Republic Reborn: Against the Stars and Stripes
Chapter 131: Truth

Chapter 131: Truth

I didn’t like how the sack looked. It was made from the kind of rough burlap typically used for hauling rice, and from the looks of it, it had seen better days. Dirt clung to its surface like crusted mud, and the cloth was mottled with stains. It must have been stored in some dingy, rat-infested bodega where the rain got in.

The bottom portion was darker—wet, with red-tinged blotches that had soaked through the fibers. A round bulge suggested something heavy and solid inside.

Dimalanta accepted the sack from the man with visible reluctance. He and Capitan Mendez had been stationed in a nearby barrio, awaiting further orders from me. Earlier they had received my messengers and had marched into town with two hundred men under their command—an even split of Santa Cruz and Mogpog recruits.

They were given a more cautious welcome by the townsfolk, whose expressions betrayed a blend of relief and fear. Three hundred soldiers squeezed in a small town was no doubt, intimidating.

The teniente winced as he caught the scent wafting from the sack. Then he looked to me, uncertain.

I already had an idea of what was inside. Still, I needed to be sure. I needed to see it with my own eyes.

He dropped the sack a meter from my boots. He stepped back quickly, relieved to be rid of it. The stench of coagulated blood, metallic and sour, reached my nostrils. I took a brave step forward, crouched down, and peeled open the already loosened seam at the top.

Hair. Matted, black with streaks of grey. Coarse strands clumped together. It was the sort of hair you’d expect on a man in his forties. A man like someone I knew all too well.

"We have brought you Señor Paras," the man declared, trying to sound diplomatic. "We demand that you release Papa Hilario... and that hostilities cease."

He glanced behind Teniente Medina, who stood beside me. Perhaps he wondered why the Spanish officer was now on my side. The armed cultists flanking him shifted uneasily, their grip tightening on their weapons. Clearly, they were confused as well.

"We accept defeat," the man added.

I smirked, impressed by the sheer audacity. If I ever entered a shamelessness competition and saw a Pulajan there, I’d leave the contest immediately.

After what Señor Mercado had told me, I’d already guessed that they’d attempt to barter the traitor for some sort of concession. But I hadn’t expected them to present only his severed head—and then demand something so outrageous in return.

"I wanted this man alive," I said, my tone measured and cold. The real anger was locked behind my clenched jaw. "And your charlatan pope will hang—bring me Dewey himself and it still won’t be enough."

They probably had no idea who Dewey was, but the point came across. The man’s nostrils flared as he snapped back, "Then we will continue our struggle. More of your kind will be slain. Your haciendas will burn. Marinduque will never know peace!"

"With whose army?"

The question caught him off guard. He blinked, brows furrowing. "The... the peasantry! The ones you have oppressed for decad—"

"You threaten me with an army of peasants?" I cut him off, laughing. I looked over at his two companions—armed with rolling-block rifles. After all their recent defeats, they couldn’t have had many firearms left. "I’m sure you’ve heard how I slaughtered hundreds of your comrades. With ease."

I stepped forward, my voice rising. "Continue this struggle, and I will hunt down every last one of you. I will burn your villages to ash. Even if I never get to join the war in Luzon against the Americans, I will have done Marinduque a great favor—by purging it of every last one of you cretins!"

His expression faltered. I watched his bravado peel away, layer by layer, until all that was left was a twitch of the jaw and a nervous swallow.

But just when I thought he’d surrender to reason, he grit his teeth.

"Then, so be it. Our talks are done," he muttered, turning away.

"So be it," I echoed. My hand moved to my holster.

A single shot rang out. The negotiator fell forward into the dust, blood soaking into the soil.

His two escorts barely had time to react. Gunfire erupted from the flanks—controlled, practiced bursts. Dozens of bullets tore them apart before their fingers could find the trigger.

"Secure the perimeter!" Dimalanta barked.

"Protect the Heneral!" Guzman echoed.

The coconut groves surrounding the barrio swayed in the wind. From behind every trunk could have come an ambush—but none did. They had made the critical mistake of not insisting I arrive alone, or with just a handful of men. Instead, I’d brought the escolta and two full platoons. Enough to handle whatever foolish resistance they still hoped to muster.

They were a dishonorable cult. And yet, they expected honor in return.

Gunfire crackled again in the distance. My men were mopping up stragglers—most of them already fleeing into the trees.

I clicked my tongue, remembering something that made my stomach twist.

"I didn’t even get to ask him about Isidro," I muttered under my breath, in Tagalog.

"Isidro?" Teniente Medina picked up on the name. "¿Quién es él para ti?"

"Mi sobrino," I said quietly. "He was taken in Gasan. That’s what started all this."

"¿Tú lo conoces?" I asked.

"I do," he replied, but there was hesitation in his voice. He shook his head. "And I think there are more surprises ahead of you, Don Lardizabal."

---

It was nostalgic—though not in a good way.

Once again, we were aboard the Garay warship, sailing along the coast, scanning the shoreline for the mouth of a river. It had been two days since we occupied the población of Torrijos, and now we sailed to its northern reaches for another mission. We had learned something—something about my nephew’s whereabouts.

This time, we weren’t attacking a town. I brought only the escolta and Lorenzo’s platoon—a small enough group for a swift and precise strike deep in enemy territory

To assist us in navigating the unfamiliar terrain, Teniente Medina joined us with three of his Cazadores. They had spent time scouting the outskirts of Santa Cruz in secret, and had become familiar with the northern barrios of Torrijos as a result.

By midmorning, we spotted our landmark: a small island called Salomagui, lying no more than a kilometer from the mainland. It rose like a green stone in the water, crowned with palms.

The Garay cut into the narrow strait. Once between the island and the coast, the sails were furled. There was no wind to carry us, but it wasn’t far. Eduardo and his men rowed gently along the current.

A kilometer inland, the river mouth appeared—its muddy waters spilling gently into the sea.

Unlike during previous assaults, Eduardo continued upriver, guiding the Garay deeper into the jungle until it branched into three shallow creeks that could no longer accommodate the vessel.

We disembarked near a rice field. The stalks were golden and nearly ready for harvest. We were no more than a kilometer from our target.

A grove of mango trees offered shelter and shade from the sweltering noon sun. We crouched beneath its thick foliage as the scouts slipped ahead, moving carefully along the narrow dikes that bordered the paddies. The area was quiet. There should be little resistance—but this was pulajan country, and we had been warned that the villagers might rise in defense of their babaylan.

"How’s Estrada?" I asked Guzman while we waited.

The last time I saw him, he was a whimpering mess. I had seen signs that he was not the bravest. In Kasily, he had stayed beside me while others had charged into the streets, and then I thought he was just being considerate.

Guzman sighed. "He’s fine now... but I think he’s lost the respect of the others in the escolta."

"Please do not judge him too harshly though, Heneral," he added. "He’s just a kid. His was the normal reaction to that carnage. Most of our soldiers were simply unbelievably brave."

I couldn’t agree more. I nodded in agreement.

"I think he deserves a chance to redeem himself. But not in the escolta," I said, "We’re the tip of the spear, Sargento. We need men who can stare death in the face and not piss themselves."

"Hand him over to a kadete of your choosing."

Guzman smiled, "Maybe Cristobal. His platoon seems to be God’s favorite."

A short while later, the first scout returned, deftly balancing along the dikes. I watched the fields beyond—nervous a passing farmer might spot him. But the midday sun was at its peak; most people would be inside their huts, eating lunch.

"Good news, Heneral!" he said breathlessly. "I saw him. He’s in the barrio."

I let out a chuckle of relief. If he hadn’t been there, all our careful planning would have amounted to nothing.

"Not only that," the scout added, "He’s in a hut at the edge of the village, which means—"

"Which means we won’t have to comb through the whole place," Lorenzo finished for him with a grin.

The second scout arrived moments later, confirming the first’s account. He hadn’t seen any firearms carried openly. Likely, if the villagers turned hostile, it’d be with bolos and sharpened bamboo.

Teniente Medina chambered his Mauser rifle with a snap. "No entendí nada de eso... but I take it the assault will proceed."

I sighed. "Sí, Teniente."

I was afraid. Not of bullets or machetes, not like before when I was standing at the prow of the Garay before the assault on Buenavista.

No, this was something different.

This time, I feared the truth.

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