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Outsourcing the Womb Race Class and Gestational
Surrogacy in a Global Market 2nd Edition France
Winddance Twine Digital Instant Download
Author(s): France Winddance Twine
ISBN(s): 9781138855809, 1138855804
Edition: 2
File Details: PDF, 1.64 MB
Year: 2015
Language: english
Outsourcing the Womb
Second Edition

Outsourcing the Womb, Second Edition provides a critical analysis and global tour of
the international surrogacy landscape in Egypt, India, China, Denmark, Greece,
Japan, Israel, South Korea, the European Union, Ukraine, and the United States. By
providing a comparative analysis of countries that have very different policies, this
book disentangles the complex role that race, religion, class inequality, legal regimes,
and global capitalism play in the gestational surrogacy market. This book provides
an intersectional frame of analysis in which multiple forms of social inequality and
power differences are institutionalized and restrict the access of some individuals
and families while privileging others, and concludes with a discussion of
“reproductive justice” and “reproductive liberty.” It is ideal for courses on social
inequality, social change, biopolitics, race/class/gender, and globalization.

France Winddance Twine is a Scholar-in-Residence at the Beatrice Bain Research

Group at the University of California at Berkeley. She is also a Professor of Sociology
and Black Studies at the University of California at Santa Barbara. She is an ethno-
grapher, a critical race theorist, and a documentary filmmaker. Her recent
publications include Geographies of Privilege (2013) and A White Side of Black
Britain: interracial intimacy and racial literacy (2010).
Framing 21st Century Social Issues
Series Editor: France Winddance Twine, University of California, Santa Barbara

The goal of this new, unique series is to offer readable, teachable “thinking frames” on today’s social
problems and social issues by leading scholars. These are available for view on http://routledge.custom
gateway.com/routledge-social-issues.html.
For instructors teaching a wide range of courses in the social sciences, the Routledge Social Issues
Collection now offers the best of both worlds: originally written short texts that provide “overviews”
to important social issues as well as teachable excerpts from larger works previously published by
Routledge and other presses.
As an instructor, click to the website to view the library and decide how to build your custom
anthology and which thinking frames to assign. Students can choose to receive the assigned materials
in print and/or electronic formats at an affordable price.

Available Unequal Prospects

Is Working Longer the Answer?
Oversharing, Second Edition Tay McNamara and John Williamson
Presentation of Self in the Internet Age
Ben Agger Beyond the Prison Industrial Complex
Crime and Incarceration in the 21st Century
Social Problems Kevin Wehr and Elyshia Aseltine
A Human Rights Perspective
Eric Bonds Girls With Guns
Firearms, Feminism, and Militarism
The Enduring Color Line in U.S. France Winddance Twine
Athletics
Krystal Beamon and Chris M. Messer Terror
Social, Political, and Economic Perspectives
Identity Problems in the Facebook Mark Worrell
Era
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From Trafficking to Terror The Search for Control and Self-Reliance
Constructing a Global Social Problem in the 21st Century
Pardis Mahdavi Kevin Wehr
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What the Experience of Other Nations Can Adia Harvey Wingfield
Tell Us about Next Steps in Reforming U.S.
Health Care The Problem of Emotions in Societies
David A. Rochefort and Kevin P. Donnelly Jonathan H.Turner

Due Process Denied Rapid Climate Change

Detentions and Deportations in the United Causes, Consequences, and Solutions
States Scott G. McNall
Tanya Golash-Boza
Waste and Consumption
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Racialized Memories, and the Culture of Things
of Cruelty Simonetta Falasca-Zamponi
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Nuclear Family Values, Extended Dan Clawson and Max Page
Family Lives
The Power of Race, Class, and Gender Contentious Identities
Natalia Sarkisian and Naomi Gerstel Ethnic, Religious, and Nationalist Conflicts
in Today’s World
How Ethical Systems Change Daniel Chirot
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The Triumph of Corporate and Military
How Ethical Systems Change Power
Tolerable Suffering and Assisted Dying Carl Boggs
Sheldon Ekland-Olson and Elyshia Aseltine
The Stupidity Epidemic
How Ethical Systems Change Worrying About Students, Schools,
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How Ethical Systems Change Sex, Drugs, and Death

Eugenics, the Final Solution, Bioethics Addressing Youth Problems in American
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Series Advisory Board: Rene Almeling, Yale University, Joyce Bell, University of Pittsburgh, Elizabeth
Bernstein, Barnard College, David Embrick, Loyola University, Chicago, Tanya Golash-Boza, University
of California, Merced, Melissa Harris, New York University, Matthew Hughey, University of
Connecticut, Kerwin Kaye, SUNY, Old Westbury, Wendy Moore, Texas A&M, Alondra Nelson,
Columbia University, Deirdre Royster, New York University, Zulema Valdez, University of California,
Merced, Victor Rios, University of California, Santa Barbara.
This page intentionally left blank
Outsourcing the Womb
Race, Class, and Gestational Surrogacy
in a Global Market

Second Edition

France Winddance Twine

First published 2011
by Routledge

Second edition published 2015

711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017
and by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park,Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
© 2011, 2015 Taylor & Francis
The right of France Winddance Twine be identified as author of this work has been
asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised
in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter
invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered
trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent
to infringe.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Twine, France Winddance
Outsourcing the womb : race, class and gestational surrogacy in a global market /
by France Winddance Twine. — Second edition.
pages cm. — (Framing 21st century social issues)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Surrogate motherhood. 2. Surrogate motherhood—Economic aspects. 3. Human
reproductive technology—Social aspects. I.Title.
HQ759.5.T95 2015
306.874'3—dc23
2014036763

ISBN: 978-1-138-85580-9 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-315-72012-8 (ebk)

Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro and Gill Sans

by FiSH Books Ltd, Enfield
 Contents

Preface ix
Acknowledgments xi

I. The Global Womb 1

II. Racism, Capitalism, and Reproductive Labor 16
III. Becoming a Gestational Surrogate 24
IV. Google Babies: The Global Market in Eggs and Sperm 35
V. Egypt and Israel: Religious Law and Regulatory Regimes 46
VI. India: A Global Baby Factory 54
VII. Asian Surrogacy Markets: China, Japan, and South Korea 62
VIII. The European Union: Bioethics, Family Law
and Surrogate Orphans 70
IX. Reproductive Justice and Reproductive Liberty 78

References 83
Glossary/Index 90

Contents vii
This page intentionally left blank
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uncovering myself to his gaze, but there lurked the shadow of every
move cast vividly before my keen-set eyes.
As I quietly knelt in seclusion surrounded by the densest gloom,
meditating as to how I might take the object alive, positively
realizing that he was well armed, from my previous experience with
river thieves, I saw the shadow portray a man drawing a gun and
examining it closely, the shadow indicating that he was either trying
the trigger or testing the T block of an automatic pistol.
It dawned on me that my duty bade me to halt this man, and, if
in any way he attempted to evade me, to kill him.
I had the narrow neck of the channel covered, and it was my
intention, if he attempted to shove off in a boat with any copper, to
halt him, and, if he ignored my command, to fire. However, not
seeing the shadow disappear for even an instant aroused my
suspicion, as to load the copper in the boat in any shape or manner
it would have been necessary to pass on the opposite side of an old
obsolete sentry-box, thereby obliterating even the semblance of a
shadow.
I was cognizant of the fact that had I aroused the guard they
would send out the steam-launch to cover the exit, and, if the man
attempted to escape, fire on him, which I wished to prevent.
What in the devil can that fellow be doing? I conjectured in
silence, as the mystical representation of his every move, like a
phantom depicting anything and everything, was cast along the
ground and pier as if superinduced by some supernatural agency.
Merely prowling for the choicest bars, I soliloquized. Hark! “Number
one, one o’clock and all is well!” The stillness of the night had been
broken by the sentries calling off the hour. “Number two, one o’clock
and all is well!” “Number three, one o’clock and all is well!” “Number
four, one o’clock and all is well!” “All is well!” repeated sentry number
one at the guard-house as he continued on his beat. “Third relief, fall
in! Get a move on, boys! The officer of the day is apt to be lurking
around!” commanded the corporal of the guard, as the men
promptly fell into their proper places for posting formation. “Count
off!” commanded the non-commissioned officer, each man counting
the number of his post. “Port arms! Open chambers! Close
chambers! Order arms! Number one!” As number one was being
posted, the sergeant of the guard interposed: “Corporal, I want
those sentries to turn over not only their special orders but their
general orders as well; see that they know them thoroughly: have
them tell you what is to be done in case of fire, and be sure that
they know where the fire-plugs are located. Butt Plate Willie is
officer of the day and is raising hell around here because the
sentries don’t know their orders; now, they better get wise to the
military or off come their belts.” “Pshaw! Butt Plate Willie don’t know
his own orders,” ejaculated the corporal as he gave the command,
“Shoulder arms! Right face! Forward march!”
The shadow had taken another position and seemed to be in
kneeling posture at the rifle-range, setting the wind-gauge of his
rifle for the prone figure in the skirmish run.
The corporal was marching the old relief back to the guard-house,
as sentry number one called out, “Number one, half past one and all
is well!” followed in succession by each sentry calling off the hour.
Each man of the relief, on falling out, kicked like a mule for being
detained overtime on post.
It was half past one and surely time for me to make the rounds
through my various posts of duty.
At this instant the shadow disappeared, followed by the dull
sound of dislodged copper. The moon had taken a position behind a
dark cloud, which gave me an opportunity to skirt the end of the pier
to another secluded spot where I could await its reappearance,
when I could positively determine whether this shadow was an
apparition, a reality, or merely a transcript in the memory formed by
the imagination of phantasy.
 As the lunar glow beamed through the clouds, the outlines of a
soldier appeared to my view, merely the profile, with his face resting
in the palms of his hands. I momentarily seized this opportunity and
pounced upon my prey, and, for the “love of Mike,” who was it but
“Stormy Bill,” a “character” at the post. “Ha! ha! What in hell are you
doing here? robbing the copper pile, hey?” I exclaimed, knowing in
my heart Bill was as honest as the night was long. Like the raven,
Bill quoth, “Never more.” “What brought you here at this hour of the
night?” I asked. “Bad whiskey,” sighed Bill, his light of enthusiasm
burning dimly. “I hid a flask here yesterday and came here to-night
to look for it.” “Yes, and keep me prowling around all night expecting
every minute to be shot by copper thieves,” I interposed. “You’re a
fine specimen of a marine! What do you think this navy yard is, a
picnic ground?” Continuing, “Now you draw yourself together quick
or I’ll have you manacled and thrown in the brig.” “Ah!” he said, “cut
out the strong talk. I came here to look for a flask of rye, I am not
going to run away with the copper pile.” “That will do you,” I said.
“You have evidently found the rye, and I want you to blow out of
here.” “Yes,” said “Stormy,” “I have found it.—Eureka! Let’s go.”
I felt like kicking him a few times, then rubbing him with liniment
and kicking him again, merely using the liniment to keep him from
becoming callous lest he should fail to feel the kicks.
He became garrulous, and, in order to get him to the barracks
without falling into the hands of the guard, it was necessary for me
to walk him about two miles to reach one-fourth the distance.
Having piloted him over lawns and through the shade of the leafy
trees, we finally reached his quarters, where his affable disposition
required him to apologize for my trouble, and, thanking me, he hied
off to his cot. “Stormy,” in the parlance of the soldier, was “good
people,” his greatest fault was in being on too good terms with old
“Cyrus Noble.” A few weeks after this event I left “Stormy” behind,
having been ordered to another post.
En route from the Philippines with the Twenty-ninth Infantry in
1909, as the transport pulled up to the pier at Honolulu a voice from
the dock called out my name. Leaning over the taffrail, whom should
I see but “Stormy Bill!” He had been made a non-commissioned
officer in a battery of artillery and was stationed on the Island of
Oahu.
Mare Island covers considerable space in the Bay of San
Francisco, lying about sixteen miles northwest of the “Golden Gate”
overlooking the bay and Pacific Ocean. It is the naval base of
California.
While stationed at this post I frequently ran over to “Frisco,”
either by steam-boat or rail, where with a good convivival bunch I
joined in the festivities at such temples of mirth as the famous
“Poodle Dog,” from whose showy tiers or projecting balconies the
pageants and processions of Market Street could be seen passing by,
as the guests, environed by the sweet notes of a Hungarian
rhapsody, were the embodiment of gayety and content. Lombardi’s,
famous for Italian “table d’hôte” dinners and particularly noted for
their mode of preparing macaroni; Svenguenetti’s, whose reputation
in crustacean specialties, particularly in the culinary of lobsters and
shrimps, was known to the Bohemians far and wide. Zinkand’s, and
scores of others, where the music thrilled one’s very soul, and where
the nymphs of the “Golden West” could tell you how to braid a lariat
and a quirt, break a pony, and twirl the rope, and, although not
adepts at the game of golf, could tell some funny stories of picking
hops under Western skies. Kearney Street, which afforded the halls
for the graceful glide, wherein could be found the same aspect of
the West of frontier days. Prepossessing maidens in scalloped
buckskin skirts, high-topped shoes, sombreros beautifully banded
with Indian beads, and corsages cut very décolletée, danced with
gallant young fellows whose costumes savored of the Mexican
variety and whose bright and breezy effulgence was conducive to
the merriment of the night. The Orpheum, Oberon, Log Cabin,
Cascade, and the Grotto, all flourished in prosperous placidity,
through a long chain of patronage of the world’s bohemians since
the days of the path-finding “Forty-niners.”
 Occasionally we tripped to “Mechanic’s Pavilion,” to witness the
knights of the fistic art battle for supremacy, and note the radiant
smiles of the shining lights of the arena as a “knockout” was
perfected. But alas! the old haunts of Market and Ellis Streets and
the beautiful edifices of the old-time “Frisco”—​where are they? The
echo answers, “Where?” Vanished with the stroke of nature’s wand,
that calamitous earthquake and subsequent fire of 1906, in whose
train the mournful ravages of devastation grinned in fiendish glee.
Though similar to the overwhelming destruction of the ancient
city of Campania, San Francisco’s ruin was not irremediable, for, like
the surprisingly sudden demolition, there burst into view, like spring
flowers following a thunder-storm, the magnificent new city of the
“Golden Gate,” blazing in the zenith of prosperity. It may be
necessary to make inquiries or perhaps consult a city directory, but
you will find the same old joyful haunts flourishing as of yore.
My tour of duty at Mare Island was brought to a close on being
ordered to New York to join the mobilization of the St. Louis
battalion.
 XI.

Semper Fidelis—​the Guard of Honor

U.S. Marines at the St. Louis Exposition—​Veterans of Various

Expeditions—​Mobilization at Washington, D. C.—​Arrival in St. Louis
—​An Ideal Military Camp—​Exhibition Drills, Marines in Bohemia—​
The Spanish Señoritas of Old Madrid—​Coleens and Harpists of the
Emerald Isle—​Cheyenne Joe’s Rocky Mt. Inn—​Palm Garden
Dances in the “Wee Sma” Hours—​Chaperoning a Theatrical Party
—​A Dinner at the Tyrolean Alps—​A Famous “Broadway” Actress
Meets Geronimo the Apache Chief—​Marines Battle with Filipino
Scouts—​Arrival of Mounted Police, Farewell to the “Fair”—​Oh,
Maryland, My Maryland.

The battalion of marines that composed the Guard of Honor at the

Louisiana Purchase Exposition in St. Louis in 1904 was the finest
representation of Uncle Sam’s sea soldiers that has ever been
mobilized. In order to meet the requirements in organizing this
battalion, it was necessary to select men from the Atlantic,
European, and Asiatic fleets, besides the various navy yards of the
United States. The requirements of the navy department in selecting
material for this detachment were: that each man must be not under
five feet and eight inches in height and of military bearing, a veteran
of foreign service, possessing an excellent character and a clean
military record. Several months were spent in securing the necessary
quota to complete these essential conditions, which, when
perfected, represented not only the flower of the United States
Marine Corps, but a worthy rival for honors with the best military
force ever organized.
Washington, D. C., was the site of our mobilization. Every
member of the battalion was exempt from duty, save that which
tended to the arduous exhibit of military evolutions, calisthenics, and
bayonet exercise. The drill in these was strenuous; five hours each
day under the tutorage of a skilful drill-master soon brought the
battalion to a state of perfection. The famous United States Marine
Band furnished the music during these drills, and the pleasure
derived from this alone offset the tedium of manœuvre.
Each man was perfectly fitted by a tailor for the eight uniforms
which he was required to have; these were of blue, khaki, and white
duck. Every article of his wearing apparel had to be an exact fit,
from shoes to cap. Every article of equipment and all accoutrements
were issued brand new. Flags, tents, ditty-boxes, cots, blankets,
mosquito-bars, rifles, six-shooters, bayonets, belts, canteens,
haversacks, toilet-sets were all fresh and new.
The Louisiana Purchase Exposition, which commemorated the
centennial of the purchase of the Louisiana Territory in 1803, opened
April 30, 1904, and closed December 1, of the same year.
The site of the Marine Camp was near and on the west side of the
Palace of Liberal Arts, lying between the Liberal Arts building and the
Intramural Railway, near the Government building, and north of the
Tyrolean Alps, lagoons, and cascades.
May 20, 1904, the day set for our departure from Washington to
St. Louis, was an ideal day in every respect. The Marine Band
discoursed inspiring music, and, as the battalion of two hundred
marines, under the command of Major (now Colonel) Mahoney,
made their appearance on the parade-ground, the band took a
position reaching from the arcade of Marine Headquarters to the
street. First call was sounded, followed by assembly, each marine
took his place in line, the roll was called, and the battalion formed.
As the stentorian voice of the battalion commander rang out,
“Battalion, attention! Right forward, fours right! March!” the Marine
Band struck up, “Under the double eagle,” as the entire column
swung into Pennsylvania Avenue. All along the route to the
Pennsylvania Railroad station, from sidewalks and windows, the
battalion met with expressions of popular applause. Boarding two
sections of Pullman sleepers with baggage- and dining-cars
attached, each man adjusted himself conformably to his
surroundings, with that decorum born only of military experience.
The signal given, the train rolled out of the station, the band playing,
“Meet me in St. Louis, Louis, meet me at the Fair.”
The men who comprised this “Guard of Honor” were tried and
seasoned veterans: some had been with Dewey at the battle of
Manila Bay, some with the American squadron at Santiago, while
others had taken part in the Philippines insurrection, the “Boxer”
campaign in China, the campaign against hostile Moros, and the
Samar expedition. Several had been awarded certificates of merit for
valor by Congress, while at least one man—​namely, Sergeant John
Quick, “the hero of Guantanamo”—​was distinguished as possessing
that most coveted emblem of heroism, “the Medal of Honor,” which
can be gained only by exceptional gallantry in action in the presence
of the enemy.
To these soldiers of the sea this trip was of considerable moment
as regards the novelty thereof. Thousands of miles had been covered
by land and sea by the majority, who had touched at the ports of
every country on the face of the globe, many of whom having
served in the City of Pekin, China, as members of the Legation
Guard; so that this variation from the irksome duties aboard a man-
of-war, or the burning sun of the tropics, to the more tranquil
atmosphere of a model camp at a “world’s fair,” was more than
rejuvenating. The trip was devoid of the usual skylarking attending a
body of raw and untried recruits, and it is a matter of fact, that, a
few days after the arrival at the Exposition, Major Mahoney received,
from the management of the Pennsylvania Railroad, a letter
commending him on the excellent deportment of his command.
Arriving in St. Louis Sunday morning, May 22, we immediately
alighted from the train, the battalion was formed, and marched to
the “Fair” grounds, through the Olive Street entrance, to the site of
our rendezvous; the colors were hoisted to the flagpole, and by 12
o’clock noon our camp had been pitched, each A wall tent towering
uniformly over the chalk-marked square on the red shale, and with
the precision of the Barnum and Bailey shows. Each tent had a well-
fitting floor, and between each row of tents stretched a beautiful
lawn of grass, on either side of which was a board-walk. The
battalion commander’s headquarters, as well as the tents of the
other officers, faced the head of the company streets, and were
separated by a unique road, over which vehicles were debarred. The
camp was illuminated by large arc lights. In the rear of the last row
of tents stood the sick quarters, canteen, guard-house, barber-shop,
cobbler, tailor, and shower-baths.
The camp was typically a model military village, with all modern
conveniences, even to an up-to-date restaurant which had been
erected purposely for the accommodation of the battalion. This
building was beautifully situated in a shady grove opposite the
Kentucky building. In India the British are noted for their model
camps and bungalow quarters; but an English officer, after seeing
the marines in St. Louis, was heard to remark, that this American
camp beggared description.
 U.S. MARINES, WORLD’S FAIR, ST. LOUIS, 1904

The Plaza Orleans was the scene of daily exhibitions given by the
West Point cadets, Philippine scouts, and United States marines.
Thousands of spectators thronged the roped enclosure daily, and the
applause from these was deafening. Strains of music from a dozen
different bands filled the air, the most famous of these being the
United States Marine Band, Sousa’s, Gilmore’s, Hawaiian, Mexican,
Royal Grenadier of London, Philippines Constabulary, La Republic of
France, Band De Espanol, Neapolitan of Italy, and the army bands,—​
the Second and Twenty-fourth Infantry, the latter colored. Besides
these there were scores of others, including bagpipers and the
insular band of the Tagalogs with bamboo instruments.
In addition to the exhibition drills and camp exhibit of the
marines, they also had charge of the naval exhibits in the
government building. Each man had to be thoroughly familiar with
the mechanism or history, as the case might be, of the integral point
of each exhibit, in order to explain and answer questions
intelligently. The camp was garrisoned by a detail of marines, who
patrolled on each side of the square, from the day of our arrival until
the close of the “Fair.”
 This style of soldiering was a rare treat to the boys; they were
given free admittance to every concession on the grounds, and the
six months spent in the heart of this stupendous show of the earth
will ever remain vivid in the memories of the men who comprised
this battalion.
Stretching over a vast area of Forest Park, enclosed by a high
board fence, stood the magnificent Palaces of Varied Industries,
Liberal Art, Agriculture, Mines and Metallurgy, Manufacture and
Transportation, Palaces of Machinery and Electricity, Festival Hall,
and the Cascades, the Government Building, Tyrolean Alps, the
Stadium, Ferris Wheel, and the sunken garden; the camps of the
West Point cadets, Artillery and Infantry; Hospital, Signal, and Life-
saving Corps. Museums containing relics of anthropology, zoölogy,
geology, anthology, and numerous other scientific researches were
everywhere in evidence. In one British concession, soldiers of the
“Household” cavalry of London stood watch over the magnificent
“Queen’s Jubilee presents” which had been presented to Queen
Victoria by the nations of the earth. Five hundred Indians,
representing various tribes, in all their habiliments of war, here
flourished at their best, the most prominent chiefs among these
being Geronimo, Iron Mountain, and White Cloud. Every State in the
Union was represented with an appropriate edifice, that of the State
of Missouri being the most imposing. Statues and images from the
chisels of the world’s most famous sculptors adorned a section in the
Palace of Varied Industries, while the art galleries were filled with
the rarest paintings of the most celebrated artists of all times and all
nations.
To enumerate even the most important exhibits of this prodigious
exposition would require volumes, and, for the benefit of those
whose duties prevented them from seeing the “Fair,” I wish to say
that it is impossible to form a conception of the progress this world
attained during the century since the purchase of the Louisiana
Territory.
 At night the electrical display was a dazzling glitter of
phosphorescence; myriads of incandescent lights of variegated
colors were strung along the lagoons, cascades, and Pike, these
combined with large arc lights completed an illumination of festive
splendor.
A group of marines could be found nightly in social session on
Napoleon bridge, a span of the lagoons, meditatively absorbing the
sweet strains of the ever-entrancing Italian Yama Yama, sung by
Venetian “gondoliers,” as they gracefully plied parties in gondolas
through thread-like canals fed by the waters of the cascades. The
inspiration animated by the grandeur of the surroundings on these
occasions, the thrilling sweetness of the singing, to the mellow-
toned accompaniment of mandolins and guitars, had a most
electrifying effect. Music, music, music, music, everywhere;
sweethearts, music, and mirth, that was the slogan. “Love me and
the world is mine” is hummed in chorus by this happy-go-lucky
bunch of jolly tars, whose only responsibilities are confined to the
hours of love and duty, and whose motto is, “Be a good fellow here,
and you’ll be a good fellow there.”
“The Pike, the Pike! let’s shove off for the Pike.” They stop a few
moments to hear the soft tones of Il Trovatore by the famous
Hawaiian band, and exchange greetings with some St. Louis friends,
who propose a mild stimulant for their infirmities which consist
chiefly of a severe thirst that needs quenching. Downey’s cabaret is
sought, where in a cosey corner of bohemia the corks are drawn
from ice-cold bottles of “blue-ribbon” as they sing of “the soft-
flowing dreamy old Rhine” and “Meet me to-night in dreamland.”
The latest stories are told and toasts are drunk to the health of the
absent. From the tinkling glasses of bohemia, the marines meander
to the Pike. Ten minutes’ walk from the north pole to Ireland through
a labyrinth of gayety. Everybody visited the Pike, particularly at
night, when the soft pedal was put on conventionalities and every
“piker” became a thoroughbred bohemian, and then some.
Commencing at the north pole you would follow in rotation on either
side of this animated thoroughfare: first the Galveston flood, an
excellent representation of the devastation of that Texan city: Battle
Abbey, with its relics of antiquity, on the right; cross over, and you
see Hobson sinking the Merrimac, also the battle of Santiago. There
is a rush, and we find ourselves in Turkey, watching the slim princess
trying to beat it with an American kodak fiend. After “shooting the
chutes” a few times, in order to be sure of not missing anything, you
stroll to a palmy dance-hall and join in a “Frisco dip” or perhaps a
“St. Louis rag,” with liquid refreshments during the intervals.
From this point you take a boat for the “Garden of Eden” and the
scenes of creation; the dark recesses of this cavernous route were
the cause of many leap-year proposals in 1904. Leaving Paradise you
stop to watch a fellow picking confetti out of his sweetheart’s eyes;
he is laughing, and some one throws a handful of confetti into his
mouth; he swears at this, but he is only joking. A barker on the
opposite side is holding a crowd with his spiel on “Hereafter.” You
enter a dark subterranean passage likened unto the intricate caves
in the “Chamber of Horrors” depicted in Dante’s Inferno, a journey
along the river Styx on the outskirts of hades, and you are
transported to Paradise for a turn along the “golden strand.”
Returning to earth, the strains of music from a Spanish orchestra can
be heard in Old Madrid, where troubadours and matadores exchange
stories over a bottle of madeira. A dark-eyed señorita from Cordova,
who wears her clothes well, sings La Paloma, clicking the castanets
to the accompaniment of an orchestra from Barcelona. “Bravo!
bravo!” yell the marines, as she joins them in a Pall Mall and goblet
of wine.
All aboard for St. Petersburg shouts the conductor of the Great
Siberian Express, from Vladivostok to St. Petersburg and return.
“Under and over the sea” pipes a sailor; “take a ride in a submarine,
ten thousand leagues under the sea.” From a balcony over the
entrance to the Old St. Louis arena, “The Cowboy’s Farewell” is
being played by a genuine cowboy band. This arena is the Indian’s
favorite place of amusement, as the scenes are typical of frontier
life. Wading ankle deep in confetti, you enter into the enchantments
and desolations of Paris, with its relics of the Inquisition, Waterloo,
and the Bastille, the bridge of the Invalides, Rue de Rivoli, and
Champs Elysées, here represented in miniature, where songs were
sung by gay Parisians. Further on are the Japanese and Chinese tea-
gardens, Cummings’ wild west show, Hoyle’s fire-fighters, and
Hagenbach’s celebrated animal show.
Arabs with tomtoms are attracting a stream of people to
mysterious Asia. Here you find Hindu jugglers, magicians, and
snake-charmers, Oriental dancers of the hootche kootche, and
venders of wares of the “Far East,” camels and donkeys for hire,
elephants with gorgeous canopies in which the children love to ride.
This concession has the spicy odor and Oriental aspect of the Far
East.
Blarney Castle and the Irish village are next. “Ho for the Irish
jaunting car!” All pile in, and we’re off for the Lakes of Killarney,
climb to the Castle and kiss the blarney stone. A Dublin colleen who
is vending shillalahs, canes, and other ornaments of Irish bog-oak,
sweetly sings, “Where the River Shannon flows,” as she pins a fresh
green shamrock on each uniform, then remarks, “If I was a man, I’d
be a soldier too.” The café has a seating capacity of nearly one
thousand people; here the tinkling of glasses is interspersed with
sweet music by harpists from the “Emerald Isle.” You order an Irish
high-ball, and you receive a crême de menthe with a shamrock in it.
The Pike was the favorite promenade of the “Fair,” something
doing every minute. Here millionaires nudged elbows with paupers;
celebrities of distinguished vocations with the butcher, the baker, and
the candlestick-maker. The various nations of the earth here
commingled in harmony, all possessed with the same feeling of
curiosity and intent on having pleasure.
After doing the Pike, the Tyrolean Alps was a favorite resort for
midnight diners whose mirth and good fellowship were in keeping
with their surroundings. Delicious terrapin, lobster, and rare-bits
were specialties in this extraordinary café. From a pass in the
mountain chain of the Alps came the clear yodel of a quartette of
Tyrolean singers, whose notes reverberated from the cliffs to the
scenes below.
Swiss maidens from Geneva presided over stalls of quaint curios
from Switzerland, beer-steins and long tobacco-pipes being the most
favored articles. These Swiss girls were great favorites of the
marines; they were constant visitors at the camp during the entire
exposition, scarcely a tent was lacking in some ornamentation or
other from the booths of this Alpine exhibit, while each girl wore
pinned to her shirt-waist an ornament emblematic of the marines,
consisting of the semisphere, the eagle, and the anchor.
Though not on the grounds, one of the most interesting places of
amusement, and one which without seeing the visitor’s trip to the
“Fair” was incomplete, was “Cheyenne Joe’s Rocky Mountain Inn.”
This famous or infamous resort, as you will have it, had a seating
capacity of more than one thousand people. Tables arranged in
squares over a saw-dust floor were attended by waiters in cowboy
costume; in the centre of this large pavilion a vaudeville
performance entertained its racy patronage; music was continuous,
two bands being used for this purpose; as one ceased playing, the
other commenced without interval. A trained donkey bedecked with
ribbons ran from table to table nodding to the guests. About every
twenty minutes, Cheyenne Joe mounted on a pony would gallop into
the scene and cry out, “How much money did we take in to-day?” In
unison the cowboys would yell, “Ten thousand dollars.” Joe would
shout, “Burn half of it up and shoot out the lights,” whereupon each
cowboy drew his gun and banged away, snuffing out every light in
the joint. The lights, of course, were operated mechanically;
darkness ensued for a few moments only, when the light would be
restored. The placards alone were worth a visit to read; but the
mirth and revelry indulged in not only by soldiers, civilians, and
Indians, but hundreds of the fair sex, during the midnight hours in
this Rocky Mountain resort, though lacking in splendor, were akin to
the revels at the feasts of the bacchanalians.
During the wee sma’ hours of the morning the Palm Garden, a
rustic summer dancing pavilion, with its glossy floor and Italian
orchestra, was ablaze with the scintillating flashes of diamonds
which glittered from the smartly clad feminine patrons of the dizzy
whirl. Here, to the music of such selections as, “Any rags, any bones,
any bottles to-day?” a rag two-step is being performed by a marine
and a Venus with a florid style, whose magic spell lends soothing to
the blues, but whose high heels were not made for a minister’s
daughter.
Surrounding the Fair-grounds and in close proximity were shows
of every description. Conspicuous among these were Forest Park
Highlands, a veritable Coney Island; Luna Park; Delmar Garden, the
scene of the celebrated extravaganza “Louisiana,” the old mill-wheel
and “the girl in blue,” “the cave of the wind,” and “the Queen of the
Gypsy fortune-tellers,” the Delmar Race-track, where gathered
together could be found the most famous thoroughbred racers of the
world, with their coterie of noted jockeys and attendants.
“Old Heidelberg,” in the German village, was the bohemia of the
outskirts of the big show; here, to the strains of “Die Wacht am
Rhein,” it was strictly proper to eat “hot-dogs” and drink cold steins
of imported “hoff-brau.”
Sundays, when the Fair was closed, the permanent summer
resorts of St. Louis were flooded with people. Montesano, an island
in the Mississippi River connected by a fleet of steamboats, was the
most favored Sunday resort; the trip down the river alone broke the
monotonoy of the quietude of a hot summer day. The island, with its
groves of shady maple trees and inviting dells, extending from the
smooth sandy beach and through the interior, was an ideal spot to
while away the midday hours in lingering lassitude. There were
dancing, boating, fishing, roller-coasting, flirtations, and all that goes
to make up an ideal pleasure resort. Along the beach, children with
diminutive spades dug holes in the sand in search for shells. Games
of all descriptions were conducted quietly, and with far less
compunction than under the restraint and restrictive laws elsewhere
enforced.
Merrimac Highlands and Creve Cœur Lake, reached by scenic
railways, were also popular places of amusement.
The daily average attendance at the exposition was sixty
thousand, and those represented nations of all countries and zones.
It was very amusing to hear some of the nonsensical questions
that were asked by our rural friends from the land of the sage-brush
and cactus. On one occasion I was approached by an elderly lady
with the following query, “Soldier, would you kindly tell me what time
they feed the lagoons?” I was nonplussed at the question, but
ventured to ask, “Is it a bird or an animal?” She wasn’t sure which,
she said, but a friend of hers had told her that it was a mighty
interesting sight. I had heard of raccoons, loons, and baboons with
Mr. Hagenbach’s wild animal show, and, knowing these had to be
fed, I directed the misinformed old lady to this site on the Pike,
where I trust her misconstruction of the word or misinformation was
amended.
Having some business in St. Louis in connection with our canteen
or camp exchange which necessitated the carrying of my haversack,
I had left camp for the Olive Street car line, when I noticed a fellow
in hot pursuit who reminded me of a butterfly catcher in a field of
daisies down on the farm. Hailing me, he gasped, “Mail-man, please
stamp these cards and mail them for me;” handing me a half-dollar
with a bunch of post-cards, he continued on his leap-frog gait.
“Whoa! come back here,” I shouted. “Oh, that’s all right; buy
yourself some cigars with the change,” he answered. On mailing
them I noticed they were all addressed to Arkansas; that accounts
for it, I said to myself, he must be one of those Arkansas travellers.
 Not far from our camp was a high spiral tower, on the top of
which was the wireless telegraph exhibit connected by a lift or
elevator. “Is this the scenic railway?” a young lady inquired. “Not
yet,” I replied; “that is the elevated railroad.” She smiled and
thanked me very much. Why, they even went to the Kentucky
building to invite Daniel Boone out for dinner!
Every day the marine camp was the scene of a constant stream of
visitors, many of whom were in search of friends and relatives. For
more than a year before my departure from the Philippine Islands I
had studiously contemplated serving at this post of duty, and felt
assured of my success, so in consequence had written a number of
friends in various cities of the United States who I knew were
anticipating the pleasures of the greatest show on earth.
The cool days of early autumn seemed to be the most popular
season for the Eastern and Western visitors; each day groups of
friends, ensconced under the khaki canvas of an A wall tent or
seated on steamer-chairs along the smooth level lawn, joined in
social intercourse with these jolly rovers of land and sea. Tent
number 2 was daily the scene of some festive occasion, the
erstwhile pranks of which were likened unto a scene from the
“Rodgers Brothers in Paris.” On these occasions the author was
assisted by his dear friends and compatriots Boland and Fynmore.
Before going to St. Louis as pay-clerk of the battalion, I had spent
three years afloat and in the tropics, and during that time had met
but one man from my native town, with the exception of my father,
who visited me in Washington, D. C., prior to our departure, and
whose perplexities in the Executive Mansion on meeting President
Roosevelt were brimful of excellent humor even though the
seasoning was of the ludicrous variety.
The circumstances attending the meeting of the other man in
question were exceptionally singular. It was late in the autumn of
1902, and I was stationed in the old “Quartel de Espanol” at Fort
San Philippi, Cavite, P. I. Every evening about sundown, when not on
duty, it was my custom to stroll with a friend or two to a hacienda in
the adjacent “barrio” of San Ruki, where the soft-toned music from a
harp and guitar was artistically rendered by two charming mestizos.
At this native bungalow, shaded by large palms and drooping
banana stalks, gathered nightly the elite of the village, and
occasionally señoritas from the city of Manila, whose predominant
beauty, in fluffy kimonos woven from the fibre of the pineapple with
a texture as fine as silk, was augmented by that indisputable mark
of Spanish aristocracy, the ever-propitious mantilla. By the dim light
of a candelabrum which fluttered in the evening zephyrs, these
social gatherings were regulated with that Oriental quiescence and
technique to the manner born.
It was while wending my way home in the moonlight from such
an allurement of beauty and music, that I chanced along the Calle
Real and into the Café Del Monte, when I was agreeably surprised to
see, seated at a game of cards, my old shipmate “Jack” Lavery of
the cruiser New York. Being clothed in a suit of civic white duck, I
was unrecognized for a moment. “Hello, Jack!” I exclaimed. “Well,
Bill! for God’s sake, where did you come from? I thought you were in
China on board the monitor Monadnock?” “No, the application was
disapproved of, so I fired in another for shore duty.” “Well, but you
left us in Shanghai.” “Yes, my application was approved there, I
crossed the sea on the gun-boat Manila.” “Well, where are you
now?” “Fort San Philippi.” “Good! Shake hands with some friends of
mine.—Fellows, we’ll have the story about the Moors in Algiers to-
night.—Waiter! take the order; bring in some Egyptians and a new
pinocle deck.” Having been furnished with the order, the cards were
dealt and we made our melds.
The fourth game was in progress, and, as the cards were being
dealt, I remarked to my partner, whose cuffs had been rolled back,
“Corporal, that dragon represents artistic work; where did you have
that done?” “The dragon was tattooed by an expert on the Queen’s
Road in Hong Kong; these storks I had put on in Kobe, Japan; and
the spider’s webb was worked in at Cairo, by a professional who had
the honor of tattooing his excellency the Khedive of Egypt.” “That is
pretty work, and I see it harmonizes with the blue scar on your
wrist; where did you dig coal?” “Oh, years ago, away back in
Pennsylvania, all the way from slate-picking to working a gangway.”
“What part of Pennsylvania, may I ask?” “Hazleton, Luzerne County.”
“Hazleton? Are you from Hazleton?” “Pretty close to it; my home is in
Beaver Brook, a little mining hamlet about three miles south of the
city.” “Great heavens! ten thousand five hundred miles from home,
and here is a native of my own village,” I soliloquized. “Did you ever
know a family in Beaver Brook named A——?” “Did I?—​for the Lord’s
sake, is it possible that you are young B——​y A——?” “That’s me, old
chap.” “Well! Well! put her there, old boy. Twenty-two years have
passed by since I worked for your father. I am Johnny Coyle; don’t
you remember Jack?” “Well, Jack, my old school-mate, shake again.
Truth is stranger than fiction. School-mates, ship-mates, landsmen,
bandsmen, and marines, come on, let’s celebrate; press the button,
sergeant, and we’ll sing, ‘I’ll meet you at the hedge where the
huckle-berries bloom.’”
For several days my home city, Hazleton, Pennsylvania, was well
represented at the “Fair,”—​a special containing a large concourse of
Sir Knights of the Masonic Fraternity who, accompanied by their
wives and daughters, were homeward bound from San Francisco,
where they had been attending a Masonic conclave. Having the
esteemed acquaintance of nearly every member of the jolly bunch, I
was delighted and felt highly honored with their visit in our camp. In
my four years of travel around the world, these were the first people
from home whom I had met, with the afore-noted exceptions.
Each day was given to some especial event. Every State in the
Union celebrated on one particular day, the buildings representing
the State being more elaborately decorated for this occasion. This
function was attended by their respective governors and staff,
occasionally accompanied by a troop of horse or infantry. Various
branches of business had their day; there was also theatrical day,
automobilist day, Elk day, and in fact every day during the
continuance of the “Fair” was taken up by some particular branch of
business or profession, the turnstile recording the largest attendance
on Chicago and St. Louis day.
Theatrical day I had the pleasure of escorting a party of the
profession, whose names in glittering light frequently adorned the
theatres along Forty-second Street and the “Great White Way,”
through the marine camp, the Pike, Cheyenne Joe’s, and later joined
in the merriment at a dinner in the Tyrolean Alps. A quartette of
Indian chiefs occupied a table some distance from ours, among
whom was the famous old Apache warrior Geronimo. On learning
that one of the chiefs was Geronimo, a member of our party, a
celebrated singer of coon songs, expressed a desire to meet him,
whereupon I invited the Indians to join the “Merry Wanderers of the
Night.” After the introduction the old chief made a speech in the
Apache tongue; they sang, danced, chanted, and became quite
hilarious; this was not due, however, to the stimulants of the
Tyrolean Alps, for, although the Indians would have relished a mint
julep, they were obliged to indulge in milder potations. Each chief,
before departing, had ardently proposed to the actress of his choice,
who accepted him in the language and manner of the stage. The
wee hours of the morning were gliding by as this jovial party of
merrymakers boarded their “special” of palace sleepers, and thus
ended a round of joy, keen wit, and humor.
Strong resentment against the conduct of Filipino scouts had
been expressed in different quarters of the “Fair,” and trouble
between these and the white soldiers had been narrowly averted a
number of times. The flirtations between white women of apparent
respectability and the islanders had created adverse criticism. The
marines, goaded by these flirtations and seeing fashionably gowned
women on the arms of Filipinos promenading the Pike, felt that it
was more than they could stand. In consequence a plan of campaign
was outlined. One of the officers said, “I foresaw this situation and
gave warning that it would come about. It is amazing the way white
women shower attentions on the scouts, parading them to their
homes and all that sort of thing.”
On several occasions marines had interfered when white girls
were seen with the scouts; this usually precipitated a fight, causing
bitter feelings in both camps. The resentment against the brown
men, which continued growing stronger daily, took form when, at
about ten o’clock at night, sixty soldiers of the scout battalion
surrounded and assaulted ten marines, who, after a pitched battle,
compelled their assailants to retreat. The marines returned to camp,
and, expecting trouble, were awaiting reinforcements, when a
marine rushed in, spreading the alarm, that the Filipinos had sought
succor at their camp and that about three hundred were coming
down the Pike armed. Always reckless and ripe for excitement, a
marine shouted, “Come on, boys! let’s clean the Gu Gus off the
earth.” This exclamation was hailed with cheers, and in a few
moments more than one hundred marines were in pursuit of the
enemy. Before reaching the Irish village, the detachment split into
two sections, one section covering the north end of the Pike while
the other hurried on to intercept the chocolate soldiers near
Bohemia. On seeing the marines entering the Pike, on the double,
the scouts fled, retreating presumably for a darker section of the
grounds where they could adopt their accustomed mode of fighting.
It was too late, however, for, alas! they were hemmed in, and to the
victor belonged the spoils. The marines charged, a pitched battle
ensued, in which the Filipinos, being in the majority, held their
ground for a short space of time, but soon wilted under the terrific
onslaught of the Americans.
This scene was laughable in the extreme, and reminded me of a
chapter from “Gulliver’s Travels”; those who had escaped a knockout
were glad to end the struggle. Having retreated toward their camp,
they had arrived in the vicinity of the Agricultural Building, when
some of them drew arms and commenced firing. This enraged the
marines to such an extent that they decided to charge their camp,
which precipitated a clash with the Jeffersonian Guards in which two
of the guards were seriously injured. At this juncture an alarm
brought the mounted police galloping to the scene, who finally
restored order, both sides withdrawing to the peaceful habitations of
their camp.
Washington was apprised of the affair, and the troops were
severely reprimanded; but the lesson taught the scouts had great
bearing on their future attitude toward the Americans. The St. Louis
newspapers depicted the scenes of this riot, and devoted several
columns in which they eulogized the marines for the stand they had
taken.
No military organization could have been treated with more
courtesy than the marine battalion at the St. Louis Exposition, and,
when the day arrived for its departure, it was with reluctance rather
than pleasure that the comfortable tents, the scenes of so much
merriment, had to be vacated for the less desirable quarters in
barracks.
After breaking camp and securing our equipment, we bade the
big show a fond farewell. A long line of street cars conveyed the
battalion to the Union Station, where Pullman sleepers of the “Big
Four” draped with streamers awaited it. The Sixth Infantry band
discoursed music as the soldiers of the sea bade their friends good-
by, and, as they boarded the two sections of the train, the
reverberating strains of “Maryland, my Maryland” were received with
vociferous applause by the multitude that crowded the station
platform. As the hand rendered the old war-songs “Yankee Doodle”
and “Dixie,” so sacred to the North and the South, the train rolled off
for the quaint little city of Annapolis, the capital of Maryland.
The marine barrack at Annapolis is the finest military post in the
United States. On our arrival in the city, the battalion was met by the
marine band, and escorted to the quarters, where an especially
arranged dinner lay in waiting.
 The following day, orders were received for the battalion to
proceed to Washington, D. C., to participate in the unveiling of a
monument to “Frederick the Great,” presented to the United States
by Germany. This was the last procession in which the St. Louis
battalion was seen intact.
Shortly after our return to Annapolis, an order was received from
marine headquarters, detailing all men having two years or more to
serve, on the Panama expedition. Having less than one year to serve
to complete my enlistment, I was ordered to duty at the United
States Naval Academy, until the expiration of my enlistment.
 XII.

Topographical Survey in Northern Luzon

The Friars’ Monastery—​Headquarters of the Insurgent Aguinaldo—​In

Charge of the Cargadores—​Meeting with Albinos—​Among the
Igorrote Head-hunters—​Enamored with a Beautiful Señorita—​
Planting Rice to Music—​A Midnight Ride Through the Jungle—​A
Moonlight Fiesta—​Quartered in a Cholera Infected Hacienda—​The
Jungle—​The Rainy Season—​Return to Civilization.

In the summer of 1908 while stationed at Ft. William McKinley, a

military post in the Philippines, I was detailed from brigade
headquarters for topographical survey on the Island of Luzon. This
assignment was more than welcomed as a departure from the
monotonous routine of guard duty, wearisome marches, and military
manœuvres. I was instructed to report to First Lieutenant Kenyon A.
Joyce of the Thirteenth Cavalry, whose headquarters were in an old
Spanish monastery in the small nippa-shack village of Lolomboy,
near the “barrio” of Bocaue, situated along the Manila and Dagupán
Railroad between Manila and Baguio, the famous Philippines health
resort.
Hastily gathering together my necessary field equipment with
transportation and orders, I departed for my destination with a
feeling akin to that of the small boy on his first excursion from
home. Alighting from the street car on the escolta near the old
bridge of Spain, I purchased some periodicals and a large sombrero,
then, engaging a caramato, was driven to the Tondo station, where I
boarded a first-class coach for Bocaue.
After a wearisome ride through stifling humidity, over rice-dikes
and through jungle, I arrived at my post of duty and immediately
reported to the commanding officer of the detachment, after which I
divested myself of my accoutrements and met the members of the
survey party, consisting of about twenty-four soldiers, representing
every branch of the United States army.
This aged edifice, with its mysterious subterranean vaults, its
columns of Tuscan and Doric origin, and surrounded by balconies
encompassed with ornamental balustrades, was occupied by the
soldiers and used as headquarters by the topographical ensemble.
Prior to the Spanish-American war, this building had been a
sanctuary of worship, the abode of mendicant friars. At the time of
the insurrection, the old monastery was occupied as headquarters by
General Aguinaldo, until compelled to relinquish his stronghold by
the American troops.
Expert Filipino draughtsmen were employed in the plottings of the
survey, their work in delineating offsets being admirably executed.
The circuitous route our journey necessitated through mountains,
jungle, and across innumerable streams and ravines made it
impossible to use ponies or caribou in the conveyance of our
provisions, so that a contingent of native cargadores were employed
in drawing a native cartello, which carried not only the provisions,
but also the camp equipage, including our cooking utensils.
The entire party was divided into three sections, each section
comprising one commissioned officer, eight enlisted men, and four
brawny cargadores who handled the native cart or cartello. Each
section had a separate circuit on which to work, these circuits
penetrating jungle and mountainous country hitherto unexplored by
the military. Provisions for two weeks were usually carried, the
length of time it required in covering our territory.
My first duty in connection with this survey was recording the
readings of the transit, operated by the officer in charge. Our route
led through the “barrios” of Marilao, Santa Maria, Tomano, Buena
Vista, San Jose, Bagbaguen, Prensa, and Santa Cruz, in the province
of Bulacan. The heat endured on these expeditions was intense,
especially along the rice-dikes, which were barren of foliage.
Occasionally, when in the vicinity of a barrio where we had but one
night to remain, instead of spreading canvas we bivouacked under
the roof of some convenient casa. On one occasion, having worked
until sundown, our cartello was drawn alongside of an old native
house of worship, in the barrio of Buena Vista, where a “fiesta” had
been in progress for several days. Here, under the eaves of this
sacred shrine, this soldier outfit dined “A la cartello.”
In the interior of this sanctuary, the flickering lights in a large
candelabrum, at the base of the crucifix, shone dimly through the
gloom. With a feeling of absolute safety, the soldiers spread their
ponchos over the bamboo matting and, wrapped in blankets,
reposed in peaceful slumber. There was nothing to disturb the
tranquillity of this night until, shortly before the break of dawn, we
were aroused by the tolling of the bells, and the chanting of the Ave
Maria, uttered in solemn devotion by a long procession of natives
garbed in ceremonious black, preceded by a señorita bearing a
cross, flanked on either side by torch-bearers. As the procession
moved slowly down the aisle, the soldiers arose from their unusual
berth and, occupying seats, observed the ceremonies with respectful
silence. These natives were the thoroughbred Tagalogs, the
aborigines of the Philippines, the greater number of them being
converts to Roman Catholicism, the balance adhering to the
doctrines of the Reformation, or the Protestant religion.
Leaving Buena Vista, our route led through the beautiful Marquina
Valley, with its immense forests of bamboo, ebony, sapan-wood, and
gum-trees entwined by the bush-rope of palasan, trees teeming with
the luscious mango and guava, bordering on plantations and groves
of the vegetable kingdom, including the banana, plantain,
sugarcane, pineapple, coffee, cinnamon, and tobacco.
From Marquina our course led into the dense forest of the San
Madre Mountains. Before leaving the valley, I was detailed to handle
the cargadores. This party in itself was a comedy; the only things
they thought seriously of were cigarettes, salmon, and rice. I gave
each of them a sobriquet,—​namely, “Blinky,” Pedro, Carlo, and Pablo
de Gusman. Blinky, a one-eyed dusky savage, was the hero of the
drama; when he wanted anything, he would pat me on the arm and
exclaim, “El capitan, mucho bueno,” and in the same breath, “Dalle
mi cigarillo.” He would then wink at the others. Blinky was familiar
with the lay of the land, and was a valuable assistant when it came
to questions of emergency, such as getting the cartello across a
stream or a deep ravine. It was sometimes necessary in crossing a
river, to unload our cargo and ship it across in a binto, a boat similar
to a canoe, then float the vehicle across the best way we could.
Having been detained rather late one evening in a barrio where I
had been exchanging rice, bacon, and salmon, for chickens, eggs,
and vegetables, I could have made my objective point before
sundown had not something unforeseen occurred; we had reached
an unexpected ravine or gorge through which a torrent of water
gushed; here we found it necessary to cut two bamboo trees on
which to slide the cartello across on its hubs. We were having
excellent success when the hubs slipped off, dumping our cargo into
the stream and Pablo de Gusman with it. Luckily the native grabbed
the wheel of the cart and was saved. A rope attached to the front of
the cartello was the means of our saving the greater part of the
rations; but we were in a sorrowful plight, it being impossible to drag
such a load up the precipitous slopes. We found it necessary to pack
the cargo up piece by piece. The scene was laughable in the
extreme: Blinky looked as though he had been sentenced to be shot,
while the singsong chorus of native lingo, like the buzzing rabble of
Italian emigrants, combined with reaching the site of our camp in
the darkness, completed my baleful imbroglio. Let it suffice to say:
an impatient mapping detail awaited our arrival.
The country through which we passed was one of tropical
grandeur; monkeys, wild-boar, and parrots were frequently seen
along the mountain ranges. At night it was interesting to watch the
vampires darting hither and thither over mango-trees, nipping the
delicious mangos, sometimes carrying them to their roosts for their
young. These vampires resemble a bat, though much larger; the
body is about the size of a kitten, the wings measuring when fully
developed six feet from tip to tip.
Albinos are frequently met with in northern Luzon; on one
occasion, strange to relate, we came in contact with a small colony
of this type of people, unrelated, however, as the albino is a freak of
nature possessing no inherency. They were reluctant to converse,
contenting themselves with looking on, as they shielded their pink
eyes from the rays of the sun with a fan of the palm-leaf. The
interest we Americans manifested in these people seemed greatly to
amuse the Filipinos.
The Igorrote head-hunters are a wild tribe inhabiting the northern
provinces. Their features are large, with kinky hair, large teeth, and
black complexions. They are far below the other tribes in intellect
and intelligence. The appellation “head-hunter” has its significance in
the fact that the head of the enemy is taken as a relic, similar to the
custom of the American Indian in scalping his victim. We watched
these barbarians killing dogs for market, saw them making
grasshopper pies, and, to our disgust, they ate eggs with chickens in
them. Eggs containing chickens were worth double the price of fresh
eggs.
It was a great pleasure to return to our headquarters in the old
monastery, where wholesome food and cool shower-baths could be
had. The evenings at this domicile were always enjoyably spent,
either at cards, reading, or music. Occasionally, Sebastian Gomez, an
old Filipino, would bring his two granddaughters to the quarters;
these were fairly good-looking señoritas and excellent musicians, the
one playing the harp while the other played the accordion,
accompanied by the old man with a guitar. Very often a deputy
revenue collector, who spent considerable time with us, would join
this trio with a violin, and these instruments combined rendered
excellent music.
Occasionally my work consisted in planting signal-flags on points
of vantage, where they could be seen through the telescope of a
transit. It was incidental to one of these trips that Kane, of the
Engineer Corps, and myself, while driving through a remote barrio,
came in contact with the beautiful Señorita Carmen Lemaire. In my
travels I had encountered many odd freaks of nature, leaving me not
overly susceptible to surprise; on this occasion, however, the unique
circumstance attending the incident created little less than
astonishment. The fact that to hear the Anglo-American tongue
spoken by natives even in Manila was a rarity seldom enjoyed, made
this event the more surprising.
We had left headquarters at Lolomboy in the early morning, with
a pony hitched to a cartello containing the signal-flags, tent
equipage, and rations for three days. Crossing the ferry at Bocaue,
we struck a northerly route running west of Malolos, the old Filipino
capital. We had covered a number of miles over a dusty road and
through sweltering heat, when a quaint little barrio shaded by cocoa
and palm trees on the banks of the Cianti River was reached. As the
pony jogged along through the heart of the village, turning out
occasionally for the little pickaninnies who played in the street, my
eyes fell on something unusual for this section of the world,—​an
exceptionally beautiful señorita, apparently a mestizo of European
extraction, presiding over a fruit-stand in front of a large hacienda,
from which exhaled the sweet odor of grated-cocoanut boiling in the
syrup of the sugarcane.
“Kane, did you see that?” I asked. “Yes, some class; I wonder
where that complexion came from,” he replied. “Let’s try and find
out,” I said.
 It was about the hour for the Filipino siesta and time for “tiffin”;
so, drawing under the shade of a large mango tree, we tied and fed
the pony, and I informed the engineer that I was going to buy some
eggs. “Let me buy them,” said Kane, smilingly.
Approaching the hacienda, I saw standing under the eaves, with
the grace of a Wanamaker cloak-model and the beauty of the
allegorical Psyche, a Filipino señorita still in her ’teens, whose raven
tresses would have been the envy of the “Sutherland sisters.”
“Buenos dios, señorita,” I ventured. “Buenos dios,” she replied.
“Tiene weibus?” (Tagalog for “Have you eggs?”). “Si, señor,” she
replied. Kane, whose knowledge of the dialects was limited,
appearing on the scene, said, “How do you do?” “Quite well, thank
you; how are you?” she said. “Better,” said Kane, smiling in
expressive surprise. At first I thought it an apparition with a voice; to
hear good old United States spoken in a feminine voice, after being
inflicted for months with the pigeon English of Chinese and the
smattering cackle of the natives was almost too good to be true.
“Are you soldiers the advance-guard of a regiment, or merely out
for a joy ride?” she inquired, showing two rows of pearly teeth
through an inquisitive smile. “Joy ride is right, with room for six,”
replied Kane. Here my curiosity led me to inquire as to how this
illustrious personage had acquired such fluency in the English
language. Whereupon she informed me that she had been educated
at the University of Manila and was a school-teacher home on
vacation.
Having purchased some eggs, she further attracted our attention
by volunteering to fry them, and asking if we desired the albumen
scrambled with the yolk. Her complexion was a study, for, although
her hair and eyes were of raven black, her color was fair, with
features resembling the Louisiana Creole. She set a very dainty
repast, consisting of rice, fish, eggs, and fried plantains, and, suffice
to say, we three—Kane, the pony, and myself—​were exceedingly
happy; the pony because he had reached the end of his journey, for
there were no flags put up that day.
 Before our departure we exchanged addresses; I found her name
to be Carmen Lemaire, which further increased my curiosity. Having
asked permission to pay her a visit some evening in the future she
informed me that it would afford her much pleasure to have me call,
but that several natives were very jealous of her, including a cousin
whose ire, if aroused by my calling after sundown, might jeopardize
my life; therefore any other than an impromptu daylight visit would
be imprudent for her to approve. Assuring the señorita a little
boastfully of my utter disregard for the marksmanship of her suitors,
of my utmost confidence in fate, and my inability to call during the
day she set an evening in the following week for me to see her.
Bidding adieu, we left this hacienda with its fair inhabitant, and
journeyed on our route. The following day the pony had to go some
to make up for lost time, and it required the best part of three days
to complete the work. Our return trip was the longest way round,
but not the sweetest way home.
On our return to Lolomboy we told the story of having met the
beautiful señorita. The old Filipino Sebastian knew of her, and told us
she had been selected to act as queen of the “Grande Fiesta” at the
Manila Carnival.
The following Thursday evening before sundown, “knighthood
was in flower.” Having selected and placed some choice literature in
my saddle-bags, I mounted a pony and galloped off for the scene of
my triumph with the visage of the charming Carmen before me.
The iridescent hues of the vanishing sun tinted the western
horizon, as I reined my pony into a verdant trail, winding with the
course of the river, almost hidden from view by the high grass that
lined the trail on either side. The moon at its full shone through the
cocoanuts hanging in clusters from the tall trees, as I dismounted at
the Lemaire hacienda in the barrio of Montao. A Filipino patrol
passing by took charge of the pony, thereby relieving my mind of the
fear of its being stolen by ladrones, who lurk in the mountain
districts of Luzon.
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