WILLIAM LLEWELLYN ADAMS (continued 3)

This was one of the most interesting sights I have ever seen; the progress these natives made was wonderful; besides, each seemed to be getting a great deal of enjoyment out of life. It reminded me of calisthenics in the navy, where they execute the movements of their exercise to the strains of a familiar march.

It was nearly time for the rainy season, and we were making our last circuit. Cholera was prevalent throughout the Island of Luzon, and in many instances smallpox had been reported. A “Division” order made it a court-martial offence for any soldier in the jungle to drink water that had not been boiled. This order, however, was not very stringently adhered to. Reports of deaths from cholera were received daily, in many instances soldiers being the victims. Whenever we found it convenient to boil water we did, but never went thirsty waiting for boiled water.

About three o’clock one scorching afternoon we struck a trail in a remote section of the San Madre Mountains which indicated that cartellos drawn by caribous made daily

I suggested to him that we select a place at once and spread canvas. To this he acquiesced, and ordered me to take a Filipino and follow the trail until I reached a place of shelter suitable for the pitching of a camp. With one of my cargadores, “Blinky” (with whom I had just had a scrap for paring potatoes with a bolo), I hit the trail, and had covered about one mile when my eyes fell on a bamboo shack which appeared to be unoccupied. On investigation I found it to be an unusually fine casa for this mountain district. I found earthenware olios filled with water, dry wood, and a stone grate, but no sign of any occupants. Tearing a leaf from my note-book, I informed

A fire having been made, the coffee was put on to boil, the natives pared the potatoes, while I sliced the bacon and opened several cans of corn and salmon. The salmon was served to the Filipinos with rice. After a hearty supper by candle-light, cigarettes were smoked, blankets spread on the bamboo floor, and we all stretched out for a good night’s sleep.

The advance guard of the typhoon had arrived; a terrific wind, which whistled through the palms and nippa-roof, threatened at times to carry our shack away. Deep peals of thunder reverberated from the aerial regions, while dangerous flashes of blazoned lightning tore through the celestial firmament. “A nice night for a murder,” remarked Corporal “Free,” of the Sixth Cavalry. There was little sleep that night, which was evidenced in the morning by the numerous sacks of “Bull Durham” that lay scattered on the floor.

The storm continued throughout the following day, abating on toward midnight. The following morning deep gullies were worn in the soil, streams were flooded, while the drooping palms presented a scene of picturesque desolation. Overhead the fleecy clouds hovered round the blazing sun which cast its rays through the spice-laden atmosphere.

Having walked some distance from the hacienda, I heard off in the mountains that familiar guttural accent of a cochero driving a caribou; I listened, and he gradually grew closer. On his arrival I found him to be a Filipino with a load of sugarcane and bananas, en route to Malolos. Being curious to know why this substantial home was unoccupied, I inquired in Spanish from this man, who informed me, with great stress, that no natives could be induced to live here, as the entire family, the occupants, had fallen victims to the dreaded cholera. Well, right here I felt as though I was on my journey across the river Styx. Shortly after, on meeting the lieutenant, I said to him, “Lieutenant, has it not aroused your

We returned to headquarters just in time to escape the rainy season. Here we spent weeks in idleness, playing cards, reading, and occasionally I would run up to Malolos by rail, then engage a caromato to convey me to Montao to see Carmen Lemaire. Sometimes the river was so swollen by the

Rudyard Kipling, whose “Barrack-ballads” are favorites in the army and navy, describes in mililoquent tones incidents appertaining to the “Far East,” in “On the Road to Mandalay,” from which I quote:

The last occasion on which I saw her was on the eve of my departure for the United States. In a “victoria” accompanied by two University classmates, she called at my quarters in Ft. William McKinley, where I joined them for a ride to the haunts of my old marine days, in the village of San Ruki, near Cavite. Among old friends and the ever-predominant harp and guitar, I enjoyed the fascinations of their quaint moonlight “fiesta.”

The drive homeward to Manila under the shades of night, through the “barrios” of Bacoor, Paranacque, and Pasay, with the wavelets of the sombre bay breaking on the sandy beach, was one of imposing grandeur that will ever remain vivid when my mind reverts to tropical sublimity.

At a dinner party on the roof-garden of the Hotel “Oriente” this night, I bade Señorita Lemaire farewell.

XIII.

Cock-Fighting, the National Sport of the Philippines

Training of the Birds—​Mains by Electric Light—​Aristocracy Patrons of the Arena—​Chinese “Book-makers”—​Filipino Touts—​Flower Girls—​The “Pit”—​The Strike of the Game Birds—​The Crucial Moment—​Game to the Last—​Honest Sport.

The national sport of the natives of the Philippine Islands is cock-fighting. From infancy the Filipino takes to this line of sport, as a duck takes to water, and he early acquires the art of heeling and training the bird which is sooner or later to increase his wealth or perhaps send him back to the drudgery of the rice-fields, where he must eke out an existence and little by little accumulate sufficient to back another favorite chanticleer in his efforts to recover from his sorrowful state of depression, as a Filipino will bet all on his favorite game-bird.

The enthusiasm these people manifest around the pit during a main is akin to that of the Spaniards and Mexicans during a bull-fight. For weeks before a battle the bird is dieted, his claws and beak are manicured, feathers cropped, and plume trimmed. Its weight requires either increasing or diminishing, as the case may be, and it is handled with the care of the tots in a baby incubator.

Every village or barrio in the Philippines has its cockpit, the most pretentious of these being found in the villages of Caloocán and San Pedro Macati, surrounding the city of Manila. Here, in a large well-ventilated arena, can be found gathered together night after night, not only a motley crowd of peasants from the rice-fields of the interior, but the up-to-date business people of the “Escolta” and the aristocracy of the old walled city, whose gorgeous victorias before sundown roll gracefully along the Luneta, to the music of the Constabulary Band. These mains are conducted under the glare of electricity with the same success as by the light of day. Chinese, who are born gamblers,

The pests of the American race-track known as touts and rail-birds are also in evidence here. One of these will approach you asking which is your favorite bird, invariably telling you he has a sure thing and that to bet any other way would be “mucho malo.” You bet on his advice, and he leaves you, meets another easy mark, and tells him to bet just the opposite to the way he advised you. This fellow is a sure winner, as one of the birds must win and his nightly rake-off is a stout roll.

The price of admission is una peseta, or ten cents (gold). Near the entrance to the “pit” is a bamboo stand where cigars, cigarettes,

As the time approaches for the main, an old bald-headed veteran of the cocking main enters the screened pit, which is about the size of a “Marquis of Queensberry” prize-ring, and announces the beginning of the evening’s performance; he is loudly cheered by the gamesters of the arena. This is followed by the entrance of the owners with their birds.

The noise, which up to this time has been violent, here breaks into a paroxysm of tumultuous disorder. Each spectator is yelling for his favorite bird, which he designates by its color; this singsong chatter, being a jumble of the Spanish, Tagalog, and Chinese tongues, runs like this: Color row, color row, blanco, Ki tim chung a wong, blanco, blanco, Ki tim chung a wong, negro,

As the battle is waged, each bird seems conscious of the dire effects of the fatal blade of its adversary; they strut, crouch, and spar, each with eyes intent on the slightest move of the other. “Mucho bueno combati este negro,” shouts the Filipino as the red fowl narrowly escapes a lunge from the spur of the black. “Negro, negro, buena negro minok,” shout the backers of the black fowl, which, unlike in the case of the opponents in a prize-fight, the applause tends to intimidate, rather than inspire

“Aha!” is uttered in crescendo. They have struck; feathers fly over the pit, and blood flows from the red fowl; they strike again, the red bird limps, and is seen to run, followed by the black, which is bleeding profusely from a gash hidden by its feathers; this brings forth tremendous cheers, which, however, die down as the crucial moment is observed. “Can it come back?” Both are weakening; the red game turns, with that blind spontaneity and instinct animated by fear; they crouch and strike together; a spur has reached the vital spot; the black swoons, its vital functions have ceased, and the battle is at an end. As the red fowl is proclaimed the winner, it is seen to sink, game to the last

“They are dead game chickens,” remarks a soldier as they are carried from the pit. Bets are now paid off, and the pit is sprinkled with fresh sand, new wagers are laid, and the main continues.

Cock-fighting in the Philippines is honest sport; there is no such thing as throwing the game as in a prize-fight, or pulling a horse as in racing. The fowls are usually so evenly matched that there is little of advantage in either one, from which to choose a preference, the book-makers in almost every case relying on their good fortune.

These mains are the most popular sport in the islands, and, in consequence of the honest methods of the promoters in conducting them, have been carried on for ages without cessation or municipal interference, such as is sometimes waged against bull-fighting, horse-racing, and prize-fighting in other countries.

The very atmosphere of the Philippines attracts you to these large nippa and bamboo arenas, and it seems you involuntarily

XIV.

Departure of the 29th Infantry from the Philippines

Brigade Headquarters, Ft. Wm. McKinley—​Afloat on the Pásig River—​Quarantine at Mariveles—​Liberty in Japan—​Across the Pacific—​Reception in Honolulu—​Greetings in “Frisco”—​Via Santa Fé to Governor’s Island.

It was midday in August, 1909, when the long chain of cascoes and steam-launches loaded with the three battalions and band of the Twenty-ninth Infantry swung into the rapids of the Pásig River to the strains of that dear old Southern melody, “My Old Kentucky Home,” leaving, as we floated with the current, many a heart-broken “mestizo” with her bandanna soaked in tears, wafting adieu to her “Americano soldado,” with whom she had had her last glide in the dance-halls of Guadeloupe. After a campaign of two years in a brigade post under the burning sun of the tropics,

The military rendezvous and scene of our departure was Fort William McKinley, situated on a plateau near the Pásig and Tagigue Rivers, overlooking the broad bay and city of Manila on the west, and the beautiful lake in the district of Laguna de Bay on the east. In close proximity was a branch line of the Manila and Dagupán Railroad, connecting the provincial territory between Manila and the village of Antipolo. In addition to the steam-train, a trolley system covered the government reservation, terminating in the barrio of Pásig.

At this post, brigade headquarters, the troops were housed in bungalow barracks, consisting of the Tenth United States Cavalry (colored), whose gallantry in Cuba in 1898 forever perpetuated the name of this courageous regiment of horse; the Twenty-ninth and Thirtieth regiments of infantry, the last additions to the infantry branch of

The Twenty-ninth Infantry, in command of Colonel H. K. Bailey, occupied the quarters in the southeast section of the post and nearest to the rifle-range. Each company was quartered separately, in barracks identical with those of the British army in India. These quarters were spacious two-story buildings with large apertures through which the cool currents of air from the China Sea fanned in gentle breeze.

Excellent shower-baths and a laundry, presided over by two Chinese, were valuable adjuncts that contributed to the accommodations of the men. Each morning on awakening, the soldier found, arranged in uniformity under his cot, his several pairs of garrison russet, gymnasium, light marching order, and civilian shoes, polished to a high degree of excellency; placed there by the “Oriental knights of the zapatos,” two

The amusement-hall contained a well-stocked library of the most popular editions, a billiard-table, and a phonograph, so that the rainy season was seldom unwelcomed by the soldier.

Large verandas shaded by clinging vines surrounded these bungalows, and in the evening, when not perambulating with the procession through the health-giving ozone of the Luneta or cajoling the birds at a favorite cockpit, it was a pleasure to lounge in a sedan chair with a mild Manila perfecto, and listen to the entrancing excerpts from some favorite opera, as beautifully rendered by the Twenty-ninth Infantry band.

Fort McKinley is separated from Manila along the riverside “speedway” by seven miles of macadamized road, over which during the dry season vehicles of all descriptions roll, from the two-wheeled caromato to the high-power limousine. This famous driveway is the “Ormond Beach” of the “Far

As the old Santa Anna Cathedral, with its vine-clad balustrades falling to decay, appears in the scene, looming in magnetic amplitude over the verdant foliage of tropical

Inflamed with sudden passion you stand transfixed along the balustrade with a mixed Varium et mutabile semper femina. “What’s the use?” you murmur, as you spring into the vehicle and order the cochero to hurry the ponies. In twenty minutes’ time you alight under the canopy of the entrance to the Hotel “Oriente” in Manila, step on the “lift,” and soon find you are amid the soothing strains of an orchestra and the sheltering palms of the roof-garden, tête à tête with your cheerful friends of the tropics.

* * * * *

Though many thousand miles from home, the prospects of soon fraternizing with

If there is a more isolated spot on the top of God’s green earth than this resort is, my conception of hell is very vague. At one time the rendezvous of Chinese pirates, Mariveles later became a Chinese stockade. The Spaniards used it as an outpost. Here at night the soldiers were cooped up like cattle, always welcoming the dawn, when they could at least roam and breathe fresh air. Some distance in the mountains, in the crater of an extinct volcano, a hot mineral spring with an elegant outlet afforded splendid opportunities for bathing. Swimming in the bay was also great pastime, and under the tutorage of Captain Wells, who inaugurated

After spending two weeks insulated from civilization, during which time we had undergone a process of fumigation, our transport, the Thomas, hove in sight, and was soon moored to the wharf. Little time was spent in storing our accoutrements of war on board. After each company had been assigned to its quarters, the signal to cast loose was given; we had at last commenced our homeward-bound voyage in earnest.

With the homeward-bound pennant flying in the breeze, the transport steamed through the “Mona-Chica” into the China Sea headed for Japan. The shrill click, click, of the wireless telegraph, receiving and transmitting messages, continued throughout the voyage. Occasionally excitement was caused by the sight of a whale; “There she blows!” and you see off the port-side a monstrous species of the mammal genus cruising and spouting like a Holland submarine.

On the spar-deck of the transport could be heard: “Come on, fellows, give us a bet; loosen up and take a chance; Steve Brodie did; when this war is over we’ll start another; come, soldiers, get on the field; double up; you’re sure to win some time.” About this time a soldier, who has put some “dealer” to the bad, grabs the dice and yells: “How much money have you got? I’ll tap your pile. Ninety dollars! Throw the bones.” As this gamester skilfully manipulates the dice which he rattles in his hand, and blows on for good luck, he affectionately remarks, “Bones! don’t refuse me this time; you’ve been good to me, old pals.” He rolls the dice and throws a ten. “Two to one he don’t ten; I’ve got you covered,” is heard on the side lines; another throw is made, a four this time, and bets are made on the side, that he comes. In the parlance of the soldier, the “bones” are talking friendly; as the dice roll over the green cloth for the third time, a six and four turns up; “Ten she is!” he

“Two bits he comes”; this is the tantalizing epithet directed at a fellow whose death-like form hangs over the taffrail a victim of sea-sickness.

Games are numerous on an army transport, everything from “keno” to “faro,” and this greatly breaks the monotony of the voyage. Every evening the regimental band discourses music, and dancing is indulged in. There are always plenty of girls who accompany the officers’ families as domestics (all colors, of course); these afford partners for the soldiers, and maybe there isn’t some class to the “rag”; everything goes, from the “barn-dance” to the “Frisco dip.”

A prize-fight is advertised between a “chocolate soldier” and a “pale-face.” Every man in uniform buys a ticket, the returns from which go to make up a purse for the winner. There are no Turkish baths taken to reduce weight, no skipping the rope or punching the bag to improve the respiratory organs; this was completed before leaving

As the transport approaches the Island of Hondo, soldiers are seen polishing their ornaments and buttons, pressing their uniforms, and making general preparations for a visit in Nagasaki. The conversation drifts to the way they are to spend their shore leave. “The first thing I do is to visit the bazaar,” remarks a soldier; “I want to buy a satsuma dinner set for my sister Peggy and a silk kimono for my sweetheart, some lacquer ornaments inlaid with mother-of-pearl,

On arrival at Nagasaki, a fleet of Japanese war-vessels lay off our port bow. After anchoring, preparations were made to give the boys shore liberty; as we were to remain two days in this port, while the natives coaled the ship, it was decided to let one-half of the regiment go ashore each day.

“Japs” with sampans laden with curios and fruit surrounded the ship; these were exchanged for money by the soldiers, and

The quarantine inspection in Japan is very rigid, which no doubt accounts for the excellent health of the race and the sanitary condition of the country.

As the call, “Lay aft, all the liberty party,” was piped by the boatswain, soldiers riled down the gangway and boarded launches, tugs, and sampans, and were at once conveyed to the “Land of the Rising Sun,” tea-houses, and chrysanthemums.

On reaching the wharf hundreds of Japanese jinrickshaw-men were in line, waiting to haul the Americans to any part of the city. Every “rickshaw” on the beach was immediately engaged, and away we went through the streets of Nagasaki, visiting bazaars, theatres, temples, pagodas, museums, and tea-houses. An unfortunate thing happened to a friend of mine while being hauled along the “Bund.” There were perhaps forty “rickshaws” in line, each contesting for the lead, when on turning a curve the “rickshaw” in front of mine broke down, precipitating my friend into the dust.

As our shore leave expired at 8 A.M., every fellow was getting the best out of the hours that were speeding by, as he knew there would be many monotonous days to spend on the Pacific Ocean before reaching Honolulu.

In tea-houses on the outskirts of the city, groups of soldiers sat and watched the geisha-girls do the “serpentine” to the music of “samisens,” their graceful forms presenting a novel spectacle, draped in flowing silk kimonos, as seen through a veil of cigarette smoke.

Next morning when the roll was called aboard the transport, a large percentage of the “liberty-party” was absent, and it became necessary to send out a patrol to round up the soldiers. As a result of this celebration, there were innumerable court-martials en route to the Hawaiian Islands, with fines ranging from five to twenty-five dollars.

Our voyage across the Pacific was uneventful. The weather was extremely calm, the horizon appearing as a circular brink of a tremendous cataract, over which the surging billows thundered in pensive solitude. An occasional albatross was sighted winging its flight through the aerial regions. Under the leeward shrouds, groups of soldiers congregated, spinning yarns or playing at cards, while others on the windward side inhaled the health-giving ozone of the salt-sea breeze. A Japanese mail-steamer, and several merchant marines were sighted from our course, en route to points in Australia and the Orient.

Several hours before our arrival in Honolulu, it was whispered about the deck that our shore privileges were to be restricted, and, sure enough, the disappointment was realized, due, it was said, to those who had overstayed their privileges in Japan. To be kept a prisoner in Mariveles was bad enough, but to be prevented from mingling

The wharf was studded with people, mostly tourists and native venders, though a large concourse of officers’ families had come to greet their relatives. As the gangway was lowered, the band struck up an inspiring air, and only those who have seen an American transport loaded with soldiers returning home from that far-off jungle land, the Philippines and Sulu, can form any conception

Vendors of beautiful wreaths of flowers, curios, and succulent fruit greet the visitor on all sides. These flower wreaths are worn around the band of the hat and around the neck; they are a traditional necessity, without which you are staged, in this city of the Pacific, in a class by yourself.

Pineapples, pineapples, pineapples, everywhere you look; the most delicious pineapples in the world come from Hawaii, the bulk of the exportation to the United States being marketed along the Pacific slope.

The shore privileges of the battalion being restricted, we had to be content with taking observations from the taffrail. I had been to Honolulu several times while in the navy, and had stopped here en route to the islands with the Twenty-ninth Infantry, so that I naturally felt disappointed at my inability to go ashore,—​so much, in fact, that I decided to eradicate the feeling at the risk of a court-martial.

Having anticipated making a social call, besides expecting mail addressed to the

On the strength of being a non-commissioned officer, I thought that perhaps a diplomatic hand played judiciously might have some weight with the colonel.

Investing myself in a fresh-laundried suit of war-clothes, with carefully wound puttees, I approached without dismay headquarters, and with the determination, if rebuffed, to await complacently the first opportunity for smuggling myself ashore, when presently I heard my name being called out near the gangway. Hastening in this direction, I found a Hawaiian messenger with a note for me. Hastily tearing open the envelope, the missive read as follows: “My dear Mr. A——, We are friends of your cousin May; call up 091 Aloho Lane immediately.” Had I received my mail from Young’s Hotel, I would have understood Allen.”

The boy departed (after I had tipped him on keeping his counsel), leaving me meditating on how I was to get ashore.

My experience in the navy was helping me wonderfully, when something occurred demanding immediate action, an unforeseen exigency in the shape of another messenger. This time it was the first mate of the transport Thomas, Mr. Worth, who, to add to my chain of humiliating circumstances, informed

In a few moments I had scaled the ladder to the promenade deck, where I met the jolliest trio of femininity it has been my pleasure to commune with. They told me what great friends they were of my cousin, of her writing them of my departure from the Philippines, of the explanatory letter awaiting me at Young’s Hotel, and all about the big touring-car awaiting us at the pier, et cetera. Two of these ladies were perfect types of Hawaiian beauty, Vassar

I was aware that my cousin had spent the previous winter in Honolulu, and understood, from the message, that she had written her friends of my home-coming via the Hawaiian Islands on the transport Thomas, so that an apology for my failure to comply with the request in the message could hardly be avoided. So it became imperative that I disclose the facts in connection with the deprivation of our shore leave,—​how we overstayed our liberty in Japan, and the denial of my presence on board the transport. Being jolly good fellows, these ladies considered this predicament a great joke, as they had visited Japan, and I presume knew the irresistible fascinations of the “Flowery Kingdom.” But that was neither here nor there: they had come on board to take me ashore, and ashore I must go.

The people in question are warm friends of a particular friend of mine, a globe-trotter (address, United States of America) whose

Through the courtesy of Mr. Worth, the privilege of his cabin was extended; here the party was served with ice-cold “Three Star” mineral-water, and here my departure from the ship was planned with great success.

After escorting the ladies to the gang-plank, promising to write, and bidding them a farewell, I repaired to my quarters, invested myself in a civilian suit of white duck, and was lowered over the side of the vessel

Our ride included the ever-beautiful Pali Drive, a magnificent boulevard shaded by the bowery maze of the banyan-tree, a run to Diamond Head Beach, a spin along Fort Street, the business section, and the “King’s Highway.” After refreshments on the roof-garden of the Alexander Young Hotel, where I received my mail, we drove to 091 Aloho Lane, the home of these charming people; here, surrounded by tropical luxuriance,

In the evening about sundown the party, having increased, journeyed to Waikiki Beach, the popular bathing resort. Here, at the Moana Hotel, we joined in a genuine native “luau,” heard “Sunny Chunna” sing her famous compositions, and later joined in the merry whirl to the music of the Hawaiian Band. Near this famous winter resort we journeyed into a gayety hall, where a string of Hawaiian beauties, festooned in garlands of flowers, performed the “Hulu Hulu” dance, rivalling in vivaciousness the whirlwind contortions of our valiant Ruth St. Denis.

After a midnight lunch at the Hotel Moana, the party returned to the city. A motor-boat conveyed me to the transport, which, fortunately, was boarded without difficulty.

Next morning on board the transport I

Honolulu, on the Island of Oahu, is the most beautiful section of the earth I have visited; the climate varies little, and it can be more properly termed a temperate clime than tropical, although tropical vegetation is indigenous. Kilauea, on the eastern slope of Mauna Loa mountain, is the loftiest and most active volcano in the world, its crater being nine miles in circumference. Mauna Loa has an altitude of nearly fourteen thousand feet and is covered with perpetual snow.

A few hours before the departure of the transport for “Frisco,” “Jack” London, the writer, arrived in the harbor on the Snark, a twenty-four foot schooner, in which he was making a tour of the globe. As the ship cast loose from the pier, it was with a feeling of regret that I had to leave this delightful country and such amiable people. Wafting an Aloho to my friends and their country, we departed for the American en route, the second day out, an American fleet of war-vessels. As the transport approached the city of the “Golden Gate” in the darkness of the night, myriads of lights glittered along the distant shore.

Steaming through the channel, we entered the bay in the break of the early morning. Off the starboard side stood the grand old landmark the Cliff House, overlooking the bay and city of San Francisco; on the port side, Fort McDowell and the old Island prison, San Quentin. After docking at the pier, relatives and friends of the soldiers were permitted on board, shore leave was granted, and the boys roamed at will through the city that had recently risen from a mass of ruins, caused by the telluric flames that followed the dreadful earthquake of 1906.

Three days were pleasantly spent in “Frisco” ere the regiment departed for the Atlantic coast in three sections, over the Santa Fé Railroad, the First and Second battalions for Forts Porter and Niagara, N. Y., the Third battalion, non-commissioned staff, and band for Governor’s Island,

Governor’s Island is a small island situated at the junction of the East River and New York Bay. It is connected with Battery Park, near South Ferry, by a government ferry-boat, which makes a trip between the island and South Ferry every half-hour. The island was first settled by the Dutch in 1614. When the English took New York in 1684, they built Ft. Columbus, the present site of Ft. Jay. Castle William, facing the harbor, was completed in 1810. It is used at present as a military prison.

Besides the palatial residence of the commanding general of the Department of the East, there are various buildings in which the business of this department is transacted; also homes of the officers, barracks of the soldiers, chapel, library, post exchange, quartermaster’s supply depot, the officers’ club, and a museum containing relics of wars dating back to the revolution. Here may be

Corbin Hall, a pretentious building adjoining the old chapel and facing the parade-ground, is the site of the officers’ club, and contains a sumptuous ball-room, which is frequently the scene of gorgeous military display. Through the courtesy of the Officers’ Club, the use of this magnificent ball-room was tendered the Fort Jay Social Club every Thursday evening, when mirth and good-fellowship reigned. During my incumbency in office as secretary of this club, I found it necessary to pass unfavorably on scores of written applications for invitations to these affairs, due solely to the fact that, each member of the club being allowed four invitations, it was impossible to accommodate more than the prescribed quota. I mention this fact to show the popularity of these dances, and in conjunction as a general apology to those to whom invitations were not forthcoming.

These weekly dances had the true brass-button effect, strictly military. The Twenty-ninth Infantry band furnished the music, the grand-march being invariably led by Chaplain Smith of Governor’s Island, accompanied by a budding debutante, blithe and fair; these were followed by the gay and graceful belles of Gotham, each on the arm of a stalwart soldier appearing at his best. During the intermission refreshments were served in the communicating apartments.

The use of the ferry was cordially extended to the New York patrons of the dance, who could step off the boat almost into the subway, where an express could be had for all points in New York, Brooklyn, and Jersey City.

The close proximity of Governor’s Island to the city bearing the proverbial appellation “Gotham” affords excellent opportunity to the soldiers for seeing the sights of a great metropolis. Every evening soldiers in civilian attire leave the island, and on entering the subway are soon lost sight of in this beehive of humanity. There are few items in the calendar of joy which the soldier overlooks,

If perchance, at the close of a drama or burletta, you wander through the “tenderloin” and casually stroll into “Maxim’s,” “Murray’s,” or “Martin’s,” you are apt to see him tête à tête with his sweetheart, dining table-d’hôte; or hail a “taxi” and spin over to the Café Boulevard, across to “Terrace Garden,” up to the “Haymarket,” down to “Little Hungary,” or a variety of other amusement halls, and there you will find him with bells on, in close communion with some favorite chorus satellite, of perhaps the “Folies Bergere,” whose grace along the “Rialto” brooks no competition, whose gowns and ostrich-plumes are the envy of Parisian salons and the pride of “Redfern’s” modistes, and whose long suite is the importance she attaches to her connoisseurship of the best things in life. Yes, there he is attracted like the moth to the flame.

During the summer evenings it is a most inspiring sight to witness the lowering of the colors, drooping slowly with the trumpet’s

My enlistment having expired at Governor’s Island, March 2, 1910, I was discharged from the army of the United States.

THE END.

Transcriber’s Note:

This book was written in a period when many words had not become standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. Dialect, obsolete words and misspellings were left unchanged.