On the evening of December 24, 1900,—one of those dark nights in the Philippines when the air seems so dense that you can almost take hold of it with your hands—when the heavy clouds blanket the earth so closely that the terrible thunders seem to shake the earth in its orbit, with the deep-toned diapason of their melody—when the lightening bugs flutter from twig to twig, revealing their lanterned wings—when the human heart beats with a conscious thump in anticipation of something awful—when those who are out alone whistle to give themselves courage—when the zigzag openings rent through the clouds by the vicious lightning flashes almost reveal Eternity;—Christmas Eve, that sacred occasion which we all celebrate and shall continue to celebrate till the end of time, to commemorate the birth of our Christ,—a sharp-eyed, dare-devil Filipino crept slowly out of the city of Ilagan along a foot-path toward the Americans’ camp about a mile north of that city.

When so near to the Americans that their out-posts were plainly visible during the flashes of lightning, the Filipino spy crept into a bamboo thicket not over fifty feet from an American sentry. After lying there for a half hour, waiting for the storm to come, the native grew a trifle bolder and arose to his knees. That moment the sharp eyes of the sentry caught him.

“Corporal of the Guard!” called the sentry in a loud voice.

The corporal, being suspicious that something unusual was taking place, in responding to the call took with him two armed privates.

Approaching the sentry, with light steps and in a crouching attitude, the corporal said in a heavy whisper, “What’s the matter, Jack?”

The sentry was standing with gun in hand, loaded, cocked, and with bayonet fixed. Keeping his eye centered on the exact spot where he had last seen the slowly gravitating figure before him, the guard said in an undertone that denoted grave alarm, “Do you see that thicket just to the left of that big mango tree?”

“Yes;” said the corporal in a whisper, “What’s the trouble?”

“There’s a man in there,” said the sentry. “I saw him quite plainly at first—and I think he’s got a gun in his hand. You better watch out, boys. He’s still there.”

The corporal and the two privates fixed the bayonets on their Krag-Jorgensons, filled the magazines, slipped a shell into the barrel of each rifle, cocked them, crouched close to the ground, some ten feet apart, and began to move forward, a step at a time, between the flashes of lightening. Each time it would flash, they would peer into the thicket. Each step brought them nearer.

“There he lies!,” said one of the privates in a quick out-spoken voice.

“Amigo,” (a friend) said the stretched-out form, as three guns were raised in unison with the anxious muzzles pointing directly at him.

“Este no quere combate” (you don’t desire to fight), said the corporal, in crude Spanish.

“Mucho amigo” (very friendly), came the reply.

“Vamose aque!” (come here), commanded the corporal.

With his eyes fixed in theirs, the Filipino raised himself slowly up and came toward the three Americans who stood but twelve feet away.

“Take him by the arms,” said the corporal to the two privates who were with him, “while I look behind that rice-dyke to see if he had a gun.”

“Here’s what the rascal was up to,” said the corporal, holding a Mauser above his head. “Good thing you saw him when you did, Jack.”

The storm was coming nearer; the first gust of wind had just struck them. It blew back the Filipino’s little checkered frock. The corporal saw a glitter.

“Watch out! boys, he’s got a machete under his coat,” said the corporal.

He was searched for more weapons and then marched inside the American lines and taken directly to headquarters. A drum-head court was convened at once and the prisoner led in.

With hands clinched, muscles taut, eyes piercing at the court, he listened to the reading of the charge:

“Caught acting as a spy for the enemy in violation of the Articles of War; armed, with intent to take the life of an American sentry on guard!”

After the testimony had been taken, the prisoner was given a chance to speak, but he absolutely refused to do so, even though addressed in several different languages and dialects.

“He spoke Spanish to us as we captured him,” interjected the corporal.

“GUILTY!”

said the lieutenant-colonel who was presiding, in a firm military tone. “The court fixes the penalty at death, and sentences the prisoner to be shot at sun-rise.”

“Remove him, Sergeant, and detail a firing squad to execute the order of the court!”

As the prisoner was led away, the lieutenant-colonel dropped his chin in the palms of his hands as he rested his elbows on his knees, and muttered in a semi-regretful way: “I hate to do it; but in the past we have always been so chicken-hearted about punishing these blood-thirsty natives that they have now come to regard our kindness as cowardice. I can’t help but feel that it will bring the war to a close quicker if we deal with them hereafter with a good firm hand.”

“I wonder what province the young fellow came from,” said a major who was sitting near.

“I really don’t know,” replied the lieutenant-colonel: “his face shows him to be a Tagalo. Certain it is that he didn’t come from Isabella province in which we are now campaigning. I wouldn’t be surprised if Aguinaldo were near here and if he had sent this young dare-devil to cut down our sentry, so as to make an attack upon us tonight during the storm.”

Toward morning the storm subsided. At day-break a comparatively shallow grave was hastily dug near the edge of a little bamboo thicket on a slightly elevated piece of ground. As the flickering rays of the tropical sun began to shoot above the pale, ashen-gray hue of the eastern horizon, the prisoner was led to the foot of his prospective tomb. The firing squad took its place in line.

The guns had been carefully loaded in advance for their deadly work; all but one contained blank cartridges. As usual, after loading, the guns were intermixed, so that no man might know which one contained the deadly bullet.

“Ready!” commanded the sergeant who had charge of the squad,—the corporal having taken his usual place in line with his men.

“Click,” went the hammers of the rifles in unison, as they were brought to a full cock.

“Aim!” came the next command in a firmer tone. The soldiers brought their rifles to their shoulders. Every barrel was pointed at the chest of the prisoner, who now for the first time, began to tremble and turn a sickly yellow.

“Fire!” commanded the sergeant.

“Bang!” went the united roar of the guns; and as the light powder smoke cleared away and the echoes reverberated through the woods of northern Luzon, the firing squad stepped forward to view their heroic dead.

A private jumped into the grave and turned the corpse over onto its back.

That night Frank W. Pugh, of the regular army, a member of this unfortunate firing squad, who died later at Fort Worth, Texas, of fever contracted in the Philippines, sitting in his little dog-tent, meditating, wrote in his diary, which is now preserved in the archives at Washington with other relics of the war, the following appropriate poem:

Marie Sampalit had earned her doom. After her grave had been filled, the soldier boys placed at its head a cartridge-box lid on which they inscribed the pitiful word,

“UNKNOWN.”