The Improbable Journeys of Billy Battles

Chapter 22-2

“As long as it takes to close our office and

no longer. I don’t relish getting caught in a dust up.”

Our ship tied up at Pier 7 in Manila, and I

handed the Spanish customs officer some Canadian identity papers

that Bat had wrangled from the honorary Canadian consul in Denver.

Bat was himself born in Canada and therefore had some pull with his

fellow Canadian. He got the papers for me after I told him

Katharina had asked me to travel to Manila to make sure her brother

was okay.

“War is coming, and you don’t want to be a

Yankee floating around in that stew,” Bat had told me.

As I handed the customs officer my Canadian

papers, he looked me up and down suspiciously.

“Eres Americano?” he challenged.

“Canada,” I said. “Can-na-da.”

“Nada?” he replied.

“No. Yo Soy de Canadá. Vancouver.”

“Ah, Sí. Eres Canadiense.”

“Si.”

“¿Por qué estás en Manila?”

“Yo estoy en el negocio de importación de

Madera,” I said, explaining that I was in the wood import

business.

He finally allowed me to pass. As I had four

years before, I traveled light with just two valises and no trunks,

even though the SS Nile allowed passengers up to 350 pounds

of luggage. I flagged down a carromata, one of Manila’s

ever-present horse-drawn two-wheeled carts, and gave the driver

Manfred’s address in Manila’s exclusive Santa Cruz district.

Manfred’s house hadn’t changed in four

years. The trees were a bit higher, the garden more lush with a

variety of tropical flowers everywhere, but the house, with its

wide verandas and large open windows, looked the same.

I knocked on the ten-foot-high teakwood door

with the heavy iron knocker. I could hear the sound echoing

throughout the house through the open windows that looked out onto

the veranda. Finally, after several minutes of knocking, the door

opened but just slightly.

A woman’s face peered out at me. Seeing that

I was a foreigner, she spoke Spanish.

“Si?”

“Estoy aquí para ver al Sr. Messner. Soy un

amigo.” I wasn’t sure if my Spanish was correct or if I was

pronouncing it properly. So I repeated what I had said in

English.

“I am here to see Mr. Messner. I am a

friend.”

“Él no está en la casa,” she said. I

understood that much. He wasn’t home.

“¿Donde esta el? ¿Dónde puedo encontrarlo?”

I asked where he was and where I could find him.

“Él fue arrestado,” she said.

“Arrested? When?” At that point, I pushed

myself through the half open door and into the hallway. It was then

that I recognized the woman. It was Grace, Manfred’s housemaid.

“Grace? Soy William Battles. ¿Me recuerdas?”

I asked if she remembered me.

“Oh, sí, señor Battles. Ha sido un largo

tiempo.”

“Yes, it has been a long time, Grace. But

when was Mr. Messner arrested, and where did they take him.”

“Sólo un momento” she said. Then she yelled,

“Carlos, por favor, ven aquí!”

Moments later, Carlos arrived. He spoke

English and German as well as Spanish. He looked me up and down,

not sure who I was.

“Esta es Mr. Battles… eh, El amigo del Sr.

Messner.”

Carlos’s face lit up at that. “Yes, yes, Mr.

Battles,” he said, his hand reaching for mine. “I remember you. You

were with the baroness Schreiber… Oh, it is so good to see you. We

are having much trouble these days.”

“I gather… what happened? Why was Manfred

arrested? Where did they take him?”

“Spanish soldiers came about a month ago and

took him away,” Carlos said. “They took him to Carcel y Presidio

Correccional for questioning… uh, in English, the Bilibid Prison on

Oroquieta Street.”

“Have you been able to see him?”

“No, they will not let me.”

“Have you gone to the American

consulate?”

“No, I am not even sure if it is still

open.”

I put my things in one of the guest rooms on

the second floor and, along with Carlos, left for the American

consulate. We arrived at a white stucco house that was surrounded

by a tall black wrought-iron fence. A dozen or so Spanish soldiers

stood at the gate, and a few others were placed strategically at

various points along the fence.

Carlos asked in Spanish to see the officer

in charge. A few moments later, a short heavy-set man with a bushy

black moustache that covered the upper half of his mouth appeared

from a clump of trees. He wore a lightweight cotton uniform with a

long single-breasted dark-blue coat with gold shoulder cords, red

trousers, and a white shako helmet decorated with three gold bands

around the base. A red silk sash festooned with a gold knot, and

red tassels were wrapped around his middle.

“Si?” he said walking up to us. “Soy el

Coronel Ramos.”

“Do you speak English?” I asked.

Colonel Ramos looked me over carefully. “Are

you American?”

“No, I am Canadian.” I produced the papers

Bat had procured for me and handed them to him.

“I see… Canada. And what is your business

here?”

“I have come to see the consul general.”

“Why?”

“It is a business matter. I am an importer

of wood products, and I have a contract that needs the approval of

the American government.” I had worked out that excuse during our

ride from Manfred’s house. I didn’t want to tell him I was trying

to arrange for Manfred’s release.“The American Consulate is

closed.”

“Where is the consul general?”

“He is inside… under protección oficial… how

you say, official protection.”

“But he is a diplomat… you can’t keep him

incommunicado.”

“So you say… However, he is in there under

official protection just the same,” Colonel Ramos said.

“How long will you keep him under house

arrest?”

“He is not under house arrest. Nevertheless,

he will stay in the consulate until I receive orders to allow him

to leave. We are keeping him there for his own safety. Manila is a

dangerous place for Americans these days.”

He was probably right. Out in Manila Bay,

Commodore Dewey’s U.S. Navy Asiatic fleet remained a palpably

menacing presence since the first of May when he defeated the

Spanish Pacific Squadron and kept the Spanish ships bottled up. To

say that there was general Spanish hostility toward Americans in

Manila would have been an understatement. While there were no

American ground forces in the Philippines, I knew it would only be

a matter of time before that happened. It was already the middle of

June, and the war in Cuba was well underway. Once an American

invasion began, Manfred and any other Americans in custody might be

executed.

“Look, Colonel Ramos, I really must see the

American consul. It is very important.”

We talked back and forth for a few more

minutes, and then Carlos took me aside and suggested that I offer

the Colonel an incentive.

“Do you have any Filipino bank notes?”

Carlos asked. “Or even better, any U.S. dollars?”

I still had several hundred Philippine pesos

from my trip four years earlier, and of course, I had several

thousand dollars in cash back at Manfred’s house. I pulled out my

wallet. I had about $50 in cash and several Philippine bank

notes.

“Let me handle this,” Carlos said, taking a

$10 bill and a wad of Filipino pesos. “You stay here.” He walked up

Colonel Ramos and said something. Ramos looked at me and then back

to Carlos. Then he nodded. The two of them left and walked behind

the stand of trees Ramos had emerged from earlier. Moments later,

Carlos returned.

“We can go in now,” he said. The guards

swung open the heavy iron gate, and we walked toward the house. An

American flag still flew from the flagpole near the front veranda.

When we reached the veranda, the front door opened, and a Filipino

man ushered us into a small foyer. We settled into a couple of

chairs, and about five minutes later, an American man who looked to

be about forty appeared.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he

asked. He wore a brown suit over a white shirt and a dark-blue

ascot held in place by a large gold stud shaped like an eagle.

I stood up. “We have come to see the consul

general.”

“Sorry to disappoint you. He is not

here.”

“But the colonel out front said—”

“You mean old Ramos? He is quite the wag.

Likes to tell people we’re all prisoners in here or some such.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“Not really… In any case, the consul general

left two days ago for the American fleet out in the bay.”

“Damn!” I muttered.

“Anything I can do for you. I’m the vice

consul. Palmquist is the name. Tobias Palmquist.”

I extended my hand. Then he ushered us into

an office. For the next several minutes, I explained my mission and

the still-unknown fate of Manfred Messner.

“Hmm, I think I have met Mr. Messner. He’s

in the lumber export business, I believe.”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“Fortunately, I still have some good contacts with

the Spanish authorities, and I can ask for an audience with Basilio

Augustín y Dávila, the acting Spanish governor-general of the

Philippines. Of course, we haven’t had diplomatic relations with

Spain since late April. But I can tell you, after seeing what Dewey

did out there in Manila Bay, none of these people really want to go

to war with the United States, and many are hedging their bets,

trying to keep an open but unofficial relationship with the

consulate.”[9]

An hour later, Palmquist, Carlos, and I were

on our way to Malacañan Palace to see the Spanish governor-general.

The palace was a red and white Spanish colonial neoclassical wood

and stucco structure that sat along the Pasig River in

well-manicured gardens shaded by some forty acres of acacia and

balete trees.

We were stopped at the gate of the complex

for a few minutes while word was sent to Augustín that the American

vice consul wanted to see him on “a matter of some urgency.”

Finally, we were escorted into the

governor-general’s office. Augustín was a man who looked to be

about sixty wearing a military uniform replete with epaulets and a

chest full of medals and ribbons. He had a head of wavy black hair

parted high on the left side, a long black heavily waxed handlebar

moustache, and chin puff. He stood up from his desk as we entered

and walked toward us.

I assumed he would be an insufferable,

egotistical autocrat. Instead, he was a soft-spoken, amazingly

friendly man, given the circumstances he found himself in with the

U.S. Navy blocking Manila Bay and the arrival of American troops

only a few weeks away.

Palmquist introduced Carlos and me and then

explained the purpose of our visit.

“I see, and this Mr. Messner is an American

businessman here in Manila?” Augustín asked, motioning us to be

seated in one of the sofas that occupied his sizeable office.

I spoke up then, explaining that Manfred was

not involved with any insurrection, that he was a simple exporter

of fine Philippine lumber, and that I, a Canadian, was handling the

importing of that lumber to Canada via Vancouver, British

Columbia.

Augustín reached for a buzzer on his desk

and pressed it. A few seconds later, a man entered and joined

Augustín behind his desk. The two spoke softly in Spanish for a few

moments, the man left, and Augustín turned to us.

“I have asked my assistant to look into this

matter of Mr. Messner,” he said. “Would you gentlemen care for some

refreshment while we wait?” He waved to a white-jacketed Filipino

servant who left and returned a few minutes later with a tray of

Port wine, a large canister of coffee, and several glasses and

cups.

“So, Mr. Palmquist,” Augustín said as we

settled around a coffee table, “what do you think will happen when

the American soldiers arrive? Will there be an invasion?”

“I really cannot say, Governor. I am

assuming there will be an opportunity for some kind of capitulation

before any hostilities.”

Augustín smiled. “That would seem

reasonable, but who can say what will happen when men and weapons

are introduced in the place of diplomacy? The military mind seeks

conquest, not conversation.”

“I believe Major General Wesley Merritt, who

is leading the Eighth Army Corps, is a reasonable man who would

rather take Manila without bloodshed if possible,” Palmquist

said.

As I listened to this back and forth, I

began to wonder what would happen if Manila came under siege by

Dewey’s fleet and American troops landed on the shores of the city.

I was running that thought through my head when Augustin’s

assistant returned, and the two of them stepped out of the

room.

Augustín returned five minutes later and

informed us that if we wanted, we could visit Manfred in prison

today, but his release would take a bit longer.

“I need to speak to the arresting officer

and examine the evidence,” he said.

“Evidence? What evidence?” I asked, rising

from my chair. “He is no revolutionary, no combatant.”

Augustín seemed startled by my outburst.

Then he waved his hand in a calming manner.