Republic Reborn: Against the Stars and Stripes-Chapter 58: God and Country

Once again, several carts arrived at the doors of the Casa Real on Saturday. The sight of them removed a thorn from my side. After delivering a shipment of boots and ammunition pouches last week, I had made another, much more difficult request. Ever the skilled tradesman, Señor Lim did not disappoint.

Contained in twenty-five rectangular ammunition boxes—most of which I assume were looted directly from Spanish cuarteles, given their pristine condition and the royal crest still stamped on some—were twenty-five thousand rounds of .43 Spanish cartridges. Two other crates held two thousand rounds of 7.55 mm cartridges.

He also brought me several dozen rifles, all of them Remingtons.

I had asked him for more ammunition in anticipation of the large-scale marksmanship training I was planning for the recruits in the coming week, along with additional Remington rifles for replacements and repairs.

"There was a trader in Samar who offered me nearly a dozen Mausers. He asked for thirty pesos each. What a rip-off," he chuckled, chewing on the delicious pancit bihon Isabela had cooked. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t suggested the noodle dish because Señor Lim was Chinese.

"You said Mausers?" I asked as I brought a small chest onto the table. "You didn’t buy them?"

"Yes," he pointed a fork at me. "That’s double the appropriate price. Factory price from a looter?"

He huffed and returned his attention to the noodles.

"I would’ve still paid for them, Señor Lim. Mausers are hard to come by," I told him.

"That’s why I’m a trader and you’re not," he said, glancing up again—his cheek puffed and some noodle strands spilling from his mouth. "If you want Mausers, just give me time. I’ll find someone selling at a more reasonable price."

I laughed softly and opened the chest, releasing the smell of old paper from the bills inside. "I’ll count on you, Señor Lim."

Inside were four piles of 100-peso bills, amounting to about four thousand pesos. It was one of three chests that held all of Martin’s life savings. Each had once contained 6,000 pesos, but this particular box was the one I’d been drawing from to fund the effort of building an army.

I cleared one pile and took half from another, placing 1,500 pesos on the table—the price for the entire purchase, including Señor Lim’s commission.

Señor Lim looked at the chest, then at the pile of cash. Quite uncharacteristically for the honest but uptight trader that he was, he looked a bit guilty.

"Tell me you don’t plan to finance the whole war," he said in a low voice. "That would be unwise, Martin. I know you’re feeling patriotic, but you have to think about the future."

I laughed as I fetched the envelope in my lap and started placing the bills inside. "Don’t worry... soon enough, I’ll have others pitch in."

He nodded. "As they should. It’s their country too."

"Agreed," I said.

---

It was funny how quickly the tides turned. Last December, during the Misa de Aguinaldo, I would’ve applauded Father Trinidad’s anti-war message if I could. In fact, I had planned to shake his hand and express my appreciation, but somewhere along the conversations after Mass, I forgot.

This Sunday, he preached the same message. But this time, it felt like it was aimed directly at me—he might as well have named me outright. And I know I wasn’t just being defensive. Ever since accepting the appointment and setting preparations in motion for the impending war, I had revealed my position—one directly opposed to the priest and his anti-war league.

Maybe I was biased, having switched sides, but the message sounded so flat it hurt my ears. Especially when he started quoting verses to support a fully pacifist stance.

"’Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves,’" he read aloud, lifting the heavy Bible at the pulpit. "What does this mean in light of our times? That a Christian must not be hasty or reckless. We are called to walk in peace, even in the midst of violence."

"Wise as serpents... harmless as doves..." he repeated. "We must wisen up and understand that violence—war—is not God’s way. We don’t need to raise the sword to be victorious. We don’t need to shed blood to be right. Because the victory of God is not always the victory of the sword."

I know little of the scriptures and couldn’t think of an immediate rebuttal... but I suspect he had twisted the verse. I wondered what he’d say about the fact that Spain subdued the Philippines with the sword in order to spread the very religion he was now preaching.

It was all the more awkward because, as governor, I always sat at the second or third pew. So I simply stared blankly at the dying figure of the crucified Christ behind the pulpit for the rest of the sermon.

After the Mass, the tension didn’t ease—it rose. Many principalia figures who usually shook my hand and chatted after church didn’t approach at all. Some didn’t even make eye contact. Florentino Paras briskly strode past me before I could extend a hand or greet him.

Conversely, others who weren’t usually close came up and spoke with me. The fathers of the four cadets checked in on their sons and voiced support for what I was doing. Señor Nepomuceno, in particular, said he could free up some workers on his vast hacienda if I needed more recruits.

As I left the cathedral, I saw Florentino again, huddled with Señor Nieva and several other familiar faces near the holy water stoup. Whatever they were discussing, I had no doubt my name would come up.

"Now you know what I felt," Vicente said beside me as the four of us—Isabela, Dimalanta, Vicente, and I—briskly walked toward the cathedral gate.

"About what?"

"What I felt last Christmas, listening to the Misa de Aguinaldo," he said.

"You’re forgetting to address me properly, Teniente," I replied, shaking my head at the memory.

"It’s not the time for priests," I added a moment later. "God and country need warriors."