The close of the eventful year of 1898 was near at hand. General Otis had been made governor-general of the islands. He had received about 15,000 troops from home. These had all been landed and were quartered in the city of Manila.

Preparations had begun by the American troops for a great day of field sports to be held on the Luneta—a beautiful narrow park paralleling Manila bay and extending southward from the walled-city about four miles—on New Year’s day, 1899.

On the afternoon of January I, as planned, the exercises were begun. The afternoon program consisted of foot races, running high jumps, wheelbarrow race, fat man’s race, running broad jump, high kicking, fancy club swinging, tumbling, shot-put, sack race, tugs of war, five boxing contests, base ball, foot ball, and pole vaulting.

Situated on the Luneta, about a mile south of the walled city, and distant from Manila bay about 100 feet, is a large bandstand. This served as headquarters for the exercises. The day was perfect—clear, cool and calm.

About 2:00 P.M. over 40,000 natives, soldiers (including jack-tars from Dewey’s fleet, Spaniards and Americans) and foreign residents had assembled around this bandstand to hear the Address of Welcome and to witness the sports. When the speaker arose to deliver the address, for which he was afterward voted, and presented with, a medal by the Eight Army Corps, he said in part (verbatim report):

“On behalf of these committeemen who have spared no efforts to make these Field Day Exercises a success, and this occasion one long to be remembered by those who have assembled here this afternoon, I bid you, one and all—officers, soldiers, sailors and civilians of every nationality—a hearty welcome.”

“Again to you, the members of Admiral Dewey’s fleet, I feel obligated to extend a separate and special welcome; for without your chivalrous devotion to duty last May Day, yon shell-riven wrecks (part of unraised Spanish fleet visible above the bay) would not bespeak the down-fall of a sister nation, and we ourselves would not have been permitted to assemble here this afternoon. There is no braver man on land or sea than the American marine; and on behalf of the entire American army of occupation, I bid you a most cordial welcome.”

Touching upon the question of territorial expansion, the speaker said:

“This was a war for humanity, not for conquest. But simply because it suddenly closed and left us in possession of large tracts of new territory, is no reason why these spoils of war should be given up. I hold this to be true Americanism: that wherever the old flag is established through sacrifice of American blood, whether it be on the barren sands of the desert, at the frigid extremes of the earth, or on the rich and fertile islands of the sea, there is should remain triumphant, shedding forth beams of liberty to the oppressed, shouts of defiance to the oppressor, and furnish protection and enlightenment to all who come beneath its streaming folds forever!” (applause).

A chubby Filipino maiden, standing near the speaker’s stand, and who had listened intently to every word of the address, because she now understood the English tongue, quietly elbowed her way through the dense crowd which was gradually becoming more compressed, until she reached a car drawn by two Chinese ponies on the old street car line running south from Manila to Fort Malate and back. Taking the car she rode up town to the Escolta. Going into the postoffice, she hastily wrote and mailed to Aguinaldo at Malolos a letter containing an account of what was said. It follows:

The evening program on the Luneta, which followed the afternoon exercises, was largely literary in its nature. It consisted of music by the California band, singing by the famous Washington Male Quartet, fancy dancing, selected recitations, and stump speeches. In addition, Privates Green and Martin boxed four rounds, much to the satisfaction of the natives.

The program had just been completed when the Master of Ceremonies received from the American general in charge a note telling him to announce the conclusion of the program at once and to order all soldiers to report immediately at their respective regimental headquarters;—trouble had been reported at the out-posts. Reinforcements were hastened to several of the out-post reserves, and it appeared that the expected insurrection was at hand.

After the out-break by the Filipinos on New Year’s night, it was evident to both sides that it was only a question of a short time when blood would be spilled in abundance. The Filipinos occupied all of the block-houses—some seventeen in number—around the city of Manila. This forced the Americans to stand in the open and do guard duty exposed.

The Filipino troops were saucy. They couldn’t understand why men should be armed with rifles and not be permitted to shoot. They tormented the American soldiers daily with hideous pranks. They grew bolder, and pushed their out-posts forward until they stood within a few feet of the American sentries.

Marie went out and back through the American lines at will. She secretly kept the Filipino army thoroughly posted on the arrival of new troops from America. Occasionally she would take the train and go up to Malolos to see Aguinaldo. She was the best posted person in the Philippines as to what was going on in each of the hostile armies. Nobody suspected her. She was respected by the American troops. Everybody came to know her.

Just before dusk, on the evening of February 4th, 1899, Marie and her mother left the city of Manila, in a cariole, drawn by a Chinese pony which they had recently purchased. They had in it all of their most precious household trinkets. As they passed Colonel John M. Stotsenberg, commanding the 1st Nebraska volunteers, stationed on McLeod’s hill at the eastern edge of Manila, he recognized them, and called to Marie, “Where are you going?”

“Out on a little trip,” retorted Marie.

“How soon will you be back?” asked he.

“O, I can’t tell,” responded Marie. “Mother is getting so nervous that we thought best to go away for awhile.”

“Say, Marie,” said the colonel, “do you know who the Filipino officer is in command of all those thousands of troops that are now assembling in the ravines between the hills along the far side of the river valley, yonder?”

“No, I do not,” she declared with an emphatic swing of her head.

But she was lying. It was Colonel Miguel, her own uncle. She knew about it. He had secretly informed her that he was preparing to attack the city and burn it and that he was going to exterminate the American army of occupation and all foreign residents that fell into the hands of his mighty army. He told her that he had chosen the east side of the city as his main point of attack, so that Dewey could not reach his troops with the shells from his gun boats in case he tried to assist the American army, without elevating his guns and shooting completely over the city—a thing wholly impractical within itself, as Dewey could not determine whether his shells would be falling among the Filipino or the American troops. It was he who advised her to take her mother and flee to the hills for refuge.

Colonel Stotsenberg then asked Marie if she knew anything about the proposed attack on the city by her people. This, she denied also. The colonel’s face flushed. Pulling back the flap of his tent, he said emphatically: “Do you see that gun, Marie? Tell those fellows over there when you pass their lines that I said they could have trouble whenever they want it.”

Marie drove on.

Inside the colonel’s tent stood a large gun from the Utah battery, mounted, loaded, ready for action; its threatening nose was pointed directly at the line of little brown men assembled across the valley. The Filipinos were smarting for trouble. They wanted it badly. Wherever and whenever possible they improved every opportunity to bring it about. The trouble came. Colonel Stotsenberg that night used the cannon he had pointed out to Marie. A long pile of mangled forms lying at the base of the river hills on the opposite of the valley next morning told the results.