Republic Reborn: Against the Stars and Stripes-Chapter 77: Moro-moro

We laughed and clapped to the beat of the bamboo poles and the fast-paced string music of the rondalla.

Multiple pairs of the town’s young men and women performed the precarious dance called the Tinikling at the center of the plaza. For each pair, two long bamboo poles were held horizontally and tapped and slid against the ground in rhythm, while the dancers had to skillfully slide in and out of the poles—or else risk getting painfully caught at the ankles by the clapping bamboo.

The former Martin had seen the dance multiple times before. But still, I couldn’t help but hold my breath as the rondalla music picked up speed—and so did the rhythm. I saw a few feet get caught, but the dancers brushed it off with a smile.

The music grew even faster, and the agile young feet responded in kind, their shadows dancing alongside them against the glow of the bonfire, until the final strum was struck and the bamboo made its last sharp clap. At once, the audience cheered and applauded as the dancers struck a pose, their chests rising and falling with exhaustion.

"I appreciate this, Don Suarez. What an exhilarating performance," I leaned in and whispered to his ear, clapping along with the townsfolk.

"You flatter us, Gobernador... That performance was lackluster. So bad, I’m almost tempted to have them face your firing squad," the gobernadorcillo jested. freeweɓnovel.cøm

I didn’t like the joke—especially since I still had nightmares about the whole ordeal—but for politeness’ sake, I laughed.

During my last night in the town, the gobernadorcillo held a feast in my honor. All the townspeople were invited, including the soldiers, Eduardo, and his crew. Lechon, roasted chicken, rice cakes, fruits, and liquor were served in abundance.

To accommodate everyone, long tables were set up in the plaza. The head table, placed in front of the presidencia municipal, seated me, the gobernadorcillo, Pedro, and the juez de paz. Ours were the choice portions of the meats and generous servings of every dish—as well as a large bottle of two-decade-old rum.

Not to mention the best view of every performance.

Don Eugenio Suarez’s family owned hectares of rice fields, coconut plantations, fishing boats, and even operated large-scale salt production. His rise to the highest government post in town followed the same path as mine—he had made significant financial contributions to the revolutionaries.

So it was no surprise that he could host a feast like this on short notice. He had only learned of my departure earlier that morning, shortly after Eduardo and the ship arrived.

I had hoped to speak with his father again, but he was still recovering from his injuries and couldn’t attend. I worried for him—he looked to be at least eighty. If I were seventy-five and took the beating he got from the pirates, it probably would’ve been the death of me.

But his daughter, Don Suarez’s younger sister, was present. As the dance ended, I saw her stand from her seat at the adjacent table and approach us. In her hands was a small, polished wooden box. I knew what was coming—her long overdue expression of gratitude.

But as she came closer, my attention shifted from the box to her face. She didn’t look happy to be there. Though she had powdered her face, it couldn’t hide her swollen, puffed eyelids and watery eyes. Her hair was slightly disheveled, and her dress not thoroughly pressed.

Despite it all, she mustered a smile in my direction as she neared.

Now certain she was coming for me, I excused myself from the table to meet her.

"Are you alright?" I asked.

She ignored the question. Her smile widened as she handed me the box, which turned out to be heavier than it looked.

"I ask for your forgiveness, Heneral. I am only thanking you now. You... you saved my life," she said, her voice coarse and nasal.

"There is nothing to forgive, young lady..." I replied, then slightly raised the box. "And what is this?"

"My... my grandpa... he wanted to give it to you. He bought it when he was much younger—in Manila," she replied.

I raised an eyebrow. "Can I open it now?"

She nodded. "Yes... I think he’d like to know how you reacted to his gift."

"Alright," I smirked.

The box creaked open, and inside, laid on a pad of velvet, was a pistol. An antique piece, possibly even older than the Remington rolling-block rifle—a Lefaucheux pinfire revolver. It had been widely used by American officers during the U.S. Civil War, and many of my collector friends had one. It was oddly comforting to encounter such a familiar piece in such a foreign place.

The revolver was so well maintained that, in modern times, it could fetch a couple thousand dollars from a collector. Even in the very late 19th century, it would’ve already been considered a luxury item—antique, foreign, and finely crafted.

The box had several compartments, including a custom-shaped recess that snugly held the pistol itself. There were also smaller compartments for the pinfire cartridges, a ramrod, a vial, and some other tool I didn’t immediately recognize.

Inside the box was also a folded piece of paper—likely a letter from the old man.

"Heneral! The presentation is starting! We’d like you to see this," hollered the gobernadorcillo.

There was another act about to begin in the plaza. From the attire and props, I already knew what it was. A play—specifically, a moro-moro—typically portraying a battle between Christian and Muslim warriors in slow, gliding motions. And, of course, it always ends with the Christians winning.

Yet while the Moros wore the usual theatrical costumes, the "Christians" were dressed in our army uniforms.

I huffed when I noticed that I was also being portrayed—one of the actors even wore a fake beard and moustache to mimic me.

It took a moment before I realized I was still mid-conversation.

"Señorita—" I turned back, only to find her gone. She hadn’t returned to the table, nor was she anywhere in the crowd.

And I would never see her again that night.