the fear of God and the frenzy to keep warm.
a But the firing had been strong, and it stands to reason that Jimmy the Tough was in it. About twenty-five yards this side of the stone fort there was a big stump, four feet high. Jimmy dashed for it ahead of the skirmishing scouts, screeching like a demon meanwhile. Everybody thought he was aiming to use the stump as a breastworksa but he clambered on top!
a He could see better, he said afterwards. Like a monkey he balanced himself, and emptied his magazine into the trenches. The arrangement seemed to tickle him mightily. He pumped his carbine fiendishly and gurgled like an infant.
a The Macabebe does not grumble and he does not get drunk. And he is as tough physically as a mountain goat. Since he is not
bothered with shoes, his feet are as hard as the caraboaa s hoof, and they do not wear through to the bone on a a hyke.a And, best of all, he can traila trail only as some dark men cana those who are close to nature and remote from books. I must tell you of one of the days of fearful marchesa one of the last daysa and of its sad ending.
a It was at the tail end of the rainy season, and the surface of Luzon was like a wet and dirty sponge. General Patillo, with a big native force, was said to be near Carmen. Batson and one of his lieutenants, young Boutelle, a splendid soldier, detached from artillery, started after the big game. The little scouts were fagged to the bone from the past terrible days, but they sprang to the trail when Batson raised his voice. The command left Aliago in a raining dawn. In the first two miles the men were half-submerged in the swimming rice paddies. Outside the barrio of Santiago a heavy fire was encountered. Boutelle, with half the scouts, wTas sent around to execute a flank, while Batson laid low to wait for a
big charge when the others wrere in position. The charge was made effectively, but things didna t seem to work properly at the other end. When the enemy scattered and the forces of scouts joined, Batson learned that he had been left without a white officer.
a There, in the rain on the soggy Carmen trail, poor Boutelle lay. It was a black moment for Batson. Jimmy the Tough was leaning with his lieutenant over the body of the white officer. He forgot vengeance that moment, even as Batson forgot the foe marshaling on the trail ahead. He had learned to love his a com-mandante,a anyway, more than he had ever hated the Tagalog. And this commandante was grieving now in a white man's fashion. Jimmy, the fearless, the incorrigible, slapped his hat down in the mud and offered the only consolation he knew. In his own language he said:
a Ta ll kill fifty of them for this!a
a Batson and his scouts did not feel kindly after that, nor did they look it. Not a mile further on came the crash and the circle of white puffs of a second stubborn attack. It was here that occurred one of those hideously picturesque episodes of war. A
OFFICE OF THE AMERICAN ADJUTANT-GENERAL AT MANILA.
Mr. Albert E- Fout, one of our photographers, was employed in the Adjutant-Generala s office during a portion of the time that he spent in Manila, and in this photograph he will be observed seated at the desk on the left, near where the hat hangs on the wall.