# Under MacArthur in Luzon/Chapter 22

CHAPTER XXII
A FRIEND IN NEED
Walter had been lying where he fell for over an hour when two young natives, chancing to go up the hill for firewood, discovered his body and went screaming back to their hut, to tell the news to their mother.
"An Americano!" they cried, in their peculiar dialect. "An American, and he looks as if he was dead!"
The announcement aroused the whole of the sleepy village, and soon a party of two women and two old men followed the children up the hill. The young men of the place were all at the front or marching to get there.
"An Americano truly," said one of the old men. "And he is not dead."
"Then what ails him?" asked the other old man, as he shook the young sailor. "He does not seem to be wounded, either."
​They made an examination, and one of the women came and placed her hand on Walter's forehead. "Ah, as I thought, the pig has a fever! And he is going to have it worse. Perhaps he will die."
"Small loss if he does die," growled the second woman, as she, too, felt of the young sailor's forehead. "Do you think he is one of the prisoners who got away from Corel's party, Banno?"
"'Tis not unlikely," answered the old man addressed. "But he is young to be a prisoner. What shall we do with him?"
Soon several others came up from the village, and all gathered around the prostrate form.
"How white he is!" whispered one big boy. "I thought all Americanos were red and wore feathers in their hair and painted their faces." His mistake was a common one among the ignorant Filipinos, who think of Uncle Sam's people as an offshoot of the Indians. One child after another dared his companions to touch the body, but each shrank back, fearing some evil knosha, or "hoodoo," would fall upon him.
At length a tall, thin woman with a rough, red scar on her face broke through the crowd, which readily parted to give her passage. "What is the ​trouble here?" she demanded, in a cold, quick voice, as if she was used to playing the mistress.
"Un Americano," replied one of the old men, with a low salute.
"And where did he come from?"
"We do not know. We found him here exactly as you see him. He seems to be down with the first stroke of a fever."
"Then he must be one of the prisoners who escaped—or else he got so sick that they abandoned him." The woman with the scar took a step forward and looked closely at Walter's face. "Impossible!" she ejaculated. "And yet how like!"
"How like what? " asked one of the other women.
"It does not concern you, Bamrogina." The woman with the scar turned to the men. "Carry him down to my house. No one shall say that he was left to die like a sick dog within sight of Biloguana. 'Twould bring evil to us all."
"You will take the pig to your house?" shrieked the woman called Bamrogina.
"Yes."
"And nurse him back to life—that he may kill our husbands and sons?"
"We can keep him a prisoner, if it be necessary."
​Bamrogina shrugged her greasy brown shoulders. "As you will,—but I shall not touch him. He shall rot first and the birds can fly away with his meat."
"The men shall carry him. Come, take hold, or it will be too late to do anything."
"You were at Manila, Señora Garabella," went on the fat woman, suspiciously. "Perhaps you know the pig."
"I do not—although he looks very much like an Americano that did me a great service. It is because of this that I take pity on him."
But little more was said, Inez Garabella being in no humor for further talking. Soon the old men were on their way to the village, carrying Walter between them. Passing the single street with its irregular row of nipa huts, they came to a house of fair pretentions situated in a garden which had once been surrounded by a stone wall, now, however, greatly dilapidated.
"Place him upon yonder couch," said Senora Garabella. "I will do what I can for him, and you can watch out that he does not escape," she added, half sarcastically; and then one after another the neighbors withdrew, leaving Walter and the lady and the two servants of the place to themselves.
​Inez Garabella had spoken the truth when she said that the strong resemblance between Walter and Captain Ben made her take an interest in the young sailor. She had gotten home from Manila but a few days before, and the memory of what the captain had done for her at the deserted monastery was still fresh in her mind.
"No matter if they are utter strangers, I will do what I can for the poor boy," she told herself. "He may be a prisoner of war, but he shall not be used worse than a lame caribao," and she set to work to nurse Walter without delay.
As the others had said, the young tar was in for a fever, brought on partly by the wound he had suffered and partly by his travelling in the heat. As soon as he came out of his semi-unconscious state he began to rave and throw himself, and it took the lady of the house and the strongest serving-maid to hold him down.
"Don't leave me!" he would cry. "Oh, Si! Palmer! don't leave me! Shoot me, if you wish, but don't leave me!" And then his mood would change. "See! see! the ship is sailing and the natives are coming back! Run, run, or we'll be caught and slaughtered. Where is the water, Si? ​Leave some for your old chum, Walter Russell! Oh, how dry I am, and you have drunk the last drop! Si, as sure as my name is Walter Russell we'll never reach Manila, and I'll never see Larry and Ben again!"
Inez Garabella listened to his ravings with interest. She could make out but little of what was said, but she understood the name Russell and smiled faintly.
"I was not mistaken," she told herself. "They are of the same name. They must be brothers, or cousins. Now I will surely do all I can for him."
She was indeed "a friend in need" and at a time when Walter needed such a friend greatly. The poor boy had the fever, and in addition his wound needed skilful medical attention. For days he raved upon his bed of sickness, and somebody had to watch him constantly. The native doctor could do but little, and even that was done unwillingly, and would not have been done at all had not the lady of the house paid him well for his services.
At last came the day when the fever was at its worst, and for twenty-four hours it was a question ​whether Walter would live or die. He was now reduced to a skeleton, and for days had known nobody and would touch nothing but water. Then came a change, and he sank into a natural sleep—the first he had experienced since being brought to the house.
When Walter opened his eyes the next morning, he gazed around him in bewilderment. He lay upon a rattan couch in the centre of a somewhat bare apartment. Close at hand was a window overlooking a sparkling river. From a distance came the calls of several children playing some game.
"Where am I?" he asked himself, and then called weakly, "Si!"
"You are bettair?" asked a voice beside him, and turning he saw a girl of twelve sitting there. Her name was Rosa, and she was a relative of Inez Garabella, from Manila, and could speak English fairly well.
"What did you say?" he questioned, still bewildered.
"I said you are bettair. You haf been sick—verra sick. My aunt, she bring you here, and we nurse you."
"Have I been sick? How long?"
​"'Tis nearly three weeks now. You have a high fever and a bad leg."
"I was shot in the leg. And so I had a fever?" He mused for a moment, trying vainly to get back his thoughts. "Where is Si? And Palmer?"
The girl shook her head. Then she arose, went to the doorway, which was covered with a bamboo and bead curtain, and called Señora Garabella, who came quickly. A short talk in Spanish followed.
"Oh,- I remember now," came presently from Walter. "I was running after Palmer, when the whole world seemed to turn upside down, all in a second. I was awfully weak. Did you see anything of my friends? I mean Si Doring and that big sailor, Palmer. Palmer got away from the rebels, and we were going to release some others," he rattled on, the color rising in his face.
"Hush!" said the girl. "My aunt say you must keep quiet, or you will be sick a second time. She say you can talk to-morrow." And there the conversation came to an end. Walter dozed off, and it was nightfall before he again opened his eyes. Then he partook of some nourishment and dropped off once more, this time in a sleep which did him a world of good.
​The next day Inez Garabella questioned him, through her niece, and learned who he was and how he had come in the neighborhood.
"My aunt, she know one Capitan Russell," said Rosa. "She want to know if you and the capitan are of the same family."
"Captain Russell!" ejaculated Walter. "He is my brother!"
When told of this, Inez Garabella smiled and clasped her hands together. "I knew it," she cried in Spanish. "I knew it! They look so much alike."
Through Rosa she told to Walter her story of the meeting in the monastery and of how Ben had foiled Barnabas Moval's base designs. "My aunt, she is deeply grateful to your brother for that," said Rosa. "And in return she will be your friend."
"She has done a good deal for me already. I shall never forget her kindness. I presume those villagers would have left me to die where I fell."
Walter then asked about the other prisoners and about Si, but could learn nothing of them. The rebel army was not in the neighborhood, having begun to concentrate along the shore of the ​Lingayen Gulf, hoping to attack General MacArthur, at a favorable moment, from the northwest.
"What do you intend to do with me?" he asked, later on.
At this Inez Garabella shook her head sadly.
"She does not know," said Rosa. "She says the house is watched from the outside by nearly all of those left in the village, and if you try to get away, they will pounce upon you and cast you into prison."
"Do you consider me a prisoner of war?"
"No, no, she would let you go—if she could. But she is powerless to deal with those in the village."
"Then I've got to stay here?"
"What else is there to do? If you try to run away, you are so weak you would soon be sick again—or they might shoot you down. You had better remain here for the present, so my aunt, she says."
And so it was arranged. But Walter longed to see Larry and Ben, and the days dragged heavily upon his hands.