Republic Reborn: Against the Stars and Stripes-Chapter 102: Pulajanes

The graduation of the recruits was cancelled.

With our clothes still drenched in sweat from the day’s training and caked in the dust of Landi’s scorched fields, I ordered everyone to march in formation with Señor Alcántara back to the gunship anchored offshore. We were heading for Gasan at once.

Well... almost everyone.

I had given separate orders to Vicente. At first light, he would return to Kasily with the Bulakeño soldiers and escort Isabela back to Boac via the Garay, ensuring her safety. That left me with the bulk of our exhausted company, marching in silence as the sun dipped below the horizon.

I said nothing on the ride to the port. We were in too much of a hurry for small talk, and I—I was afraid to ask for more details. Part of me clung to the hope that it wasn’t as bad as it sounded.

The moment we were aboard the gunship, the senior officers drifted instinctively to the prow, not far from the gundeck. The metal of the deck groaned faintly under our boots as we leaned over the railings, watching the moonlight shimmer across the sea. The warm, briny air did little to soothe the heaviness in our chests.

When Señor Alcántara joined us, it wasn’t me who broke the silence.

"When did this happen?" Colonel Abad said, his voice unusually hushed.

"I think it happened last night," Señor Alcántara replied. His tone was rushed, uneven, like the words were escaping before he could fully form them. "The news didn’t reach us in Boac until late this afternoon."

"And have you already been to Gasan?" Capitan Roque asked next.

"Yes... but all we found was..." he paused, swallowing visibly. "Our... dead."

The word hung in the air like smoke. I blinked, startled. "Dead?" I finally said, my voice cracking with disbelief.

Señor Alcántara exhaled deeply, glancing at the shimmering water before meeting my eyes again. "Sar... Sargento Tolentino is dead. And so were twelve of the recruits with him."

The words hit me like a sack of rocks. In my mind’s eye, I saw his gaunt, sunken face, always with that tired but good-natured smile. Along with Sargento Guzman, he had been one of my few reliable men, even before I had started training the new recruits.

I remembered assigning him to guard Señora Alcántara during the scandal in Boac. He did such an impressive job that she had offered money from her own pocket for his bonus. I rejected the donation, but still granted the sergeant a bonus from our own funds. I’d heard he lost it all in a card game later that night—but showed up the next day just as cheerful, just as ready to serve.

A simple man. But as trustworthy as they come.

"How did... how did it happen?" I asked quietly. Around me, the officers remained still, their expressions unreadable. These were our first true losses.

"I heard they were taken by surprise in their sleep," Alcántara answered. "The villagers said they heard shouting—then screaming—and then gunshots."

I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. They hadn’t learned yet how to post sentries at night. They hadn’t trained for a midnight assault. That kind of ambush... they wouldn’t have stood a chance. And knowing Tolentino, he would’ve fought back anyway, blindly, in the dark.

"Only four of them escaped..." he continued, after a pause that stretched painfully long. "The rest, including Isidro, are missing. We believe they’ve been abducted."

That last word sank like a stone. Abducted. And even that wasn’t certain. I had sent him there—with raw recruits, barely weeks into training. But who would have imagined such violence on this island? Much less after our triumph in Kasily, which should’ve scared off any would-be bandits or rebels.

"Who do you think was behind this?" Colonel Abad asked, now speaking in the kind of voice one uses for bad omens.

Señor Alcántara glanced left and right. He seemed to weigh the risk of even saying it aloud. "Have you heard of the Pulajanes?"

---

Gasan was a small town—almost too small to be called one at all. It had the feel of an overgrown barrio. Only a handful of bahay-na-bato stood scattered across the narrow, dusty roads. The town plaza was rough and uneven, with tufts of grass growing unchecked at the corners. The few stone structures bore cracked walls and chipped capiz windows. Nothing had been whitewashed in years.

It was already midnight when we arrived. We had taken the faster route from Santa Cruz, passing through Torrijos, but it still took us four hours aboard the steam-powered gunship.

We were ferried into a small cove about a kilometer north of the town proper. By then, most people should have been asleep. But the sight of torchlight flickering in the darkness—and the sound of two hundred marching boots—must have roused half the town.

As we entered the settlement, a small crowd had already gathered to meet us. They looked afraid—and understandably so. For one, they had never seen this many armed men assembled in their lifetimes. For another, their memories of Spanish rule had taught them that the arrival of soldiers usually meant someone was about to be punished.

Sargento Guzman met me at the plaza, his platoon standing stiffly behind him. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, his uniform crumpled from what looked like hours without rest. He’d been close to Tolentino—I didn’t even have to ask.

I moved toward him and spoke quietly. "Where are the bodies?"

He said nothing at first, only raised a shaky hand and pointed toward the chapel.

The small churchyard was lit with candles, their flames fluttering in the night breeze. There, just outside the chapel walls, were several fresh mounds of dirt. Simple wooden crosses marked each grave, hastily fashioned from branches and tied with cord.

I frowned, feeling a lump rise in my throat.

"No wake?" I asked. "We could’ve brought them back to Boac."

Sargento Guzman bowed his head, his voice cracking.

"The bodies... were mutilated... Heneral."