BY W. O. MCGEEHAN
The Boulong casco lay on the Quiapo Market, which is on the left bank of the Pasig, just below the suspension-bridge. The Chinese junk—tradition says—was modeled after a whimsical emperor’s shoe, consequently the cascos of the Philippines, being really junks without sails, are not very dainty bits of naval architecture. As a rule, they are not accorded the dignity of a name; but this one was known as the “Boulong casco,” because it was owned and manned by members of one family. Santiago Boulong was steersman, his three sons were polemen, and Simplicia, the daughter, was el capitan—her father said, affectionately. Their permanent home was a little nipa-thatch shelter at the stern of the vessel.
The men had gone ashore shortly after the mooring—the father on business, the sons on pleasure bent—and Simplicia, much to her disgust, was left on board. She was a Tagalo girl, of the light-complexioned type, pretty even when judged by our standards, of which fact she was aware.
“The river, the river,” she said to herself, petulantly, “always the river. I was born on the river, and I have been going up and down the river all my life. When we come to Manila I may go ashore for a few hours only, and then the river again—and the lake. And Ramon is a fool!”
It was a clear, warm night, and the rippling water of the Pasig glistened in the moonlight, so that she could see the leaves rush by in clusters. Ramon had said: “Think of me when you see the leaves on the river—the bright green leaves from the dear lake country. It seems sad to think that they must float down past the city where the water is fouled, and then out—far out—to be lost on the big salt sea.” But Ramon was always saying queer things that she could not understand.
The murmur of drowsy voices came from the crowded huts of the market-place. Oh, how long till morning! She wanted to buy some bits of finery there, and then to stroll through the city, especially along the Escolta, where there were stores that exhibited splendors from all countries. She hoped that one of her brothers would hire a carametta the next evening, and take her to the Lunetta, where the wealthy of Manila congregated to enjoy the cool night air and the concert. A band of Americanos played there every evening.
They were wonderful men, these Americano soldiers, much taller than Filipinos or Spaniards, and many of them had blue eyes and hair of the color of gold. The pride of kings was in their stride, and they looked as though they feared nothing.
Farther on down the river at the Alhambra Café, where the Spanish officers once gathered to hear the music of Spain, the orchestra played a new air that delighted her. There was a burst of cheering. The music was “Dixie,” and the demonstration was made by some Tennessee volunteers, who always gave something reminiscent of the old “rebel yell” whenever they heard it. From the Cuartel Infanteria, across the river, the American bugles began to shrill a “tattoo.” Their music was wonderful—everything pertaining to these big, bold men was wonderful, she thought.
Something bumped against a side of the casco, and Simplicia hurried over to order away a supposed ladrone. She leaned over the side with such abruptness that the wooden comb slipped from her heavy mass of black hair. It fell a dusky curtain, and brushed the upturned face of a man. He was not a little brown Filipino, but a tall Americano, fair and yellow-haired. He laughed a soft, pleasant laugh. She drew herself backward with a frightened cry, but his eyes held hers. The man was standing in a small canoe, steadying his craft by holding on to the casco.
“Buenas noches,” he said, smiling. He spoke Spanish, but not like a Spaniard or a Tagalo. Simplicia smiled, faintly. She knew that she should go into the nipa cabin, but this handsome man looked so kind and—Ramon was a fool. And her father and brothers were selfish, and——
So Simplicia returned the salutation, and stood leaning over the bulwark tasting the delirious delight of her first flirtation. The man—he was a college boy until the United States Government gave him a suit of khaki and the right to bear the former designation—thrilled with joy at the delicious novelty of the situation. He was in a city that was at once the tropics and the Orient, and over which hung the glamour of departed mediæval days. For several hundred years guitars had tinkled on that river, and voices had been lifted to laticed windows. The air was laden with ghosts of everything but common sense and scruples.
A bugle across the river caused the man to recollect that he was under certain restraint. “I must go,” he said, but he did not release his hold on the casco.
Simplicia’s eyes were big and bright in the moonlight. He stretched out one arm and drew her face toward him. She tore herself away, and stood breathing hurriedly through parted lips.
“Mañana por la noche,” said the soldier. He plied the paddle vigorously, and the canoe glided away. But he looked back, longingly, for Simplicia’s lips were very soft and warm.
She stood gazing after him till the canoe vanished into the shadow of the Cuartel Infanteria. The unseen bugle softly wailed “taps,” the call that bids the soldier rest. It is also sounded over graves.
The sun beat down fiercely on the Pasig. Canoes toiled up and skimmed down the river. Lumbering cascos, their crews naked to their waists, were poled painfully along. The Quiapo Market was astir with a babble of tongues, the barking of dogs, and the incessant challenge of hundreds of game-cocks. The little brown people bought, sold, and bargained with the full strength of their lungs.
Simplicia, as purser of the casco, was in the market purchasing provisions, but she spent most of her time near the stall of a Chinese vender of fabrics. After much haggling, she became the possessor of a dainty bodice of silk and piña cloth.
Most of the girls who visited the market-place seemed to be drawn to that spot, for there Simplicia met a friend who had left the lake country a little later than herself.
“Ramon will come down the river to-night,” said the friend, breathlessly, delighted to carry a message of that sort. “He has written something that he thinks they may print in La Libertad. Isn’t that wonderful? You must feel so proud of him. For a man to be able to write at all is wonderful—but for the papers!”
Apparently there were no words in the Tagalo dialect strong enough to express the girl’s admiration. Simplicia tossed her head, loosening the hair, a frequent happening. She caught the heavy tresses quickly, and almost forgot for an instant everything but the last time they had fallen.
“Are you not pleased?” asked the other girl, in astonishment. She was dark, and not pretty from any point of view.
“Oh, yes,” drawled Simplicia, “but Ramon is very tedious sometimes, and the lake country is very dreary. We will go into the city this afternoon and see the Americanos.”
They saw many Americanos—State volunteers clad in blue shirts and khaki trousers. The city was full of them. They occupied all the barracks formerly the quarters of the Spanish soldiers, and they crowded the drinking-resorts. Along the Calle Real they came upon companies drilling, and on the Lunetta they saw an entire regiment on dress-parade.
Simplicia, though she scanned every soldier’s face, did not see the stranger of the previous night, nor did she see a face that seemed nearly as handsome.
“They say,” mused the other girl, “that the men of Aguinaldo will drive these Americanos out of Manila if they do not go of their own accord soon.”
Simplicia laughed scornfully, and pointed toward the troops. The men were in battalion front, standing at “present,” and the sun glistened on a thousand bayonets.
“But there are only a few Americanos and there are many thousands of Filipinos,” said the girl.
“The Americanos will take what they want and nothing can stop them,” announced Simplicia, decisively. “Let us go to our cascos.”
The twilight gathered on the river. In the north the sky was lit by continuous flashes of lightning. Myriads of stars were overhead, and the Southern Cross was viceroy of the heavens, for the moon had not yet come into her kingdom. The water noisily gurgled by, and Simplicia waited. Which would come first, the tedious Filipino school-master lover or the stranger? Would the Americano come again?
She watched every canoe that passed, but they were all going up or down. The moon appeared and clearly revealed the river’s surface. Simplicia fixed her eyes on the shadow of the Cuartel Infanteria. Something emerged from it and glided rapidly through the stream. It was a canoe, and it was being paddled with strong, sure strokes toward her. Her heart beat tumultuously, and she almost cried out in her delight.
He came, and, fastening his canoe, swung himself aboard the casco. Her arms were about his neck in an instant, and her beautiful tresses escaped the comb again.
They sat in the shade of the nipa thatch talking in low tones. His arm was round her waist. Her head rested on his shoulder. He puffed with deep breaths of enjoyment a cigarette that she had daintily lit for him. The intoxication of the country was in his brain—the devil that whispers, “There is nothing but pleasure, and no time but now.”
The plunk-plunk of a guitar close by startled them both. Simplicia trembled violently.
“It is a foolish man who is always singing to me,” she explained.
A clear, musical voice rose in a song, and the soldier checked a question to listen, for the voice and the song charmed him from the first note. The song was in Spanish, and, though he was by no means perfect in the language, he caught the meaning and spirit of it. It ran something to this effect:
Bright are the leaves and the blossoms that grow in the beautiful lake country,
They fill the place with brilliance of things celestial.
Some of them drop or are thrown to the river,
Helpless they drift on its swift running surface.
Down past the city through sliminess foul,
Out they are whirled to waters eternal
Lost and forgotten forever and ever.
Blossom I cherish; I’ll hold thee.
Never shalt thou leave the lake country.
But my heart, it is sad for the leaves on the Pasig.
The last words died on the air like the sob or the faint cry of a passing spirit. The soldier sat mute, like one bewitched by fairy music. Simplicia’s lips, pressed against his cheek, brought him back to her.
“I do not care for him. On my soul, I do not!” she whispered. She was pretty, and her arm tightened coaxingly about his neck. His better nature was conquered, and the devil in his blood reigned supreme. The situation suddenly seemed highly amusing, and he laughed a suppressed laugh of recklessness. To be serenaded by a native poet while the arm of the troubadour’s lady-love encircled his neck—verily he would have a great tale to tell some day.
There was a faint sound of a footfall on the deck of the casco. The soldier disengaged himself. A face peeped in through an opening in the thatch, and the American struck it a sharp blow with his fist. He would have rushed after the intruder, but Simplicia held him.
“It is only a foolish man,” she said, “do not follow him. It would make trouble.”
“I would not bring you any trouble,” he said. “What is the matter? You tremble.”
“It is nothing,” she replied. “I love you.”
The soldier’s conscience smote him. He swore that he loved her, and tried to believe that it was true. She seemed almost happy again.
“To-morrow the casco goes up to the lake again, and we will be gone three days. Oh, that is so long!”
“Very long,” he assented.
“But you will wait and think of me always.”
“Yes, I will watch the leaves on the river——”
She shuddered.
“No! no! Do not speak of them. Madre de Dios! I hate the river, and I hate the leaves it drags along. I think I hate everything but you.”
The soldier was young, and this was his first experience with hysteria and woman, which combination often disturbs even wiser heads. It disturbed him exceedingly, but he soothed her finally with the wildest vows and many kisses. He kissed a tress of her long hair as he stepped from the casco’s poling platform into his canoe.
For the second time she watched the canoe till it glided into the shadows. Then she shivered violently, chilled to the bone.
A sergeant of a certain regiment of United States volunteers was prowling along the brink of the Pasig, outside the Cuartel Infanteria’s walls, looking for a pet monkey that had disappeared. Something in the long grass caught his eye, and he stopped. He stepped back quickly and hurried around the corner of the wall, returning with four soldiers.
He parted the grass with his arms, and they saw the dead body of a Filipino girl. Her face was concealed by a disordered mass of black hair, and, pinned to her breast by a rudely fashioned knife that was buried to the hilt, was a miniature insurgent flag.
They tenderly bore the body to the pathway, and the hair fell from the face. One of the soldiers let go his hold and tottered to the ground.
“Harrison’s a softy,” grunted one of the men. “Take hold, sergeant. He’s fainted, I guess.”
The form was placed in an unused storeroom. When the news went round the men came to view it, not out of curiosity, but to show respect such as they would pay to their own dead.
“This is the way I make it out,” said the sergeant, sagely. “The girl was killed by Aguinaldo’s gang, and it must have been because she spoke a good word for our people.”
“And we’ll take it out of their hides when the time comes,” said one of the soldiers, snapping his jaws together, which resolution the regiment unanimously adopted. Even the chaplain refrained from chiding when he heard of it. He knew his flock.
There being no way of finding out anything about the girl, a fund was quickly collected and arrangements made for the funeral. Several hundred soldiers followed the hearse to the cemetery at El Paco.
The regimental chaplain read the regulation burial service, while the men stood with bared heads. They placed at the head of the freshly made mound a plain board that read:
FOUND IN THE PASIG.
After the last soldier had gone, a cowering thing walked unsteadily up to the grave, and, kneeling beside it, laid down a cluster of green leaves.
“By God! I did love her. I did,” he muttered, continuously. He drew a pencil from his pocket and scratched her name on the board: “Simplicia.”
And his youth was buried there.