Republic Reborn: Against the Stars and Stripes-Chapter 103: Rebellion

A sitio near barrio Banot had been the site of the incident. Isidro and Sargento Tolentino’s platoon had taken refuge there for the night, seeking shelter inside three small huts situated just off the shore, where the trees gave way to the open beach.

The huts were simple structures, hastily built from bamboo, nipa palm, and driftwood, the kind often found along the coasts—cool in the daytime, and just dry enough during light rains. Nipa was an excellent material for shade and ventilation, but it was fragile—susceptible to fire, knives, and the elements.

All three huts had sustained significant damage. One of them was on the verge of collapse, its roof slanting dangerously and its supports weakened by deep gashes. The doors had been broken down, likely kicked in or struck with brute force, and the walls were riddled with holes and long, jagged slashes.

The survivors told us the attackers were armed with bolo knives and machetes. This was not hard to confirm. The bloodstains smeared and spattered across the floors and walls were consistent with slash wounds—wide arcs, violent strokes. Bamboo planks bore dozens of sharp notches, and the supporting wooden posts looked as if they’d been hacked repeatedly.

I might have suspected pirates, if not for two things: the attackers did not come from the sea, and their targets were exclusively the soldiers. Just beyond the huts, a dense wall of rainforest began, with ferns and undergrowth creeping out from the tree line. The foliage looked undisturbed now, but it would have offered the attackers easy cover before and after the strike.

"Trying to pursue them without knowing their destination would be a fool’s errand," Gasan’s gobernadorcillo, Señor Ramon Ornate, said as he stood beside me, staring into the treeline. "It rained yesterday morning, so whatever tracks they left behind have likely been washed away."

I turned to look at him. Ornate, a balding man in his thirties, still looked disheveled from being roused before sunrise. Last night, he had greeted me wearing only a thin camisa and slippers, offering me a cot in his home. I’d awoken him at first light and asked to be led here, and he had agreed without protest.

I did not suspect him of involvement. The Pulajanes had no friends among the principalia. Their cult—this strange mix of folk magic, distorted Catholicism, and peasant rage—was virulently anti-elite. They saw the principalia as another face of oppression, no different from the Spaniards, while the principalia, in turn, saw them as dangerous heretics and anarchists.

The former Martin had heard of them before—how they rose during the twilight of Spanish rule, conducting their own brand of violent revolution. They attacked both the Spaniards and fellow Filipinos, often leaving carnage in their wake.

Looking at Ornate’s round, pockmarked face and untidy mustache, I remembered something. "Do you know a... Gabriela, I think her name was? Isidro had been courting her for some time."

"Yes, I do, Heneral," the gobernadorcillo replied with a nod, his face lighting up with recognition. "In fact, that hut there—" he pointed at the most heavily damaged one, "—was her house. The villagers say he was alone with her that night, when the attack happened."

"Hay naku, Isidro," I muttered under my breath. That was a detail Señor Alcantara had failed to mention. So that was why they had camped here, in this remote sitio. He had let his tiny pecker, dictate their movements. If they had stayed within the town limits, the outcome might have been different. They might have deterred the attack altogether.

"Where is Gabriela now?" I asked.

"That, I don’t know, Heneral. But she should still be nearby. She spoke to Sargento Guzman yesterday."

"Sargento!" I called out.

Guzman was speaking with Colonel Abad and a few men by the doorway of one of the battered huts. He turned immediately upon hearing my voice and jogged over.

"I want you to find Gabriela," I told him. "Bring her to me."

---

But Gabriela was nowhere to be found. After a quick sweep of the surrounding area, we learned she may have returned to her home barrio in Torrijos. Guzman said he had tried speaking with her the day before, but the girl had been nearly catatonic—traumatized and distant, barely responsive.

In hindsight, I doubted we would’ve gotten much out of her even if she had spoken. The shock she must have endured... It was likely beyond words.

The four surviving recruits were badly shaken, but at least they could speak. We interviewed them in turn, though their accounts were vague and repetitive. They told us nothing we hadn’t already heard from the villagers. It had all happened so fast, under the cover of darkness. The only solid detail was that the attackers wore red headbands and bore amulets—both calling cards of the Pulajan cultists.

One of the recruits had a gash along his arm that looked dangerously inflamed. It would need proper attention. With our leads drying up in Gasan, I decided it was time to return to Boac, where Señor Soriano could treat the wounded.

It had been two and a half weeks since I last stepped foot in Boac. I had hoped returning would provide some measure of comfort—familiar walls, familiar voices. But as I dismounted in front of the Casa Real, I felt no relief. Only the growing weight on my shoulders. I had started to associate this place with grim duties and heavy decisions.

The Bulaqueño soldiers I brought with me in Kasily, was already in the building. Vicente and Isabela too, likely waiting inside.

As I climbed the stairs to the second floor, I could already hear their voices echoing faintly down the hall. They were practicing Spanish again. From the tone of Vicente’s voice, I could tell he was losing patience—but not seriously. Isabela was laughing too hard to take him seriously. I heard a mispronunciation, followed by a burst of giggles.

I paused, my ears catching another sound—another girl’s laugh. Curious, I took the last steps two at a time and stepped into the sala.

There were three people inside.

Vicente stood animatedly wagging a finger, playfully chastising Isabela, who was half-curled on the couch, shoulders shaking with laughter. Sitting beside her, sharing in the mirth, was Alicia.

She was the first to notice me. Her smile widened instantly as she stood up.

"Heneral, you’re home!" she said with excitement.

I smiled back. I should have expected this. After everything, the girl wouldn’t want to be left alone again—not when she had tasted the comfort of company.

And truth be told, I didn’t mind. If she wanted to stay, she was welcome to.

---

I had barely closed my eyes when I was woken up again.

An unexpected visitor had arrived.

Don Fidel Contreras was once again waiting for me in the conference room. He was never the bearer of good news. A cynical part of me almost expected him to reveal himself as the true mastermind behind the abduction and to offer a trade—his grandson for my nephew.

I opened the door to a familiar sight. Don Contreras stood facing the large maps pinned beside the chalkboard, hands clasped behind his back. But this time, he wasn’t alone. Seated at the long table, shoulders slumped and head buried in his hands, was Nestor Nieva—the former cadet candidate.

They weren’t known to be close. Seeing them together raised questions.

"How can I help you, Don Contreras?" I asked, the creaking door nearly drowning out my voice.

He turned to face me. His expression was serious, but not confrontational.

"Heneral," he said, unusually formal, "I have information about Isidro’s abduction in Gasan."

My exhaustion vanished at once, though skepticism remained. Why would he have information on that?

I was about to ask when I heard a faint sob. Nestor had uncovered his face. His eyes were red, and tears still streaked down his cheeks.

"My grandfather..." he croaked, "the gobernadorcillo... he blackmailed him, Heneral. He didn’t want to join... but he was relentless. He kept forcing him."

I blinked. "Gobernadorcillo... Señor Nepomuceno? Who’s blackmailing who? What does this have to do with the abduction?"

Don Fidel answered for him. "The former gobernadorcillo, Don Lardizabal. Señor Florentino Paras, it seems, has been organizing an armed rebellion against you. He coerced Señor Nieva to join him."

The pieces began to fall into place. Both Paras and Nieva had withdrawn from the public eye lately. I thought they had simply lost interest in politics.

"An armed rebellion? Then you’re saying the Pulajanes didn’t act alone?"

"They didn’t," Fidel replied. "Señor Paras has somehow rallied the Pulajanes to his side. Rumors suggest that Buenavista and Torrijos have already been overrun. Their gobernadorcillos—either dead or imprisoned."

I narrowed my eyes. That was heavy information, "And you know this from Nestor?"

"Partially," he said, glancing at the sobbing young man with something akin to pity. "He overheard some of their conversations. But I also have a mine near Gasan, on the border with Buenavista. Some of my miners and their families fled this afternoon. They brought word."

He stepped around the table toward me, reaching into his coat. He pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

"Here are the names they’ve heard... those involved."

I stepped forward and snatched the note from his hand. Ink still slightly damp. Most of the names meant nothing to me—principales from obscure barangays or remote haciendas.

No Suarez... but a Sadiwa.