Republic Reborn: Against the Stars and Stripes-Chapter 101: Unpredictable

Nothing ever went smoothly as planned. Through the years, life had never failed to remind me of that.

And yet, I still couldn’t get used to the unpredictable ebb and flow of existence.

The loss of the sixty stolen rifles was a huge blow to our already limited arsenal. But it would pale in comparison to the political turmoil that could arise from my decision to apprehend the gobernadorcillo and his younger brother.

I ordered Capitan Sadiwa to further tighten the enforcement of martial law in the town proper. No recruit was to be left idling in the barracks. Checkpoints were to be reinforced, and patrols doubled.

I also instructed him to launch an investigation into the incident and to take into custody anyone suspected of involvement.

By the end of it all, I was both mentally and physically drained. Too tired, and with the roads too dark to risk a return trip, I was forced to spend the night in the same guest room inside Don Suarez’s residence I usually slept in when I was in town. Sleep did not come easily. I lay there for a long while, troubled by dark thoughts and the weight of awkwardness.

The officers and recruits in Landi had no idea what had transpired. While I had been storming the gobernadorcillo’s house, they were conducting the final night drill of the training. I was slightly consoled when Colonel Abad informed me of its success and the commendable performance of the recruits.

Eventually, I had to inform the officers of what had happened. All of them were taken by surprise, though some less than others.

"I always had a bad feeling about Don Suarez. This doesn’t surprise me at all," Pedro commented. "I think if it weren’t for your intimidating feat of defeating the pirates in Kasily, he wouldn’t have shown you any respect."

Pedro’s opinion was far from unbiased, but I couldn’t disagree with his hypothesis. I had noticed a clear shift in how Don Suarez treated me after the brutal execution of the pirates in the town plaza—for him and all to see.

"That said, it’s too early to pass judgment. It’s a heavy accusation, and in some ways, it doesn’t quite make sense," Vicente reminded us. "Why would he steal firearms? To sell them? Isn’t he already rich? That seems like a risky and foolish way to make money."

Triviño, ever the smartass, argued the opposite position. That said, he had a point. Before any verdict could be passed, I would need real evidence. I planned to shift all my focus to the matter next week, once the training was concluded.

It was Friday—the final day of training. The recruits were to be evaluated to see if they had attained a satisfactory level of proficiency in the skills I had intended to teach them.

For the last time, they cycled through the drills at their assigned stations. From the get-go, I saw the difference. There was a sharpness in how they moved, a clarity in their execution that hadn’t been there just two weeks ago.

In the drills and discipline station, they transitioned from formation to formation with marked precision and respectable speed. They didn’t stumble over one another anymore, didn’t fumble for commands. Orders were heard and carried out smoothly.

In the weapons handling and bayonet combat station, their grips were firmer, their movements cleaner. They jabbed and parried with confidence—not the clumsy enthusiasm of amateurs, but the measured control of soldiers beginning to understand violence as craft.

In the medical and casualty care zone, recruits worked quickly to apply bandages, carry wounded comrades, and simulate triage under pressure. They weren’t medics yet, but the battlefield demanded everyone know how to save a life.

In the tent and camp life station, I watched each platoon erect a small field camp. Within thirty minutes, they had set up tents, dug latrines, and arranged their cooking areas. Campfires were lit with dry brush, mess kits unpacked in orderly fashion. Their routines had become second nature.

In the fire team maneuver zone, they performed flanking, bounding, retreating, and advancing as fluidly as modern infantry. Gone was the chaos of their first attempts. They moved as one, shouted as one, and executed their tasks with tactical rhythm.

They ended at the obstacle and assault course. I watched with arms crossed as the squads vaulted walls, crawled under wire, and stormed mock enemy trenches. Their times were faster. Their movement was cleaner. There was less shouting, less fumbling. Just grit and momentum.

Then came our grandest exercise: trench warfare simulation. All four platoons participated. Two launched an assault, while the other two defended their muddy, sandbag-lined positions . Spectators were instructed to make as much noise as possible to simulate battlefield chaos. Drums were beaten, bamboo was slammed, whistles shrieked. Eduardo’s crew fired the last of the dummy rounds from the swivel cannons for added effect.

It was a proper spectacle, loud and chaotic. Roque’s and Lorenzo’s platoons stood out with their coordination, but even the other two platoons held their ground well.

We had planned to conduct revisions the next morning if any stations showed subpar performances, but there was little need. If anything, only a few slower recruits showed minor shortcomings. Overall, the training was a success.

"You shall have tonight, and tomorrow morning, for yourselves," I told them at the end of the day. We were gathered once more at the drill field, the sun dipping low behind us.

Their faces were red from exertion, soaked in sweat and grime, but the moment the words left my mouth, their expressions lit up. Cheers rang out, whistles pierced the air, and a few tossed their straw hats into the sky.

"Spend the time preparing for your graduation," I said with a faint smile. "Soon, you will be full-fledged soldiers."

Their joy was contagious. For a moment, I allowed myself to feel the same.

For a few hours, I forgot about Santa Cruz. I forgot the missing rifles. I forgot the political implications. The thought of having a fully-trained company under my command dulled the headache pounding at the back of my skull.

But it seemed fate was determined to remind me that I was not yet free from its games.

Without warning, Señor Alcántara arrived in Landi. He looked like he had ridden without pause since docking at the Buyabod port—clothes rumpled, horse lathered, hair wind-tossed and face pale from fatigue.

The smile I had worn only moments earlier faded instantly.

My mind spun with possibilities. Had the pirates returned and attacked Boac? Had Don Contreras betrayed me? Or was there a message from Luzon—the war lost, the Republic dissolved, and Aguinaldo captured?

We were just about to depart for Kasily. I had one foot in the stirrup when I heard the thunder of hooves and saw the cloud of dust rise at the edge of the field.

He reined in beside us, leapt off his horse, and landed with unsteady feet.

"What is wrong, Señor Alcántara?" I asked, my voice tight, already dreading the answer.

He bent over, catching his breath, eyes wide with urgency. He looked at me, swallowing hard.

"Your cousin..." he said, his voice raw. "Isidro has been abducted in Gasan."