Evening Star Newspaper, October 25, 1931, Page 86

BY FRED D. BURDETT. ROM the far north of th: Philippine Islands—Babuyan—I went down tq the old-time haunts of an infamow Moro pirate, south of Mindanao. We steered toward the setting sun, with the Babuyan Islands going down into the sea astern, and after rounding the northwest point of Luzon, swung due south through the Mindoro Straits and the Sulu Sea, down the west coast of Mindanao, passing Zamboanga and glimpsing the Sulu Archipelago, eventually dropping anchor off the Island of Sarangani. High up on a promontory, towering above the teeming jungle growth, two clumps of feathery palms stand out clearly against the sky. They mark the grave of Sarangani, the pirate, and the Moros will tell you that this place is haunted after nightfall by the ghosts of his murdered female slaves. There certainly seem® to b2 something sinister in the hot, still air of this island of ghastly memories. After sundown my pagan crew resolutely refused to set foot ashore there. Sarangani’'s loot, with the bodies of his murdered victims, certainly lies buried there, and the old corsair’s name has been written on the map. His tomb is a local object of superstitious awe. He sleeps in the island that bears his name, and those tall clumps of palms—one at his head and one at his foot—almost ~seem to nod their fronded heads close together as if they were whispering of bloody sea-battles along the ravaged coasts. Sarangani was a scourge of the secas, the most ferocious of all the dreaded Moros, buc- caneers and bandits to th2 backibone. In my wanderings through the wonderful and romantic Island of Mindanao, with its extraordinary variety of Mohammedan and pagan tribes, I invariably found the predominating race to be the Moros, who rule the Sulu Archipelago and Northern Mindangzo. They certainly bear the stamp of the born fighter and the typical cor- sair of thesEast. With fearless eyes, deep-set beneath bectling brows, wide in the nostril, with cruel, sensual mouths, you can picture them swarming over the bulwarks of a eaptured ship ripe for the uttermost excesses of robbery, murder and rape. Not until the American oc- cupation of 1898 did the Moros suffer any appreciablz check to their marauding expe- ditions. FE Sangil and Samal Moros cared as little for an angry sea as they did for the Spanish dons. With their vintas—probably the fastest sailing ship in the world—they prowled as far north on the north coast of Luzon as Banqui, which they sacked and destroyed twice, and as far east as the wonderful little port of San Vicente, where there is a little island named after them. It is a significant name, too. It is called Fuga Moros—which means “Moro Fire” and vividly suggests cruel baptism with flame and sword. In the good old days—so far as the Moros were concerned—of piracy, Sarangani, maost notorious buccaneer of them all, plundered and murdered to his heart’s content until his name was the terror of the Philippines. Sarangani was the bloodiest of all the Moro datos who made their piratical nests in the Sulu and Celcbes Seas. Even in death the tribes still fear him. The natural beauty of his palm-fronded grave on the hill is a thing of superstitious horror to them. I found, by the way, that the old Moro burial grounds were Eunl.ly planted with palms—the bamboo, areca and the betel. Strategically the island was ideal for Saran- gani’s operations. Its natural strength con- sisted of three hand-locked ports, two of which commanded the renowned Sarangani Straits— and woe betide the unfortunate merchantman becalmed in those narrow waters! Her every movement was noted by hawk-eyed scouts, and when she had drifted near enough the Moros swarmed to the attack in their fast-raking vin and boarded her fore and aft, port and rd. The stoutest crew hadn't a dog's chance. After the massacre the ship was towed in, looted thoroughly and dismantled. But Sarangani did not confine his activities to the straits. Those little forays in the neigh- borhood of his home were regarded, probably, as welcome breaks to the peaceful monotony of his domestic life. Like all great freebooters, i was a bold adventurer and sailed far from his island home. Perhaps his happiest hunting grounds were in the northern islands of the Visayas and along the coast of the great Island of Luzon itself. These Moro pirates were women-hunters as well as treasure-seekers, and trafficked heavily in female slaves. Their ships would return loaded not only with rich booty, but with terrified women whom they had cap- t during their cruise. Year after year Sarangani sailed north on the southwest mon- soon and returned on the northeast monsoon with cargoes of loot and dispirited captive girls. Although the Spanish government offered big rewards for his capture, he always gave them the slip and managed to return in triumph to Sarangani Island. Naturally, during these many years of successful raiding and looting old Sarangani accumulated an immense hoard of gold, silver and precious stones. According to local tradition he was fabulously rich and his wealth aroused the cupidity of his brother pirates, but they rarely dared to touch him. His indomitable courage and sagacity were too much for the Moros as well as for the Spaniards. A few futile attempts were made to 'Wlest some of his hoard from him, but they were defeated and punished with the most frightful forms of cold-blooded ferocity. Sarangani exacted such terrible revenge that at last he was left in comparative peace. When this old sea-wolf lay dying, surrounded by his numerous wives and concubines, he only smiled grimly when they asked him to tell them where his treasure was hidden—the golden nest-egg of 50 years of piracy. He replied. saying, “Who seeks may find.” His descendants are still seeking. There is no4tub’ at all about Sarangani’s treasure being buried on the island, but nobody has the foggiest iden where it is. The wicked, sardonic old cafsalr left mo clue. He believed in and acted THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, OCTOBER 25, 1931 Pirates and Buried Loot 1in the South Seas Desperate Forays of Raiders Below Equator. The Malay Chief Who Won and Hid His Treasurc’——]jays of Adventure in the Tropic Archipelago. upon the ancient adage: “Dead men tell no tales.” When he had treasure ready for his secret cache h2 ordered it to be embarked on one of his vintas at night by superfluous woman slaves who were growing old and un- attractive. They were the carriers who bore the treasure to its hiding place. And they never returned to Sarangani Island. Sarangani's deathly treasure-hoard sailed at night, and he always returned on the following night—alone. It is not difficult to imagine the terror of the old women when they were detailed to join these nocturnal expeditions. They knew what it meant. They knew that when they had assisted to bury the treasure of their lord and master he would bury them with it. That was the wretched destiny of hundreds of captive women. There must be a number of these treasure- hecatombs somewhere in the vicinity of the island, but any thought of treasure-hunting there would make me feel like a ghoul robbing a cemetery. Nevertheless, I have had my eyes and ears open and I do not think it would be very difficult to locate a likely spot. I know a place that is, and always has been, tabu—sup- posed to be infested with enormous pythons. Legend, or perhaps it is more than that, hath it that Sarangani himself always warned his people that whosoever ventured to visit that unhallowed spot was never seen alive again. I have landed on the island and scouted around, but my pagan crew resolutely refused to set foot ashore. Of course, I saw nothing but teeming jungle. But, though it may have been a fancy of mine, there seemed to be some taint in the air, something noisome and sepulchural. HE usual fighting complement of the Moro fleet was about 20 sail of sapits, and they carried slaves to work at the paddles in a calm, like the galley-slaves of Rome. Even when the wind was dead, a vinta with slaves at the paddles was the fastest craft afloat. Nothing could escape the sea wolves, crouching and ready. to board, armed, lusting for blood and loot. The vinta's crew, by the way, carried a Moro implement of sea warfare, which is, I think, unique—a long pole with a barbed iron head, like a huge hook. They used it to “yank” their victims overboard from the doomed ship and caught them like you ecatch a fish on a hook. Imagine the spectacle, as seen from the deck of a helpless merchant- man, perhaps with women on board, as the vintas rushed toward them, crowded with fighting Moros clad in chain-mail of copper links, the whites of their eyes showing under . the steel peak of shining Spanish casques! I don’t think orchid hunting in the Far East would have appealed to me in Sarangani’s day. During a cruise of five months among the small islands and atolls of the Tawi-Tawi group of the Sulu Archipelago I came into close contact with the Moros—the Samal Moros, as they are universally known in that location. I was looking for manganese, which I found on the little Island of Sinagbuan, off the northeast coast of Tawi-Tawi, a small atoll completely hidden by a belt of mangroves— and one of the rarer kinds of orchid which I believe I found, but I could not verify it, as the plant was not in noge;r._ ,-.I @51?‘&'. with me, on board my vinta, but they were killed by sea water. I had to return to Jolo, a three-day sea trip by vinta, and we were caught in the whirlpools of one of the fierce that sweep between the islands of the Sulu lago, and that was the end of my orchids. There is a very well known whirlpool here which is caused by the tides racing over an almost unfathomable hole in the sea bed—probably an old crater. When the flood tides reach this great depth, a tremendous vortex is formed. The Moros refuse to venture within a mile of it. And ¥ am inclined to believe their story of a steamer that was sucked into the whirling vortex and disappeared. 3 I had only about three weeks’ rations, but I found a friend in Moro, Musli, who did what he could for me in the circiffhstances. It was during my stay with him that I en- had several brothers. another an in the Mohammedan priesthood he was notable personage. Also, he was a reven officer and he owned a small island where cultivated cocoanuts. Quite an important was Musli. But I regret to say that friends were the most thievish gang of vil lains I ever met in my life. stretched like the plumed feathers of a giant's headdress. My first jaunt with Musli was a sick call His brother, the iram, was down'swith fever This was a sea trip by vinta and we accompanied by Musli's wife and one of small sons. There was a fresh breeze when cast off and Musli, who had a dry sense humor, solemnly asked me to hoist sail. swear that I saw the sedate Musl wite, but I did see him look at me and the enormous sail of the vinta (which be unrolled, like a windowblind, from two I poles) with a twinkle in his dark eye. seemed shat the joke was on me, for I learned afterward that hoisting sail is a job for three Mcros. One hauls the top book up while his mates unroll the sail and reduce the dead welight by lifting it. . However, I am in the heavyweight class and when I heave something usually moves. To old Musli’s utter amazement that sail was a good 5 feet up the tripod mast before he could jump in to help. And Mrs. Musli snapped somethjng at him in crisp Samal which I didn’t under- stand, but from the chastened expression of her spouse I rather gathered that the joke was on him. In the exhilaration of the next half hour I forgot everything but the intoxication of speed. Our stout bamboo mast creaked as 't':-:e vinta’s vast square sail bellied out in the ze. MUSLI'S wife managed the sail expertly, with the loose rope's end from the lower book held in her hand. When the wind freshened she slacked it out and drew it taut toward her when we tacked into a gentle breeze. Musli _ wag at, the g@m‘ with the steering paddle in both hands and his weather eye cocked on the convexity of the graceful sall above his head. Beneath that vast and spreading sheet, which was patierned with Moro zigzags and cubes, the vinta's 35-foot hull looked like a slender twig on the water. Musli’'s Samal house on the cocoanut island swiftly hove in sight—built, as usual, high up on piles—and we came alongside with the cor- rectness and docility of a liner at a quay. I had watched curiously to see how Musli would stow such a cumbrous stretch of sail. It was the neatest job in the world. While he lowered it gently his small son wound it up on the lower book by a crosspiece. They unhooked it from the hoisting block and lifted it into its place ‘on the platform of the boat, where a couple of hardwood forks were lashed with rattan to receive it. With the vinta riding saucily at her moorings, Musli led the way into his house. The family slept in one big room, where the beds were screened with dark-blue mosquito net, and the floor was gay with mats woven in all the colors of the rainbow. Having dined, we all reclined upon the mats on the floor while one of Musli's musicians produced an instrument similar to a xylophone, except that the keys, which he beat wifth a pair of drumsticks, were made of bamboo. Its notes were singularly soft, haunting and soothing. Then a Moro sang wildly, in the manner of mipstrels of olden times, improvising verse after verse in an epic narrative of the deeds of the Moro pirate kings of the Far East. Every evening in Musli’s house the minstrels sang and the musician thrummed his native instrument. I loved to listen, stretched at my ease on a woven mat, my pipe between my teeth. There was some spell in that wild music that appealed to my adventurous spirit. Often when I turned in at night I could faintly hear Musli's friend ccaxing strange music fromthe bamboo keys of his instrument. Musli’s sick brother was bad. The calomel I gave him did him good, but immediately he began to feel better he celebrated the occasion by devouring a heavy meal of shellfish. A fever patient who does that sort of thing is asking for trouble. I had an urgent message to return to the sick man’s bedside. I decided to stay with him for a few days, dose him properly and take good care that he didn’t get up to any more fool tricks. The orchid hunter and manganese prospector, who is also family doctor to the adjacent vil- lages, has very little time to lead the gay life, and my hands were pretty full. However, I pulled Musli’'s brother through, located a valu- able deposit of manganese and collected an interesting species of the orchid. The sad fate of the plants which I gathered for export has already been described. The sea that broke over our vinta on the return voyage killed the lot. The manganese business, however, was car- ried through to an eminently satisfactory cone clusion. It was certainly a rather remarkable coincidence that I located the stuff in a belt of mangroves that almost touched the place where my patient lived. After a few weeks of careful testing on the spot I was convinced of the value of the deposit and made a deal with the Moro owners of the land. Work started within a few months, as soon as shipping arrangements had been com- pleted. I am bound to say that the Moros entered into the spirit of the undertaking handsomely, but their honest engagement in business enter- prise is enough to make old Sarangani turm over in his grave. To a business friend of mine I once semarked that the evolution of the Moros from piracy to capitalism seemed very strange indeed. “Why?” he said, and went on writing checks, (Copyright, 1931.) Undercutting the Borer TH!: European corn borer is a serious pesf which has caused great annual loss in the corn belt. But serious as it is there, consider the case of New England, where two generations of the moths hatch each year. So serious is the borer to corn raisers in that area the De- partment of Agriculture has made a special study of the situation and worked out a means of control which is effective, but dependent upon general and persistent effort. The borer can be controlled by one mechani= cal means, the destruction of the Winter homes where the borer hibernates. It has been proven that the borer lives in the stalks left in the ground and in the stubble of other plants cut when the corn is cut. In order to combat the borer, a new device has been developed which permits the cutting of the stalks close to the ground, which has been found a successful method of eliminating the borer. Plowing, of course, is the best remedy, but next to that the close cutting and immediate destruction of the stalks has been found an effective control measure, - Medical T'rickster Caught HAPS the most pitiful of all classes of dupes who are made the victims of trick- sters are the credulous invalids who read hope- fully, though vainly, the glowing promises of health contained on the labels of fraudulently advertised so-called medicines. The Federal food and drug administration is constanjly on the watch for misbranded¢ medi- cants. Recently a number of shiprents were seizéd which -promised cures of tuberculosis, pneumonia, brenchitis, influenza, cancer, high- blood pressure, diabetes, Brights disease and other equally serious illnesses. The product be- ing sold as a cure was found to be absolutely without any curatives for the diseases listed and was promptly seized and destroyed.