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.

The horror on the faces of his listeners made Piang pause, but they urged him on.

“Since we are headed toward Jekiri’s sanctum, I guess it behooves us to get all the dope goin’ about these fellows,” interjected a recruit.

Piang’s big, black eyes filled with mystery when he described how the juramentado rides to the abode of the blessed on a shadowy, white horse, taller than a carabao, just as dusk is falling. Indeed, he assured them that he had seen this very phenomenon himself and shivered at the recollection of the unnatural chill and damp that crept through the jungle while the spirit was passing.

“Bosh, Piang, you mustn’t believe those fairy tales now. You are a good American.”

“Sure, me good American, now,” grinned the boy.

There is nothing to differentiate the island of Basilan from the many others in the Sulu group. The natives seemed far from hostile, however, and Lieutenant Lewis remarked upon their docility to Sergeant Greer.

“Don’t let ’em fool you, sir; they’re not to be trusted,” he replied.

“Oh, Sergeant, I think we are all too scared of the dirty beggars. If we ever stop dodging them, they will stop lying in wait for us.”

The old man’s face did not reveal his misgivings, but he wondered where this young upstart would lead the men and inwardly cursed the war department for sending troops into the jungle under the command of a baby. He was soon to change his opinion of this particular “baby.”

Camp was pitched near the water’s edge in a tall cocoanut grove that supplied them with food and water as well as shade. The chores over, liberty was granted to explore the island. The sergeant shook his head; he seemed to feel the inexperience of the new officer and overstepped the bounds of discipline when he warned him again of the treachery of the natives, advising him to keep the men in camp.

“That will do, Sergeant,” replied the lieutenant. The old man stiffened into a salute, wheeled, and disappeared down the company street.

At sunset retreat was sounded, and after all the men had been accounted for, they gathered around the fires. Picturesque natives mingled with the jolly soldiers, bartering and arguing over trifling purchases. Through the warm fragrance, unfamiliar sounds kept reminding Lewis that he was far from home. The twilight deepened into night, and pipe in hand, he reviewed the strange scene. Folks at home were celebrating Christmas Eve. Somewhere the snow was falling, bells jingling, and a mother’s prayers were being whispered for the far-away boy in the Sulu jungle. Little Piang was squatting at his feet, silently watching the scene, happy because he was near his master. Suddenly the boy jumped up, dashed into the crowd, and yelled:

“Juramentado!”

A tall Moro, without any warning, had begun to shriek and whirl, cutting to and fro with his terrible campilan, and before any one could prevent, he had felled two troopers. With a howl, Lewis plunged into their midst, pistol leveled, but before he could pull the trigger, the Moro buried the sword in his own vitals and pitched forward, dead.

“See, another!” cried Piang.

Just in time a bullet from the lieutenant’s revolver silenced another deadly fanatic. They had slipped into the gathering, well concealed beneath enshrouding green sarongs, but Piang’s quick eye had detected them before they had a good start.

“Piang has saved us from a terrible row, boys,” said Sergeant Greer, and when the wounded were cared for, the rough soldiers tossed the graceful boy on their shoulders and paraded through the camp, much to the delight of the hero.

“I go to find the sultan to-morrow, sir?” asked Piang. “Him at Isabella, and I must give him Kali Pandapatan’s message.”

“Well, Piang, I am with you. I’m going to face that old codger and tell him what I think of his fiendish tricks of killing us off by this beastly juramentado, when he claims to be at peace with America.”

Lewis learned many things during the trip, and Piang delighted in guiding his friends through the jungle he loved so well, through the grass eight feet high, under trees laden with strange fruits. Monkeys were swinging in the trees chattering and scolding the intruders.

“You want monkey, sir?” asked Piang.

“Can you catch one without hurting it?”

“You watch Piang,” chuckled the boy. The others hid, and Piang struck a match. The tree, full of curious little people, shook as they scampered about trying to see what Piang was doing. He paid no attention to them, and as he struck match after match, they gradually crept nearer. Shielding the flame from the inquisitive creatures, he excited their curiosity until they were unable to resist, and soon one hopped to the ground. Another came, and another. Piang paid no attention to the visitors, continuing to hide the flame in his hands. Lewis almost spoiled it all by laughing outright, for it was indeed a ridiculous sight to see the little wild things consumed with curiosity. Walking upright, their funny hands dangling from the stiff elbows, they advanced. One venturesome little gray form clinging to the branch overhead by its tail, timidly touched Piang’s shoulder. It paused, touched it again, and finally confidently hopped upon it, all the while craning its neck, making absurd faces at the sulphur fumes. Two little arms went around Piang’s neck; a soft little body cuddled up against him, and all the while the monkey twisted and turned in its efforts to discover the mystery of the flame.

The click of a camera sounded like a gunshot in the intense stillness, and up the trees went the little band in a flash, all but the prisoner in Piang’s arms.

“Great, Piang,” called Lewis. “I hope the picture will be good, for it was the strangest sight I ever saw in my life.”

“Oh, me love monkeys,” replied the boy, stroking and soothing the frightened creature. “You want this one?”

“No, let the little beast off, I couldn’t bear to cage it up.” A banana and some sugar repaid the monkey for the experiment and after he was free, he followed the travelers, chattering and begging for sweets.

When they came to Isabella, capital of Basilan Island, Piang scurried off in search of the sultan. The men amused themselves watching the excitement they created. An American soldier is a wonderful and dreadful thing to these wild folk.

“The sultan, he out in other barrio. Me catchim.” This being interpreted meant that Piang would guide them to his house.

When they finally came to a clearing, Lewis wondered why Piang stopped in front of a filthy hut, half-way up two cocoanut-trees; he was impatient to be off, as he wanted to reach the sultan’s palace before dark. Piang was arguing with a dirty woman cleaning fish in the river.

“Piang, what’s the idea? Let’s get on,” impatiently said Lewis.

“This His Excellency Paduca Majasari Amiril Sultan Harun Narrasid’s house,” replied Piang with awe.

“Gee, what a name!” exclaimed Lewis. “And to go with that dugout, too. Say, Piang, I suppose we could call the old chap Pad for short?”

Piang grinned, but instantly went on his knees, head touching the ground as a sullen, dark face, a white scar slashed across the cheek, appeared at the opening.

“What does the beggar mean by that grunt, Sergeant?” asked Lewis.

“That’s the old boy himself, sir, wanting to know why you have disturbed his royal sleep.”

Lewis was dumfounded! This dirty, insignificant creature the sultan! He wanted to laugh, but the solemn little figure, prostrate before the man, made him say quietly:

“Piang, get up, I want you to talk to him.”

Timidly the boy raised his eyes to his august lord; another grunt seemed to give Piang permission, for he rose and faced Lewis.

“What you want Piang to say? Be careful. He not like joke and might chop off Americanos.”

Lewis realized it was no trifling matter to meet this scoundrel alone in the jungle, far from reinforcements. His message was simple, short, and impressive:

“Ask him why the devil he allowed those juramentados to invade my camp?”

With much ceremony Piang addressed the sultan, bowing and scraping before him. The low, ugly growls in response made Lewis furious, but he refrained from showing his anger. The sultan’s reply amazed him.

He expressed his regrets indifferently, that the camp had been disturbed. But (he threw up his hands to indicate his helplessness) who could stop the sacred juramentado? Not he, powerful sultan that he was. To-day was a feast of the Mohammedans. To-day was a most holy day, and, of course, the sultan could not be held responsible if some of his men had become excited. True, many good Americans had met their death in this way; it was most unfortunate, but how could it be stopped? Did the Christians not have their Christmas, and did they not kill turkeys and cut trees? The Moros are a fierce people and celebrate their feast days in a more violent manner.

Poor Lewis! Thoroughly exasperated, he tried to argue through Piang, but finding it hopeless, he told the boy to finish Kali Pandapatan’s business with the sultan as quickly as possible.

Discouraged, he started back through the jungle, wondering how many more fanatics had broken loose during his absence. The sultan was deliberately picking the troops off, a few at a time, always insisting that he was at peace with the Americans. The war department, many miles away, was unable to understand the situation. Orders required that the Moro receive humane treatment, and forbade any drastic measures being taken against the juramentados, saying time would cure it. It was outrageous, and intelligent men were being made fools of by the sultan, who understood the state of affairs perfectly.

The jungle began to irritate Lewis; it was a constant fight. The terrible heat, the tenacity of the vines and undergrowth seemed directed toward him personally, as he stumbled and fought his way along. How impossible to deal with the crafty sultan according to Christian standards! He should be given treatment that would bring him to terms quickly, and Lewis longed to get a chance at him.

Suddenly an idea flashed into his head. He hurried Piang, bidding him find a shorter cut home, as night was gathering.

“Sergeant Greer, come to my tent immediately,” ordered the lieutenant when he had looked over the camp and found everything safe.

“Allow no one to enter, orderly,” he said and closed the flaps.

“Sergeant, I have a plan and I need your experience and advice to carry it out. That old sultan is a fiend, and I am going to get him!”

“That’s been tried many times, sir, and he is still ahead of the game.”

But after Lewis had talked rapidly for a few minutes, disclosing the plan that was slated to best his majesty, a smile broke over the weather-beaten features of the sergeant, and he slapped his thighs in appreciation.

“Well, sir, we can try it, and if it does work, headquarters will flood you with thanks; if it fails, and I warn you it might, you will be cut into hash either by the sultan or the war department.” This was good advice from the old soldier.

“I know it, Sergeant, but I am going to take the risk if you are with me.” The enthusiastic young man dashed out of the tent to make the necessary preparations for the great event.

Christmas morning dawned sultry and heavy. The mist lifted after reveille and the troops were astonished that the Sabah had disappeared. Their surprise was greater to find a corporal in charge of the camp. There was a positive order that no trooper should enter the barrio, and an air of mystery hung over the whole camp. Where was the gunboat, the lieutenant, the sergeant, and the interpreter, Piang? The corporal shook his head to all these questions.

Suddenly rapid firing was heard in the direction of the barrio, and every soldier seized his gun and ran into the company streets, but the corporal, calm and undisturbed, dismissed them.

Nervously the men wandered about; the two wounded men became the center of attraction and related for the hundredth time their sensations when the juramentado had struck them down. They were not seriously wounded, but the cruel cuts were displayed, and they did not prove an antidote to the tenseness of the situation.

The firing had ceased after about ten minutes, and new sounds took its place: wails and shrieks, the crackling of bamboo, told the story of the burning village. But who had attacked the town? The corporal smiled to himself, quietly.

Cheerily a whistle rang out, sending the men running to the beach; there was the Sabah, tripping jauntily through the water toward her recent mooring-place, and on her deck, smiling and waving, were the missing men.

“Merry Christmas,” Lewis greeted the men, as he walked down the company street. Stopping at the cook’s tent, he inquired what there was for dinner.

“Beans, bacon, and hardbread,” was the reply.

“Tough menu for Christmas, eh, cook?”

Since their arrival, every turkey and duck had disappeared, and the barrio offered nothing to enhance their limited ration. It was an old trick; the natives objected to sharing their food with soldiers, and as soon as any troops landed on the island, ever possible article was spirited away into the jungle.

It was a bad day for every one. Most of the men were homesick, and they all felt the shadow of impending disaster; only Lewis and his confidants realized the seriousness of the situation, however.

“Corporal, take four men with bolos and cut six banana trees,” called Lewis. “Plant them in a row down the company street.”

Curiosity and amusement were mingled with indifference as the men started toward the thicket to execute the order. What had come over the lieutenant? Obediently the trees were brought, and Lewis superintended the planting. The squad was kept busy cutting ferns and palms, and it began to dawn on the astonished men that they were preparing for a holiday. The spirit was taken up generally, and the gloom was gradually dispelled.

“Here, Jake, hang this mistletoe up over the folding doors,” commanded the corporal, handing him a bamboo shoot, and pointing to the tent door. “Now when she comes asailin’ in to dinner, all unaware of your presence, smack her a good one, right on the bull’s eye.”

Laughter and shouts greeted this order, and when Kid Conner offered to impersonate a lovely damsel and, with mincing step and bashful mien, appeared at the opening, Jake was game, and a skuffle ensued. Shrieks of merriment coming from the cook tent aroused Lewis’s curiosity, and even his weighty matters were forgotten when he beheld Irish cooky on his knees before the incinerator arranging a row of well-worn socks. Solemnly folding his hands he raised his eyes in supplication:

“Dear Santa, don’t forget your children in this far-away jungle. We are minus a chimney on this insinuator, but we are bettin’ on you and the reindeers just the same, to slip one over on us and come shinnin’ down a cocoanut-tree with your pack. Never mind the trimmin’s and holly, just bring plenty of cut plug and dry matches.”

And so the day worn on. Toward noon the storm broke; runners announced the approach of the sultan, and Lewis was far from calm when he gave the order to admit him to camp.

“Piang,” he said, “there is the deuce to pay, I know, but you stick by your uncle, and we will pull through.”

No insignificant nigger greeted Lewis this time. The sultan had come in state. Where he had gathered his train, the men could not imagine, but there he was, garbed in royal raiment, attended by slaves and retainers. Solemnly the procession advanced. Advisers, wives, slaves, and boys with buyo-boxes followed his majesty, who was arrayed in a red silk sarong, grotesquely embroidered with glass beads, colored stones, and real pearls. His hair was festooned with trinkets strung on wire, and on his fingers were fastened tiny bells that jingled and tinkled incessantly. They got on Lewis’s nerves, and he quaked inwardly when he realized why he was honored by this visit.

Finally when the members of the court had arranged themselves around their master, he loftily signaled for his buyo; Lewis, nothing daunted, motioned to his striker. Amid smothered laughter he produced the lieutenant’s pipe and tobacco, using a tin wash-basin for a tray. Mimicking the actions of the royal slave the man salaamed before Lewis and proffered the pipe. Lest the sultan should despise his barren state, minus slaves, advisers, and wives, Lewis summoned Sergeant Greer and directed him to remain beside him to share the honor of the visit.

When Lewis caught Irish cooky, arrayed in apron and undershirt, with a basting spoon and a meat ax held at attention, making faces at his old sergeant, the humor of the situation came over him, and he smiled to himself as he looked at the scene before him: the banana-trees, loosely flapping their wilted leaves, the socks idly waiting to be the center of merriment again, the troop drawn up at attention, regardless of the variety of uniform, and beyond, the Sabah, sole reminder of civilization, bobbing at anchor.

Never removing his eyes from Lewis’s face, the sultan completed the ceremony of the buyo, and after deliberately rolling a quid of betel-nut, lime-dust, and tobacco leaves, the august person stuffed it into his mouth.

The trees rang with silence. Lewis thought his ears would burst as he strained them to catch the first sound that was to decide his fate. Faithfully Piang remained by his friend’s side, despite the angry glances directed toward him from the sultan’s party; the lad was fearful of the outcome of this tangle.

Finally the spell was broken. Women giggled, slaves flitted about, administering to the wants of the party, and the interpreter rose to deliver the complaint.

Had there not been a treaty of peace signed between Moroland and America?

“Yes,” replied Lewis. “And I am happy to serve a government that greets the Moro as brother.” The sultan stirred, perplexed by the reply.

“Then what right had that boat,” asked the interpreter, pointing to the Sabah, “to shell the barrio, destroying property and killing?”

This question was received by Lewis and the sergeant with grave surprise. Solemnly they exchanged inquiring glances, then in mock indignation glowered at the Sabah. The Sabah disturb the peace? When had that happened?

Insolently the interpreter related the story of the attack, and a rustle of surprise and delight ran through the troop. Sorrowfully Lewis and the sergeant shook their heads, and the sultan, puzzled at first, began to realize that he was dealing with a new kind of “Americano.” The two men’s heads bent lower and lower as they sorrowed over the misdemeanor of their little boat. Weighed down with grief, Lewis signaled Piang to prepare for his reply to the noble visitor.

How could he (Lewis) appease the powerful sultan for this mishap? What amends could he make for the treachery of his little gunboat? Not even he [his hands went up in imitation of the sultan’s own gesture of the day before] could help it, powerful officer though he was. It was Christmas, a most holy day, and doubtless before dawn the truant craft had slipped out of the harbor without permission and had gone juramentadoing.

“Attention!” commanded Sergeant Greer, startling the troop into rigidness. Their delight had almost expressed itself in a whoop.

With exaggerated gestures, Lewis continued.

Did the Moro not have similar customs? And did the sultan not sympathize with him in his inability to stop this dreadful practice in the Celebes Sea? American boats are dangerous on their feast days, and no one can tell when they may go juramentadoing to celebrate the occasion. That is the only custom they could celebrate to-day. Look! [He pointed at the pitiful banana-trees.] There are no gifts to adorn them with, no turkeys to kill; and the soldiers’ hearts are sad. But the Sabah evidently appreciated her capabilities, and doubtless before night she would again honor her country by recklessly shelling the jungle.

At this moment from the Sabah a shrill whistle echoed through the forest, scattering the assembled guests in all directions. Some took to trees, others threw themselves face down, on the ground.

The sultan was furious. He gruffly ordered his subjects back, and his beady eyes glared at the impostor, but he was too much of a diplomat to display his feelings further. The soldiers had been amused at first, but they realized the danger of trifling with the sultan. Every tree and corner of the jungle would respond with an armed savage, eager to destroy them, should the order be given, and uneasy glances were directed at the irate potentate. All the recent good humor and mirth had vanished; only the sergeant and the lieutenant retained an air of utter indifference. They quietly continued to smoke, gazing off into the far horizon, oblivious of their surroundings. Were they pushing that huge American bluff too far?

After long deliberation, the sultan apparently reached his conclusion. He whispered an order, and several runners disappeared into the jungle. Lewis heard the sergeant catch his breath, but the old man preserved his dignity admirably. More silent waiting and smoking followed. The sultan growled his displeasure as an adviser attempted to give some piece of advice, displaying a far from lovely temper. Piang valiantly stood his ground, ready to fight and die by his friend.

Finally sounds of the returning slaves reached the gathering. What was coming? Armed savages? Or had he ordered his poison reptiles to be let loose among the soldiers? The stillness was oppressive. No one moved, and the sultan continued to study the averted face of the officer.

A sound floated to them, nearer, nearer. The men braced themselves for a fight. But the sound? It was one they had all heard, a familiar, homelike sound.

“Gobble-gobble!” It was answered from all directions. Gradually the truth dawned on Lewis. He had won, and the warm blood rushed through his tired limbs.

“Turkeys, by gosh!” shouted a recruit, and the cry was taken up by the whole command, for slaves were pouring in with fowls of every description. The sergeant vainly tried to establish order in the ranks, but the reaction was too great. All the good humor and excitement of the morning was restored, and the innate childishness of the soldier began to assert itself.

“Here, Jake, hang this fellow up on that tree so he can salute his majesty in true turkey fashion,” shouted one man, and Jake, game as usual, tossed a big gobbler up in one of the mock Christmas-trees. From this point of vantage the bird made the jungle resound with its protests, while the troop screamed with laughter as Jake undertook to interpret the creature’s address.

“Piang, what will we say to the old codger now?” asked Lewis.

“I ask for gift for Sabah; it keep her good,” grinned the boy, and when he delivered that message to his majesty, a smile nearly destroyed the immobility of his features. A slave handed Lewis a package done up in green leaves, and when he curiously loosened the wrappings, a handful of seed-pearls, beautiful in luster and coloring fell in his palm.

“Thank him for the Sabah, Piang. I guess this will ease her restless spirit, all right. Tell him it will also serve as a balm for the wounds of the men who were attacked by the juramentados.”

Regally the old potentate rose to take leave. Lewis wanted to slap him on the back in that “bully-for-you-old-top” manner, but the farce must be completed. When the sultan paused opposite Lewis, measuring him with those cruel, steely eyes, Lewis’s only indiscretion was a wavering of the eyelid, just one little waver, but it was very much like a wink. There was undoubtedly a response in the other’s eyes, but that is between the sultan and Lewis.

As solemnly as they had come, the procession disappeared into the jungle. The giant trees, smothered by vines and noxious growths, swallowed the brilliant throng and seemed to symbolize the union of the savage and the jungle. The sergeant’s great, brawny hand was extended and grasped by Lewis in appreciation of what they had been through together.

Excitement reigned everywhere. The bedlam of fowls about to be decapitated and the shrieks of the troopers vied with each other for supremacy. Piang was being lionized by the men, toasted and praised in high fashion.

When Lewis inspected the Christmas dinner, the old Irishman winked a solemn wink, as he reminded the lieutenant of the discarded menu.

“You knew it all the time, sor; why didn’t you put me on?” With a noncommittal smile, Lewis proceeded on his usual inspection tour. After he had returned to his tent and was settling himself to enjoy the hard-earned meal, he was startled by an unusually loud outburst among the men. It gradually dawned upon him what it was. “Three cheers for the lieutenant! Three cheers for Piang!” was the cry that was disturbing the jungle twilight.