Part 9

Frantically, but steadily, he worked his way down, avoiding weeds and driftwood. The water grew calmer as he neared the bottom, the rush of the current less. His breath was almost gone; he could hardly stand it a few seconds longer, but he must see what it was there. With one supreme effort, he struggled and reached the hard sand of the lake floor. A trifle dazed, he looked about, and there, towering above him, was a ship.

Piang was almost unconscious when he reached the air. Had he been dreaming? How could a ship be resting on the bottom of Lake Lanao? Restraining his curiosity, he forced himself to rest. Lying on his back again, he took long regular breaths until he was entirely rested. Slowly he descended and, avoiding contact with the loggy tortoise, circled around the dark thing. Yes, it was a boat. Piang had seen only one other boat like it in his life. It was only about thirty-five feet long, but to the boy it seemed to rise above him like a mountain. Fascinated, he sank lower until he was standing on the deck. The tortoises and fish paid no attention to him, and he examined it carefully. The big tube, sticking up in its middle Piang recognized as the thing that belches smoke, and along the sides, covered with slime and weeds, were small black objects. He had heard that these boats hurl "hot-spit" into the jungle when they are angry, and he supposed it must come from these ugly things. All this occupied only a few seconds, but to Piang it seemed like years. Making a hasty ascent, he again filled his lungs and prepared to explore farther. As he worked his way back, he crossed the current that was bearing the rice to the surface and remembered his mission. Following the milky trail, he arrived at the stern of the boat and shuddered to see the mass of animal life clustered there. Worming his way alongside, he frightened the swarming creatures, and they scattered, leaving him a clear view of the boat. Only one old tortoise refused to be disturbed, and Piang watched it pull and bite at something. He was very close to it, when suddenly something blinded him. He put out his hands to ward it off, but the rush increased, and when he found his way to the top his hands were full of soggy rice. The old tortoise had torn the end of a rice-sack, and the contents were being whirled upward.

As the boy lay on the water, reviewing his remarkable discovery, his strength almost exhausted, he was startled into the realization of a new danger. Quickly he dived, but not before a man in a vinta, headed that way, had seen him. Piang was caught. In his excitement he had failed to watch for the coming of his enemies, and now he must fight. Swiftly the vinta approached. Piang could see it through the water and he watched until it was over his head. With a lunge, he struck at it with all his might, upsetting it and throwing the occupant out. With a yell the man grabbed Piang, and the startled boy recognized his old enemy, Sicto, the outcast, who drifted from tribe to tribe, a parasite on all who would tolerate him. He was making his home with the lake people just now and had discovered Piang's hiding-place. Guessing that the boy was after the secret of the rice, he had watched his chance and had pounced on him when he was least able to protect himself.

Over and over they rolled, splashing and fighting. Piang was struggling for breath, but luckily he still had his bolo in his hand. The big bully was sure to win the fight unless Piang could escape soon, as he was already winded and exhausted. A happy thought flashed through Piang's mind. He watched for one of the tortoises to swim near the surface, and then shrieking "Crocodile," he pointed toward it. When the frightened Sicto shrank from the tortoise, Piang struck with all his might, but he was so weak and his knife was so heavy that he only stunned his adversary.

Then he was away like a flash. Before the bully could recover, Piang had righted the vinta and was paddling off in the direction of the river. Sicto tried to follow him, but Piang only laughed and paddled faster. He was free again; he had a boat, and knew the secret of the rice. Allah was indeed good to little Piang.

Rapidly he plied his paddle. The current was against him as he headed for the mouth of the river, but he worked steadily and soon lost sight of the infuriated Sicto.

He paused. Coming out of the river was a flotilla of boats. They were the usual rice-fishers, and he must pass them to gain the outlet. What if they called to him? He could not speak their dialect, and they would surely recognize Sicto's boat. He did not think they had seen him, so he changed his course to the east-ward and slowly paddled in that direction. They soon passed behind him, paying no attention to the solitary boatman, and he thankfully headed toward the river. As soon as the men reached Sicto, he would tell them of the fight, and they would give chase. Piang's chances of escape were indeed slim, but he had a little start.

Stubbornly he fought the current; patiently he worked against the swift water. At last he was in the river, but he knew that by this time the Moros were in pursuit. That they did not appear in the river behind him was no reason to feel safe. He was sure they would try to head him off by land, as the river wound round and round through the valleys. The odds were certainly against Piang. He was in a strange country, unfamiliar with the trails and hunted by the swiftest tribe of Moros. The Ganassi trail was out of the question. It would be lined with the lake people watching for him. The jungle, which he had worked his way through, would be searched, and his recent camping site discovered. Every passable trail to his home would be watched.

Suddenly Piang remembered the "Americano" soldiers. They lived somewhere off in the other direction, beyond the terrible marshlands. Without a moment's hesitation, he headed toward the shore, pulled up the vinta, and secured it. He then plunged into the stream and swam to the opposite shore. When the lake people found the vinta, they would search that side of the jungle. Piang was pleased at his ruse.

Bravely the boy faced his only avenue of escape. The journey through the marshlands and over the mountains was considered impossible, but Piang was not discouraged. Searching the surrounding jungle, he made sure that he had not been discovered, and, turning his back on his home as well as on his enemies, headed toward the distant peaks, the Dos Hermanas.

"Halt!" The sentry on Post No. 4 wheeled and took aim. There was another rustle in the bushes. "Halt!" came the second warning. Luckily the man was an old soldier, whose nerves were well seasoned. There would be only one more warning; the bullet would come then. Tensely the sentry listened. In the jungle one does not wait long out of curiosity. Just as he was about to utter his ultimatum and emphasize it with lead, a slender form tottered through the bushes and fell to the ground.

"Sure, an' he 's a-playin' dead. None of that game for yer Uncle Dudley." The Irishman, coming to port arms, sang out:

"Corporal of the guard. Number Four!" Never taking his eyes off the still form, he waited.

"What's up?" called the corporal, as he came running up the trail with his squad.

"Suspicious greaser!" The sentry pointed at the prostrate form. Cautiously they approached it. Too many times their humane sympathy had been rewarded by treachery. The native did not stir. One of the guard poked him with his foot. There was no resistance.

"Guess he's all in, all right," announced the corporal. "Heave him up. Never mind the leeches; they won't hurt you." The boy was lifted to the top of a woodpile. He bore the marks of the jungle. His hands and feet were scratched and torn by thorns, some of which still showed in the flesh. His ribs showed plainly through the tightly pulled skin, and leeches clung to him, sucking the blood from his tired body. The long hair had been jerked from its customary chignon, and was hanging loose around his head. His thin arms hung listlessly at his side.

"Gosh, he needs a wash bad enough. Must have been starving, too." With his bayonet the corporal removed the black hair from the face. Uttering an exclamation, he bent over the boy.

"Well, I'll be dinged! This is the kid Lieutenant Lewis sent up to the lake! How in tarnation did he get to us from this direction?" The men silently exchanged glances, all remembering their fruitless attempts to make a trail over the Dos Hermanas. Forcing water between the parched lips, the corporal gently shook Piang. The boy opened his eyes and shuddered.

"You're all right now, little 'un," the corporal said, and although Piang did not understand the language, he responded to the kind tone with a weak smile. Slowly getting to his elbow, he motioned toward the garrison:

"Hombre!" ("Man!") he muttered. It was the only Spanish word he knew, and the soldiers guessed that he wanted Lieutenant Lewis.

"Give him a lift, boys," said the corporal and set the example by helping Piang to stand.

"Why, the boy's story is incredible, Lewis. It is simply impossible that a gunboat could be at the bottom of Lake Lanao," General Beech protested as he walked to and fro in front of his desk in the administration building.

"If you will search the records at headquarters, sir, I think you will find mention of three gunboats that were shipped to this island by the Spanish government and disappeared mysteriously on the eve of our occupancy."

And so it turned out. Inquiries among the older natives of the barrio brought confirmation of the report, and weird tales of transporting the diminutive gunboats in sections over the mountain passes began to float about. Finally General Beech was convinced and gave the necessary orders to equip and send an investigating party to the lake. Piang was to be the guide.

The transport Seward carried the troops around to Iligan, and the struggle up the mountain trail to Lake Lanao began.

Sicto was the first to give warning of the approach. He came upon the party one morning as they were breaking camp near the Marie Christina falls and immediately dashed off to Marahui.

"The white devils are coming," he shrieked. "Piang, the traitor, is leading them to us!"

Dato Grande assembled his council, and they awaited the coming of the soldiers with misgivings. They had good reason to fear the Americans. General Bushing had swept that district in his marvelous campaign, and there was many a cripple among the lake people to testify to the accuracy of his marksmen. But they were relieved by the appearance of Ricardo, the interpreter, who explained to the dato that the troops were not hostile, but had come to make friends with the Moros.

Proudly Piang swung along at the head of the column, guiding them to his recent platform home. Camp was pitched on the shore, and the engineers commenced work at once. The boy impatiently waited for the divers to fix their cumbersome suits, and when all was ready, he plunged into the water and disappeared from view. The grotesque figures floating down with him made Piang want to laugh. They looked like huge devil-fish, and he wondered how they could stand the clumsy dress. After he had led the men to the boat he came to the top and swam with eyes down. If there were more boats, he wanted to find them first. The men on the bank were watching his agile movements with interest. With a shout he disappeared again. Yes, yes, there was a second boat. And as he circled the sunken craft he spied another near it. Striking out for the shore, he swam to where the general and the lieutenant were waiting.

"What is he chattering about, Ricardo?" asked the general.

"He says he has seen the other two boats, sir."

"This is certainly a fortunate discovery, Lewis. I shall make a report to Washington on the matter, and you shall be commended for your sagacity."

The young officer flushed with pleasure, but replied:

"Thank you, sir, but I think the boy Piang deserves all the credit."

It was many days before the task was completed. The rice had remained a mystery to the last, and the officers puzzled over the fact that it had not rotted entirely. The first report from the divers confirmed the rumor that the boats had been scuttled, presumably to prevent the Americans from capturing them. They had all been loaded with rice packed in sacks, and secured in tin-lined boxes. Until recently it had been protected from the water, but something heavy from above had fallen on them, crushing the outside coverings. The tortoise had done the rest.

Another surprise awaited the troops. A diver brought up a handful of Krag cartridges.

"This is a mystery," said Lieutenant Lewis. "The Spanish never used Krags; we were the first to bring them to this part of the world, weren't we?"

A shadow crossed General Beech's face. Quietly he ordered the divers to search for more ammunition. Silently they waited, and Lewis wondered what had brought the sad expression to his chief's face. When the divers brought up a wooden box half filled with cartridges, the two officers bent over it; on one side, branded in the wood, was plainly visible:

"Depot Quartermaster, San Francisco, Cal."

"I thought so," murmured the general.

"Well, what do you know about that!" exclaimed Lewis. "The public has been wondering for years what became of the thousands of rounds of ammunition General Bushing took with him on his spectacular march through Mindanao. Murder will out. It is here!" He rubbed his hands together in glee, laughing softly.

"How do you suppose this ammunition got here, Lewis?" General Beech asked gravely.

"Why, dumped here, of course. Don't you remember the Sunday editions at home proclaiming Bushing a hero because he had used more ammunition and apparently done more fighting, than any one on record? Why didn't he come out with the truth?"

General Beech colored at this injustice to his colleague.

"The usual hasty conclusion characteristic of Young America!" said the General, sharply. "Do you know, young man, that General Bushing is not only one of our ablest soldiers, but one of the most finished diplomats in the service?" Lewis had never seen General Beech so agitated.

"This discovery will be no news to the war department; they are in possession of the detailed account of the accident." He paused, his eyes sweeping the lake. "Lewis, this lake is the site of a most unfortunate accident. Out there," General Beech pointed toward the center of the lake, "dozens of our soldiers were lost, and the public will never know the tragic story of their fall. General Bushing was trying to transport six rafts of ammunition across the lake to the troops stranded at Camp Vicars. During a wild night storm, the handful of men set out on improvised rafts, but half-way across they were attacked from all sides and nearly annihilated. Only the wisdom and bravery of General Bushing saved the entire detachment from death; he ordered the ammunition thrown overboard and rescued his remaining men after a hard fight. That the survivors, one and all, have kept faith, and never divulged the story of the lost Krags, proves the remarkable influence General Bushing had over his command, for had the Moros got wind of this handy arsenal—!"

The day finally came when the tiny flotilla was at last raised, and, gay in its paint and polished metal, gallantly rode at anchor. All the lake tribes were assembled to witness the celebration, and they gazed with wonder at the strange craft. Many Americans had been attracted to the lake by news of the discovery, and the camp had grown to almost twice its original size. Some of the officers' wives had endured the hardships of the journey to witness the novel sight.

The boats were pronounced seaworthy and were to be tested. The largest boat, the flagship, was decorated from one end to the other with its faded pennants, but in the stern, proudly proclaiming its present nationality, flew the Stars and Stripes. Under the flag at the bow stood a sturdy, nonchalant figure, arms folded, head erect. Condescendingly Piang swept the crowd of wondering natives with his haughty eye. He paid no more attention to Sicto than to the others. In his supreme self-confidence Piang scorned to report Sicto to the authorities. He was clothed in a new dignity that put him far above considering such an unworthy opponent as Sicto and he silently cherished the hope that other opportunities to outwit the mestizo would be granted him.

An order was given. A shrill whistle startled the jungle folk. The engines throbbed, and one after another the boats responded. A cheer went up from the banks.

Piang had been given the honor of renaming the boats. The smallest one bore the name of his mother, Minka. The next was dedicated to the memory of his tribe's greatest hero, Dato Ali, and characteristically, on the bow of the flagship, beneath the boy's feet, glittered the bright gold letters, "P-I-A-N-G."

EIGHTH ADVENTURE

THE JURAMENTADO GUNBOAT

The transport Seward was approaching Jolo. Far in the distance the sunset tinged the coast with myriads of delicate tints, softening the harsh outline of the jungle. A flock of wild pigeons hovering over the town, suggested domestic peace, which was far from the actual state of affairs in that hotbed of intrigue. Glasses were trained on the isolated garrison, a mere speck of civilization, hurled at the foot of the jungle, and the excited tourists covered themselves with glory by their foolish questions.

Queer, dark-skinned people in dirty, many-colored garments, looking like a rainbow fallen in disgrace, greeted the newcomers in sullen silence, their disapproval very evident. A quarantine officer boarded and asked for the young lieutenant who was to join the Siasi garrison.

"Hello, Lewis! There is some uprising in Basilan. Jekiri again, I guess. They want you up at headquarters immediately."

The chug-chug of the engine was the only sound as the trim little gunboat Sabah slipped along. Lewis had been given command of a squad of cavalry and ordered to proceed to Basilan to put down any outbreak that might threaten. "Juramentado," was whispered, and his orders were not to allow the troops to become involved but to quell any trouble that was brewing.

"A pretty big order for a shave-tail (greenhorn) Lewis," General Beech had said at parting, "but I bet you and that dark shadow of yours will make good." The hearty handclasp and kind smile warmed the young officer's heart. General Beech was unusually young for his post as division commander, and he had endeared himself to his followers by his kindly manner and dignified directness, and Lewis would have faced death for him.

"Thank you, sir," was all that he said, and "the dark shadow" salaamed according to his custom.

That night as the Americans swung along under the dome of brilliant stars, a question arose as to the meaning of juramentado.

"Piang," Lieutenant Lewis said, "tell us about this custom of your people, won't you?"

Bashfully the boy hung his head and wriggled his toes. He was ashamed of his fierce people since the good American had taken him into his home, but they prevailed upon him to explain, and among them they gathered the following story from his funny, broken English:

When a Moro wearies of life and wishes to take a short cut to paradise, he bathes in a holy spring, shaves his eyebrows, clothes himself in white and is blessed by the pandita. The oath he takes is called juramentar (die killing Christians), and he arms himself with his wicked knife and starts forth. Selecting a gathering, well sprinkled with Christians, he begins his deadly work, and as long as he breathes, he hews right and left. Piang told them that he had seen one strong Moro juramentado pierced by a bayonet, drive the steel further into himself, in order to reach the soldier at the other end of the gun, whom he cut in two before he died.