Under MacArthur in Luzon/Chapter 21
CHAPTER XXI
WALTER'S WOUND
"Do you see anything of them yet, Palmer?"
"Don't see a soul, Russell," replied the sailor from the Torktown, after a long look through the trees and over the rocks. "My idea is that all hands have cleared out of this locality."
Walter's face fell, and he gave a deep sigh. "I was in hope you would see my friend," he murmured. He felt too weak to do much talking.
"Nobody around; I'm dead sure on that," returned the sailor. "But don't you worry—I don't think Doring's dead—nor my messmates either."
Morning was at hand, and Walter had been lying for hours just where Palmer had placed him. The wounded limb was still numb, and the youth was almost afraid to stand upon it, for fear of starting the flow of blood afresh.
Palmer had remained on guard all through the darkness, caring for Walter in the meantime with the tenderness of a woman. He was a big-framed tar, but his captivity had reduced his weight greatly. He had told Walter that he had not had a square meal for several weeks.
"And not a single chaw of tobacco," he had added. "And that was as bad as no eating."
"Well, I wouldn't miss the tobacco," Walter had returned, "for I don't use the weed. But I know what hunger is, too." And at intervals he had told the details of his story.
What to do next neither knew. It was out of the question for Walter to journey far, if indeed he could walk at all, and they must find something to eat. Water was at hand, and this was the only comforting thing they possessed.
As the sun mounted in the sky, Palmer broached the subject of returning to the scene of the fight.
"I'll sneak up like a cat," he said. "More than likely the rebels have moved on, and if that's so, I'll see if I can't find something to eat lying around." He was soon gone, taking the rifle Walter had captured with him. The wounded lad listened to his retreating footsteps, and then all became as silent as a
tomb. Half an hour went by,—to Walter it seemed half a day,—and still the silence continued. What if the sailor should lose his way or become captured, and so never come back? The cold perspiration gathered on Walter's forehead at the thought. He was helpless—he could not do the first thing for himself. He would have to remain where he was, in that lonely spot, to die!
"I don't believe I'll ever get to see Ben and Larry again," was his bitter soliloquy. "And they'll never get the straight of it how I died. Oh, if only this cruel rebellion was over and we were all safe at home once more!"
From where he lay Walter, could see over several bushes to a distant hill, overgrown with short shrubbery. Presently he made out a movement on this hill.
"The rebels!" he muttered, and tried to raise himself on his elbow. He was right; over the hill marched a band of sixteen Filipinos with several prisoners among them. The whole party was in sight for several minutes. Walter tried to make out the faces of the prisoners, but the distance baffled him.
"Si may be among them," he mused. "Well, it's hard to tell who is the worst off just at present."
At last Palmer came back, with his arms full of things he had picked up. "Couldn't see a sign of anybody," he declared. "They have left the vicinity entirely, I calculate."
"I saw some of them," answered the young sailor, and told what he had seen. Palmer nodded gravely.
"It must have been our crowd. Well, we can't follow them,—at least not now,—so we must do the next best thing. I struck a bit of luck, boy,—some meat and rice, and onions and hardtack. We'll have a fair dinner, after all."
The meal was easily prepared, Palmer making a stew such as sailors like, and Walter was not backward in disposing of his share. The stew strengthened the lad, and he sat up for several hours afterward.
"I was so afraid you wouldn't come back—that something might happen to you," he said, while eating.
"Avast, lad, do you think I would desert one as did so much for me? No; Bob Palmer ain't that sort, and never was!"
"Then you will stick by me?"
"To the end, lad, and there's my hand on it." And the tar shoved out his lean fingers, which Walter grasped warmly. The touch was an honest one and made the boy's heart much lighter than it had been for hours.
Again night was upon them, and now Palmer came to the conclusion that there was no need to remain on guard. Stretching himself beside Walter, he was soon asleep, and presently Walter followed. Nothing happened to disturb them, and both slept until some time after sunrise.
Four days were spent in the shelter under the rocks, and during that time Walter's wound grew well rapidly. It had been but a glancing shot, and his main trouble was from the loss of blood. Every day Palmer washed the wound and bound it up afresh, in linen torn from the shirts of both. The sailor from the Yorktown was a natural nurse, and to his skill was largely due Walter's recovery.
During the time spent in the hollow Palmer had tried his hand both at fishing and hunting and had brought in food enough to feed them and give them provisions for several days to come. On the fourth day Walter tried walking, and announced that he could go on, but it must be slowly, and not too many miles per day at first.
Palmer's "bump of locality" was well developed, and he had their course all mapped out. "We'll move directly eastward for about ten or twelve miles," he said. "There we shall come to a fairsized river, and if we can find a boat, we'll be fixed, for we can hide in the daytime and float down the stream at night."
Walter had thought himself very brave on striking out, but before half a mile was covered he was pale and so exhausted he had to sit down. "I—I don't seem to have the backbone that I thought I had," he panted.
"Take it easy, lad," responded Palmer. "Remember the old proverb, 'The more haste, the less speed.' We haven't got to get to Manila at any definite time."
"But I want to get out of this horrible country. I declare, if I ever get on shipboard again, I'll never want to go ashore—at least, while I am in the Philippines."
"It's no joke, that's certain," returned the old sailor. "When we left the Yorktown for that scouting expedition, I never dreamed of getting in such a pickle as this, not me!"
"I don't believe I'd feel so bad if I knew Si was safe. He was my chum, you know."
"Exactly; and two of those other prisoners were my chums—have been for years. It's too bad, but we've got to make the best on it, and not cry over spilt milk."
When Walter had rested, the journey was resumed over a grassy field where walking was- fairly easy. Then they reached another rocky territory, and here Palmer called a halt, stating that the youth had done enough for that day.
"To-morrow, if you're equal to it, we can go a bit farther," he observed. "If you break down, you may have a long spell of sickness," he added, as he looked at the youth's flushed face, where the color seemed to come and go.
Two more days slipped by, and they covered twenty miles. The travelling taxed Walter to the utmost and made him feverish, and he had to rest every mile or two. They had crossed one small stream, but this was not large enough for a craft of any sort.
The day following, Palmer went on ahead, fearing they were journeying into a territory where Walter could not travel. Hardly had he disappeared, when he came back full of excitement.
"I've struck the rebels with some of our prisoners!" he cried.
There was no time to say more, and they crept into the bushes. Soon they heard the other party approaching, the Filipinos berating their captives roundly. They passed, and Palmer crept close to Walter.
"There is one of my chums, and Si Doring, too," he whispered. "I'm going to follow and see if I can't free them." And before the lad could answer he was off.
The hours and the night to follow were sickening ones to Walter. Palmer did not come back, and the young sailor did not know how his newly made friend had been discovered and captured afresh. He waited and waited, his heavy eyes refusing to close in sleep, and his ears on the alert for the slightest sound which might indicate the sailor's return. At last when morning came and the sun arose, he threw himself down on the grass in utter despair.
"He is gone! I am alone, utterly alone!" Over and over he echoed the words, and the tears came to his eyes in spite of himself. Never had the vast solitude of that unbroken country so impressed him as now. As far as his eye could reach he saw nothing but hills and jungles, grassy plains and little mountain torrents. Not even an animal was visible, and even the birds seemed scarce. He was truly alone, utterly alone.
"I must follow him—I can't remain by myself," such was his next thought, and picking up the little provisions they had been carrying he tried to locate the uncertain trail. At that moment he felt he would rather be a prisoner among enemies than by himself.
Less than quarter of a mile was covered and he came to a halt. His strength was gone and he could go no farther. The trail, too, had slipped him, and he was completely turned around and bewildered.
He gazed around again, and looking down the hillside, made out a collection of huts and houses far below, close to the side of a fair-sized stream. Then something of a feeling of joy took possession of him. He was near somebody, somebody—it did not matter whether they were friends or foes. Then of a sudden a dark wave passed before his eyes, followed by a flush as of fire. He staggered, tried to save himself, and then pitched forward on the sward, completely overcome.