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In: Children & Young Adult Reading·Adventure·Novels
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #22407.
The work is a juvenile adventure set in the Philippines, written by Florence Partello Stuart and framed as a personal tribute to the Moro people. It opens with a narrator’s lament that America knows little of the archipelago’s many islands, each with its own language and faith, before launching into a romanticized tale of Piang, a young Moro “chosen of Allah” who must prove his destiny against a rival boy, Sicto. The first chapter places the two youths before their chief in a ceremonial clearing on Mindanao, where they are sent on separate quests to the hermit Ganassi, a test that promises jungle peril and river travel. The prose immediately establishes a vivid, ethnographic backdrop while promising a series of daring exploits drawn from contemporary travel reports.
Written in the turn‑of‑the‑century style of American adventure magazines, the narrative blends earnest colonial commentary with the flamboyant, descriptive language of early twentieth‑century pulp fiction. Its voice is formal yet enthusiastic, peppered with detailed cultural references and a romanticized view of the Moro. Readers who enjoy historical exoticism, richly painted settings, and heroic coming‑of‑age journeys, especially those fascinated by early travel literature and classic adventure stories, will find this book an engaging, if dated, window into a bygone literary era.
The opening · free to read
Piang is a real boy. Dato Kali Pandapatan is a real Moro chief. The Moro is not a Filipino.
When I returned from my life among the natives of the lower Philippines, I was appalled to find that America was not only ignorant of, but entirely indifferent to our colonies across the seas. The general impression seemed to be that Manila was a delightful Spanish city, and that Manila was the Philippines. That there are several thousand little islands in the Philippine group, each harboring its distinct tribe, each with its own dialect and religion, was entirely unknown. Impressed by the nobility of the Moro in contrast to the other tribes of the archipelago, by his unfortunate treatment and his possibilities for development, I found myself taking up his cause, and was repaid by intense interest wherever I launched forth on my pet subject. I was so successful that gradually I began to idealize the Moro, weaving around him, not the "might have beens," but the "might be's." Hence, "The Adventures of Piang."
Many of our military heros of other days share the honors with Piang; their exploits and privations are a romance in themselves, and among these pages the army and navy will recognize stories that have long since become history. I am indebted to Dean Worcester for statistics and a great deal of information on the origin and development of the Moro. Indeed some of Piang's adventures are actual incidents of Dean Worcester's travels. Robinson and Foreman have given me much material, and I find their books authentic and true chronicles of the Malay people. But most of all I am indebted to that great and wise man, Colonel John P. Finley, United States Army, who during his term as civil governor of the Moro provinces, did more to help a down-trodden people than any Christian who has ever attempted to bring them to the true light.
Anticipating carping criticisms from geographic purists, the author is ready to admit taking liberties with longitudes and latitudes, juggling lakes and mountains to the envy of Atlas, in order to serve the picturesque and romantic purposes of Piang.
Some of the stories in this volume appeared in the juvenile magazines, "St. Nicholas," "What To Do," and "Boys' World," and are reprinted through the courtesy of the editors.
In the warm Celebes Sea, four hundred miles south of Manila, lies the romantic, semi-mysterious island of Mindanao, home of the Moro. For three centuries Spain struggled to subjugate this fierce people, with little or no success, and she turned them over to America with a sigh of relief. Perpetual warfare is the pastime of the Moro; it is his sport, his vocation; and the Mother Jungle hurls a livelihood at his feet. Food, clothing, shelter are his birthright.
One of the most powerful tribes of Moroland is ruled by Dato (chief) Kali Pandapatan. Far up in the hills dwells this powerful clan, arrogant and superior in its power. Piang, the chosen of Allah, dwells among them; haughtily the boy accepts their homage as his due, for he is destined to become their ruler some day. His prowess and bravery are the boast of his people, and the name of Piang is known from one end of Mindanao to the other.
The tribe was assembled for the ceremony. Within the hollow square stood Dato (chief) Kali Pandapatan and old Pandita (priest) Asin. There was a rustle of expectancy among the onlookers; their interest was divided between the two solitary figures, silently waiting, and a hut, much bedecked with gaudy trappings and greens. On all sides the silent jungle closed in around the brilliant throng, seeming to bear witness against mankind; men might force a tiny clearing in its very heart after years of struggle and work, but the virgin forest sang on, undisturbed, watchful.
The grass flaps, forming the door of the hut, moved. Like a soft wind caressing the palm-trees, a murmur rustled through the crowd:
"It is he!"
Children scrambled away from restraining parents to get a better view; dogs, filled with uneasiness by this strange silence, whined. The stillness was unnatural. Distant cries of a mina-bird floated to this strained audience; the river, muttering its plaints to the listening rushes, sounded like a cataract in their ears.
Into the midst of this crowd walked a stately, graceful youth. The dusky goldenness of his skin was enhanced by his rainbow-hued garments. From waist to ankle he was encased in breeches as tight as any gymnast's pantaloons; they were striped in greens and scarlets and had small gold filigree buttons down the sides. A tight jacket, buttoned to the throat, was fastened with another row of buttons, and around his waist was gracefully tied a crimson sash, the fringed ends heavy with glass beads and seed-pearls. A campilan (two-handled knife, double-edged), and a pearl-handled creese (dagger) were thrust into the sash. With arrogant tread he advanced, the ranks dividing like a wave before an aggressive war-prau. His piercing black eyes expressed utter indifference, and he ignored those gathered to witness his triumph. Only once he seemed to smile when the little slave girl, Papita, timidly touched his arm. The rebuke that fell upon her from the others, brought a frown to the boy's face, but he continued to advance until he stood beside Dato Kali Pandapatan and Pandita Asin. Here, like a sentinel giant, bereft of his nearest kin, one monster tree remained standing. It seemed to whisper to its distant mates, who nodded answer from their ranks at the edge of the clearing. Under this tree Piang paused, gazing fixedly at his beloved chief.
"Piang," said Kali, "the time has come for you to prove that you are the chosen of Allah."
A perceptible rustle followed this.
"On the night of your birth, the panditas announced that the charm boy, who was to lead the tribe to victory, would be born before the stars dimmed. Your cry came first, but there was another, also, fated to come to us that night. The mestizo (half-breed) boy, Sicto, opened his eyes before that same dawn, and you are destined to prove which is the chosen Allah." Anxiously the Moro men and women gazed at their idol, Piang. His manly little head was held high, and the powerful shoulders squared as he listened.
The sun, but lately risen, bathed the multitude in its early light and chased the light filigree of moisture from the foliage. Through the branches of the solitary tree, wavy sunbeams made their way to flicker and play around Piang, and one bold dart seemed to hesitate and caress the mass of glossy, black hair.
"Sicto!" called Kali. There was another murmur, but very different from the one that had preceded Piang's coming. From the same hut came forth another boy. A little taller than Piang, was Sicto, lean and lank of limb. His skin was a dirty cream color, more like that of the Mongolian than the warm tinted Mohammedan. His costume was much like Piang's, but it was not carried with the royal dignity of the other boy's. Sicto's head was held a little down; the murky eyes avoided meeting those of his tribesmen, and his whole attitude gave the impression of slinking. The high cheek-bones and slightly tilted eyes bore evidence of the Chinese blood that flowed in his veins, and the tribe shuddered at the thought of Sicto as charm boy. He advanced with a shambling gait.
"Sicto, it is given that you shall have your chance." Kali Pandapatan spoke loudly, a frown on his brow. "Piang is of our own blood, and we, one and all, wish him to be our charm boy, but there shall be no injustice done. Born under the same star, within the same hour, it is not for me to decide whether you or Piang is the Heaven-sent." Turning to the pandita, Kali whispered something. The old man nodded and advanced a few steps, saying:
"My people, I shall leave it to you, whether or not I have made a wise decision. There is no way for us to prove the claim of either of these boys, so I am sending them to seek the answer for themselves." Asin paused, and the crowd moved. "On yonder mountain dwells the wise hermit, Ganassi. He has lived there for many years, apart from man, alone in the jungle with beast and reptile.
There are no trails to his haunt; no man has seen Ganassi for a generation, but that he still lives we know, for he answers our signal fires each year and replies to our questions." Turning to the two boys, he addressed them directly: "The mountain where he dwells has been named after him, Ganassi Peak, and friends through the hills will direct you toward it. You shall both start at the same time, but by different routes. One leads through the jungle, over the hills; the other follows the river to its head-water, the lake. Old Ganassi will guide the real charm boy to him; he is great; he is ubiquitous. Have no fear of the jungle or its creatures, for he will be with you."
Amazement and joy were written on Piang's face. He was to penetrate the jungle at last, alone! His heart thrilled at the thought of the adventures waiting for him there, and with radiant face he turned toward the inviting forest.
"Piang! Piang!" resounded through the stillness, as the excited Moros watched him.
Sicto stood, head down, wriggling his toes in the sand. He did not like the idea of the lonely jungle, or the thought of the long hard days between him and Ganassi Peak, but he did not speak.
With solemn ceremony the pandita prepared to anoint the boys according to the rites of the tribe. A slave boy ran lightly forward and sank on his knees before the pandita. On his head he bore a basket covered with cool, green leaves. Praying and chanting, the priest uncovered the basket, revealing two beautiful dazzlingly white flowers.
"The champakas!" cried Papita in amazement as the rare flowers were exposed. An admonishing hand was placed over her lips. Slowly Asin raised the flowers, heavy with dew, above the two boys, and the clear, crystal drops fell upon their heads. Across the sky trailed a flock of white rice-birds; as they flitted across the clearing, their shadows leaped from one picturesque Moro to another; a twig snapped, startling a baby, who cried out. The spell was broken.
The chant was taken up by the entire tribe, and slowly at first, they began to revolve around the central figures. As their excitement grew, the pace quickened, until they were whirling and gyrating at a reckless rate. Like a pistol-shot came the command to cease, and quietly all returned to their original places. Kali Pandapatan raised his hand for silence.
"I shall throw my creese into the air. Sicto, you may have first choice. Do you choose the point, or the flat fall?"
The crowd instinctively pushed a little closer as Kali tossed the shining blade into the air. A gasp, forced from between some anxious lip, broke the stillness. Every eye followed the course described by the knife, and when it fell, clean as an arrow, the blade piercing the earth, there was a sigh of relief. Piang was to have first choice.
"Piang, it is given that you shall choose. Will you proceed by the river or take your chances with the jungle? One route is as safe as another, and only the real charm boy can reach Ganassi."
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