Republic Reborn: Against the Stars and Stripes-Chapter 38: Orbea Hermanos

A shallow canal started to form where the soldiers worked the ground with their hoes and spades. The dirt, moist from the morning dew, made a rhythmic squelch followed by a grating scrape. Those not working on the long line that stretched as far as the train station unleashed their bolo blades to clear the grass, trees, and bushes around the trench under construction.

It was a good position—slightly sloped and near the road. I could see the fingerprints of Heneral Luna’s expert hands all over the work being done.

For their part, the soldiers worked hard, even under the angry Filipino sun. So much so that I felt guilty just sitting comfortably on the crate under the cover of a tall, old mango tree. Sheltering with me was Vicente, my escolta, and two horses tied to the large protruding roots.

Teniente Ronaldo Dimalanta had gone on ahead with the sargento primero in search of the owner of the horses. Dimalanta insisted I ’borrow’ them for our journey to Cavite, saying it wouldn’t look right for a general to travel on foot. I was against it, but the young man—eager to prove I made the right decision in bringing him along—was gone before I could stop him.

The nearby soldiers told us the horses belonged to their Capitan and his ayudante. Dimalanta was having trouble locating the officer among the train of soldiers, all in identical uniforms. The Capitan might have joined in the digging, which would make it harder for him—and his tiny shoulder rank patches—to stand out.

It was taking a while. While waiting, I decided to examine my newly acquired weapon. I pulled the revolver out of the holster already fixed on my waist and beamed at the sight of it. The golden lanyard around my neck was attached to the bottom of the pistol’s grip.

I was more into rifles than pistols in my gun collection. But the handgun in my hand was famous enough for me to recognize at first glance, even if I hadn’t personally owned one. It had that top-break mechanism with an auto-ejector that spit out spent cartridges with a satisfying snap.

A brand-new, pristine-looking, polished Smith & Wesson Model 3 ’Schofield’ revolv—

"Ah... an Orbea Hermanos," Vicente said, noticing I had drawn my sidearm. He leaned a little closer over my shoulder. "And an 1886 model at that."

"That’s a very nice gift, Don Martin," he nodded approvingly.

I was rarely mistaken in appraising guns. I looked at it again, still seeing what looked like a Schofield revolver—until I noticed the engravings. They were in Spanish.

"Orbea revolvers were standard issue for officers of the Spanish army. A lot of them were captured en masse from garrisons and arsenals when we defeated them here in Luzon," he explained. "And now they’re being issued to officers of the Republic."

On second thought, it made much more sense than it being an actual American revolver. If not, then it was likely a Spanish copy—and what a robust and well-made copy it was. I aimed it at the empty field on the other side of the road, opposite the soldiers. With a smirk, I imagined a target: an American soldier charging toward me with his Krag rifle and fixed bayonet.

I pressed the trigger and heard the expected empty click. I hadn’t yet loaded it with the bullets Heneral Isidoro Torres had provided me in a separate pouch.

The Orbea revolver felt heavy yet tight and balanced. It had the sensory benchmarks of a gun well-crafted.

I glanced at Vicente, then at his holstered sidearm, which he’d worn since he arrived in Marinduque. Unbelievably, though I’d often been curious, I hadn’t asked him about it once.

"How about you? Were you also issued one?" I gestured toward his holster with my lips.

He scowled slightly and put his hands on his hips. "No... when I said officers, I meant high-ranking officers. Junior officers like me have to provide for ourselves. The army isn’t exactly overflowing with firearms, as you already know."

"Well... let me see what you got for yourself."

"Nah... I’d rather not. It’s a secondhand pistol I bought in Manila for cheap, at the start of the revolution. It’s nothing to see."

I huffed. "I think you seem to forget... Teniente... that I am your direct superior now."

He chuckled bitterly, then sighed as he unholstered the pistol and handed it to me. I returned mine to its holster and examined the lump of metal in front of me.

It was crap. The pistol looked and felt cheap, like something mass-produced without any concern for quality. The metallurgy was lacking, showing tool marks and pitting. Some screws jutted out slightly. It sat light in the grip, like a toy gun—and felt like it would shatter if you tried to fire it.

But it wasn’t ’nothing to see.’ It was still an interesting artifact—one I would have proudly displayed in my gun closet. Just not something I’d bring into battle or dare pull the trigger on.

"How much was this?" I asked, handing it back after a few minutes of examination. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

"Five pesos," he said with slight derision, returning it to his holster.

"Sounds about right."

Vicente grunted.

Looking back toward Dimalanta and the sargento, we saw them returning—with an officer in tow. Not the captain, if I had to guess; the officer looked younger than Dimalanta... unless it was yet another case like that of del Pilar or Tinio.

Ronaldo looked significantly more haggard when he returned. He wiped the sweat from his brow, slightly out of breath, and introduced the officer. "This is Teniente Paciano Ramos... ayudante to Capitan Luis Velarde."

"May I know who I’m speaking to?" Ramos asked, looking at me. He had clearly been pulled out of work. There was mud all over him, and he kept dragging and thumping his boots to shake off the soil caked onto the soles.

I remained seated on the wooden crate of uniforms as I replied, "Heneral Martin Lardizabal... of the Distrito Militar de Marinduque, Mindoro y Romblón."

The young officer pursed his lips at the name. "I haven’t heard of a general in that part of the country... Heneral Diokno, I know... but—"

He paused and nervously gulped when I gave him a hard stare. Of course he wouldn’t know—my appointment was only a few days old.

"So you think I’d go out of my way to impersonate a general... hire an escort detail... just to borrow your horses?"

"Do I need to show you my letter of appointment from the President himself?" I asked sternly. "Are you confident in your Spanish?"

I wasn’t the only one giving him a hard stare. Everyone—including the privates standing behind me—looked offended by his question.

The young adjutant smiled and eagerly waved his hands in front of him. "Paumanhin, Heneral. There’s no need to."

"And the horses?" Vicente asked, a bit too sharply.

"Yes... the Capitan is willing to give you one of the horses—the one I rode in," he said, pointing to the darker, less impressive of the two. "But he wishes to keep his own... if that’s alright with you."

"That works... Teniente."