CHAPTER XIII
A TALE OF MORO BLACKMAIL
"That's what they will do--if anything," nodded Lieutenant Prescott. "Acharge is the wisest thing for the brown rascals, if they are bent onwinning here. They know now about how many men I have, and they knowthat my men are regulars. The Moros have plenty of rifles, and I judgethat they're well off in ammunition, but they can't shoot as well asAmerican regulars. On a charge, however--in close, hand-to-handfighting--these Malays are not to be despised. They always foughthand-to-hand in the old days, and it's in their blood."
With that expression of his views, Prescott, aided by his acting firstsergeant, began to hustle the soldiers into line around the house,forming the men in a rectangle at about fifteen yards distant from thewalls of the building.
The soldier of to-day must often fight lying on his stomach. These menof B Company crawled to their stations, dragging their rifles afterthem.
Pop! pop! pop! The Moros were watching, and fired from time to time,irregularly. A prostrate man is hard to hit at a few hundred yards.These pot-shots serve to bother and irritate soldiers getting intoposition.
As soon as each soldier was in place he began burrowing with hisintrenching tool. It is surprising how quickly a man lying down can diga little ditch and throw up the dirt on the outside.
First, each man dug his own ditch. As soon as he had this completed heconnected his ditch with that of the men next to him. Within thirtyminutes the men of B Company, without having a man hit by the pot-shotsof the enemy, were well intrenched. From time to time some of thesoldiers, under orders, ceased their digging to take a few shotsthemselves, just to keep the Moros from growing too bold.
As soon as the encircling trench had been dug Prescott detailed fourmen, with picks and shovels furnished by the elder Seaforth, to throw upa trench wall in front of the main door of the house, so as to permitany one safely to enter or leave the house by that door.
"That'll do, Sergeant," nodded Lieutenant Prescott at last.
"It would take a three-inch field piece, sir, to make an impression onthis wall of dirt," smiled Sergeant Hal.
"Now, I'll look after this part of the ground, Sergeant; you go aroundto the south side--and be vigilant."
Hal Overton stepped out from behind the wall, carrying his rifle in thehollow of his left arm. As he showed himself above the low wall of theregular trench, exposing his head and trunk, the Moros began to takenotice.
Pop! pop! pop! Bullets struck all about the young sergeant, sprinklingdirt over him.
"Keep your head below the top of the trench wall, Sergeant!" calledLieutenant Prescott sternly. "We can't afford to have you hit. Shieldyourself. Don't be afraid of any one suspecting you of cold feet!"
So Hal, though he made a slight grimace, contented himself withcrouching low and progressing slowly.
Barely had Sergeant Hal gained his own post, with Private Kelly on hisright hand, when a furious fusillade broke out from the southward.
"Keep your heads down, all of you!" shouted the young sergeant. "Don'tbe too curious about what the Moros are doing. If you keep your headsdown the rascals can't hit you, and it won't do us any harm to let themwaste their ammunition. Don't any man fire without orders."
"They're doing some good shooting, Sarge, at last," remarked PrivateKelly, as the showers of bullets peppered the top of the trench andsprinkled dirt over the crouching soldiers.
"The only good shooting, Kelly, is that which cuts up the enemy,"rejoined Hal. "The goo-goos are not hitting any of us, and we're notlosing anything by saving our ammunition."
"Goo-goos" is an old name applied to the Philippine raiders. Whenever anative grows tired of fighting, or wants to enter a town for the purposeof getting information, he hides his arms, then enters Uncle Sam'slines, pretending that he is a "good" man, and not a rebel against theauthority of the United States Government. From this the soldiers havelearned to allude to all fighting Filipinos as goo-goos.
"Lend me your trenching tool, Kelly?"
"Sure, Sarge."
With this implement Hal Overton burrowed a small hole through the top ofthe trench. Thus, without exposing himself too much, he was able to keepan eye on the distant grove in which the Moros had found cover.
"I'll let you spell me on this watch, from time to time, Kelly," saidHal.
"I'll be glad to, Sarge, for I'll admit that I'm anxious to know whatthe goo-goos are doing."
"At present they're not trying to advance," replied Sergeant Overton,"and that's about all we're interested in. As long as they stay wherethey are, and waste their ammunition, they'll not bother us much."
In the meantime Lieutenant Prescott was seated in a chair behind thehigh wall of dirt before the house door. The elder Seaforth occupiedanother chair.
"Have you any idea, sir, how you incurred the wrath of these Mororascals?" asked the young lieutenant.
"By refusing to pay blackmail," replied the planter bluntly.
"Then you were asked to pay money to some of these native chieftains?"
"No."
"Eh?"
"I wasn't asked; I was commanded to do so," replied Mr. Seaforth slowly."When you speak of the Moro rascals, Lieutenant, don't conclude that allof the Moros are bad, or even troublesome. The truth is that most of theMoros on the island of Mindanao are good fellows. They're lazy, but notnotably vicious. There are a few of the old-time chiefs--dattos, theycall 'em--who make trouble every now and then. These dattos neverrespected the Spanish Government, and they don't feel any more kindlytowards the United States Government. That is because these dattos havealways lived by plunder, and they always intend to do so. For onething, these raiding dattos don't like to have white men on Mindanao.The spread of civilization here means that the old-time dattos will bedriven into the wilds, and that there won't be any more plunder orblackmail money to live on. These Moros out yonder wouldn't havebothered me, this time, if I had paid the money their chief demanded."
"How much did he want, Mr. Seaforth?"
"Ten thousand dollars."
"Whew! That would be a good deal of money to pay out."
"For the sake of peace, and a chance to carry on my plantation business,Lieutenant, I might have paid it--if once would have been enough. But itwouldn't have been. If I had acceded to his demand the datto would havelet me alone for this year. He would have sent the same demand nextyear, however. In fact, the datto would have put me down on his list asbeing good for ten thousand dollars a year tribute. The first year thatI failed to pay this tribute my plantation would be destroyed, andmyself, my family and friends put to the knife. So it's either fight orget out of here for good. It seems a strange thing, doesn't it,Lieutenant, to live under the Stars and Stripes, and yet to have to paytribute to a savage for the right to do business?"
"It isn't right, it can't be, sir--and by the great howitzer, Uncle Samwill put a stop to all this business!" replied Lieutenant Prescotthotly.
"I hope so," returned Mr. Seaforth. "The Datto Hakkut, however, has beendoing business here on Mindanao since before the Spaniards left, and myopinion is that he will do business as long as he lives. This fellowHakkut is a wily old scoundrel, who often falls into traps set for himby our soldiers. Yet, just when the soldiers are about to close thetrap, they find that Hakkut isn't there. His escapes are marvelous."
"Did Hakkut himself come to see you, Mr. Seaforth?" inquired the younglieutenant.
"Hakkut? I've never seen the fellow, nor has any other white man aroundhere, so far as I know."
"Then he sends a regular collector for the money?"
"Yes. He has a new collector this year."
"A Moro?"
"The fellow looks to me more like a Tagalo. He's a sharp, keen, littlebusiness man--of his peculiar type."
"A Tagalo?" mused Lieutenant Prescott. "By Jove, I wish you'd give me aclose description of the fellow."
"Perhaps I can do better than that," proposed Mr. Seaforth, rising."When the collector was here my son succeeded--without
the rascal'sknowledge--in getting a snapshot at him. I think I can find the photo."
Disappearing into the house, the planter soon returned, handing theyoung officer a card. Prescott gazed at the photo, then called out:
"Men, pass the word for Sergeant Overton to report here. Tell him thathis orders are to keep under cover while on the way here."
Hal soon appeared, crouching behind the trench, and sheltered by thehigh dirt wall.
"Sergeant, have you ever seen this fellow in the photo?" inquired thelieutenant, with a smile, passing the card to Overton.
"I should think I have, sir. This is Vicente Tomba."
"Can't be a doubt about it, can there?"
"Not unless Tomba has a twin brother, sir."
"And to think that we had that little rascal in arrest!" muttered thelieutenant. "It was a sad day for Mindanao when Tomba escaped from ourguard house."
Then, after a pause, Prescott continued:
"By the way, Mr. Seaforth, how long has Draney been on his presentplantation?"
"I don't know, Lieutenant. He's been there longer than I have residedhere."
"Has he ever been troubled by the Moros?"
"They have never attacked him, Lieutenant. Draney must pay some tributeto the Datto Hakkut."
Lieutenant Prescott and Sergeant Hal Overton glanced quickly at oneanother, though neither spoke.
"That is all, Sergeant," said the officer, by way of dismissal. "Returnto your men."
"Very good, sir."