Republic Reborn: Against the Stars and Stripes-Chapter 39: Calle Real

It wasn’t until we were actually traveling—no longer just planning—that it fully dawned on me how arduous a workaround the rising tensions with the Americans had forced us to take.

Had we access to the port of Manila, we could’ve boarded Alcantara’s ship and reached Marinduque within a fortnight.

But because we would almost certainly be apprehended the moment we set foot in the city, and because the Americans likely had eyes on Manila Bay and nearby ports through their navy, we had to go further south.

Three days—that was the estimated travel time from our disembarkation point in Caloocan to the remote town of Ternate, Cavite. With the crates and the twenty-six-man escort detail, including Vicente, we could only move at marching pace.

If Isidro managed to convince Señor Alcantara, and if all went as planned, we would arrive in Ternate on the 26th with the ship already waiting for us.

After disembarking in Caloocan and acquiring a horse from the soldiers working the trenchworks around the town, we continued our journey southward.

Our pace was hampered by the traffic. It wasn’t just columns of uniformed men dragging their supplies who crowded the dirt roads—some civilians living around Manila had begun evacuating, like flocks of birds fleeing ahead of an oncoming storm.

We reached another trench line under construction in La Loma, which made it the closest entrenchment to the American positions. It was there we learned that Heneral Luna was in the area, though we couldn’t readily find him—he was off somewhere along the stretch, instructing troops.

Instead, we found Colonel Bugallon again. We spoke briefly, and by the end of the conversation, he had secured for me two carabao-pulled carts for the crates. He offered additional men for my escort, but I declined. More men would only slow us down.

"Is the Calle Real still passable, Colonel?" I asked as we were about to leave.

The Calle Real was the main road connecting Intramuros to the neighboring provinces. It would be the fastest route by land to Cavite. But if the Americans already had a presence on that road, we would need to find an alternate route—perhaps through Marikina and Pasig.

"It should be, Heneral. The Americans are still holed up in the city. We’ve got outposts and checkpoints all along the road... they’ll help you," he said.

To our collective relief, and on his advice, we marched onward. I rode at the head of the column on horseback, followed by the officers and soldiers on foot, and finally the carts bringing up the rear.

He was right. The Calle Real was still in Filipino hands. The Americans only held the city center and the districts of Paco and Ermita. Since the mock Battle of Manila, they had made no major expansion of their occupied territory.

But the route was vulnerable. The Filipino presence along the road consisted only of small huts and bamboo barricades. The entire stretch, lying close to the coastline, was flat—easy prey for artillery from within the city or from the monstrous ships in the bay.

Still, that morning, there was no attack. Not yet. The road was still ours. The Filipino soldiers stationed there passed us through with ease and even seemed heartened by our presence.

Before long, we reached San Juan, then Pasig, where we stopped at San Nicolas to buy live chickens for slaughter and sacks of rice from local farmers. The soldiers seemed pleased with my purchase, which came from the still-sizeable purse I’d gotten from selling the abacá.

I sighed heavily at the thought that, with recent developments, I’d never get the other half from that American clerk. In hindsight, I could’ve gotten more if I had decided to sell to the Chinese.

We pressed on, reaching San Pedro de Macati by noon. We made a stop to prepare lunch on the outskirts of a barrio called Malibay. Just before the huts that marked the village proper, we set up under the shade of several large mango trees beside a rice field.

The soldiers excitedly took the chickens from their cages and dispatched them. Soon, the earthy scent of the paddies was replaced by the rich aroma of roasting chicken. On a separate pit, a large pot we’d acquired in San Nicolas was used to cook rice. The crates were unloaded temporarily, and Dimalanta sent some men to fetch water from the barrio.

The rice was slightly undercooked, and the chicken bland and gamey—a far cry from Agapita’s heavenly cooking. But I hadn’t expected more. I was with soldiers, not chefs. Hungry and tired from the march, we ate it as if it were a feast.

Afterwards, I ordered a thirty-minute rest before we braved the sun’s heat and the road’s dust again.

Many of the soldiers took the opportunity for a quick nap, including Dimalanta. I watched them sleeping, their uniforms tinted gray beneath the shade, as I sat again on one of the crates, my back resting against the tree trunk.

When I tired of watching them, I shifted my gaze to the spluttering sounds nearby. Across the road, a carabao was blissfully bathing in a muddy pool. The leaves of a tamarind tree overhead let through strings of golden light that landed in circles on its dark hide, the mud, and the ground.

I envied the black big-horned cow. Sure, having a rope hooked through your nose or being forced to plow fields was no enviable life—but at least carabaos didn’t worry. They lived in the moment like children, free from the weight of tomorrow’s gathering storm clouds.

But even the carabao couldn’t hold my attention for long. I decided to check my handsome pistol again, but then remembered it wasn’t the only gift I’d received in Bulacan.

With a sudden burst of enthusiasm, I rummaged through my bag and smiled when I found the item.

I unwrapped the handkerchief and examined the sampaguita stems. My smile widened when I noticed the clumsy cut marks. She must’ve done it in a rush—perhaps as soon as she woke up and learned from her sister that I was leaving, she hurried to the yard.

One of the stems still had a flower on it. I raised it to my nose and was pleased to find it hadn’t yet lost its fragrance. Or maybe it had. I realized a moment later that most of the scent came from the handkerchief itself—she’d perfumed it with the same scent she wore during the banquet.

To my further amusement, I noticed her initials embroidered in the corner.

"I think she likes you back, Don Martin."

I nearly jumped off the crate. Once again, Vicente had appeared beside me like a phantom.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about, Vicente," I said, flustered. "I’m old enough to be her father."

Vicente chuckled—far too much, in my opinion. "For someone so old, you sure don’t know women. Most of them prefer older men. You’re aged just right."

"Where do you even learn this?" I snorted and laughed. "Drop it."

"I mean, she gave you her handkerchief. That right there is—"

"It’s because she was in a hurry, Vicente," I interjected.

"Nah. I don’t think that’s it. I think you should pursue her—"

"Drop it, Teniente," I repeated, firmer now. "That’s an order."