Republic Reborn: Against the Stars and Stripes
Chapter 133: Heroes

Chapter 133: Heroes

My brutal actions could have backfired. The pulajanes could have seen through my bluff and waged a costly guerrilla war, striking and then melting into the many remote barrios nestled in the mountainous and rugged interior of the island.

Not only would that have caused many more unwarranted deaths among my meager force and drained what little resources we had, but it could have also successfully kept me pinned in Marinduque—far from any plans of joining the greater war effort in Luzon. I might have shot myself in the foot, replaying a miniature version of the Vietnam War, long before the Americans would ever suffer it.

Fortunately, it did not come to that.

The pulajanes pissed their pants.

Despite me having executed the first pulajan who had come to negotiate, more came after—this time with far more reasonable requests. Cult members began offering the names or even the heads of their leaders in exchange for clemency. Some even gave up family members to spare their own lives. Cabezas de barangay would mobilize their own men to hunt down pulajanes fighters, hoping their loyalty to the Republic would spare their villages from my wrath.

By the end of the week, most of the cult leaders had either been delivered in sacks or surrendered alive. The latter were quickly marched off to Boac, where they joined the growing number of prisoners awaiting judgment and eventual execution.

Pulajan fighters who surrendered and laid down their arms—particularly those who turned over their rifles—were mostly spared and let go. Exceptions were made for those identified by local witnesses or survivors to have taken part in the worst atrocities. These, too, were sent to Boac. None of them begged for mercy when handed over, but I could see the fear in their eyes. They knew their fates were sealed.

After nearly a week of skirmishes, arrests, and negotiations, we finally returned to Boac. Capitan Roque was left in command of Buenavista, tasked with maintaining order and rebuilding civil authority. Capitan Mendez and his two hundred recruits remained in Torrijos until the area was deemed fully pacified.

Returning with me were the bloodied, worn-out recruits of the first batch. They marched behind me with their uniforms torn, some with new scars, but all of them hardened by fire. They no longer looked like raw conscripts. Their backs were straighter, their faces sterner. I was confident that they were among the most battle-worthy units in the Republic.

Boac would have only learned of the revolts days earlier, and yet the reception awaiting us at the port was nothing short of festive. Colonel Abad, Pedro, and the civilian staff met us with handshakes and loud cheers. Even Señor Grimaldo and Don Contreras, smiled broadly and shook my hand, congratulating my success.

Even before we reached the town proper, villagers had begun lining the dirt road to welcome us. They clapped and chanted as we passed. By the time we arrived in the población, the entire town had come alive. Colorful banderitas fluttered above us. A rondalla played vibrant music. Women tossed flowers. Children ran beside us, shouting my name.

As we reached the plaza in front of the Casa Real, the emotional dam broke. Families of the recruits rushed out from the crowd. Tight embraces followed, and tears flowed freely. There was pride in those reunions—pride in bravery, in service—but mostly, it was sheer relief. Sons, brothers, and fathers had returned alive.

Not all had returned, however.

I wondered how the families of the dead reacted when the coffins arrived ahead of us. I doubted that speeches about duty and glory would be enough to console them. I intended to visit each home personally, to offer a financial gift and a full exemption from taxes. Not as payment for their sacrifice—that would be an insult—but as the very least I could do.

I dismounted slowly from my horse, my bones aching from the ride, and stood watching the reunions unfold around me with a strange tightness in my chest. It was a bittersweet feeling. After all, it was my decision to push for a commission, to turn Marinduque into a military district. It was my ambition that had triggered the revolt.

Had I not intervened, perhaps none of this would have happened. I wondered how the original timeline unfolded.

I could only hope it had all been worth it. Otherwise, I would have a lot to answer for.

Just as that dark thought settled into my mind, I felt something hit me from behind. Instinctively, my hand went to my holster—but I quickly recognized the familiar voice and the warmth against my back.

"Liar!" Isabela sobbed, clinging to me tightly. "I hate you!"

I chuckled softly and placed a hand over hers. "Forgive me, hija... I just didn’t want you to worry."

She pulled back just enough to punch me lightly on the shoulder, her eyes red and wet. I turned around and embraced her tightly. If it had been socially acceptable, I would have cried with her right then and there.

"I knew it," she sniffled. "I knew something was wrong. You could’ve died, Papa. You could’ve been one of the dead in the cathedral..."

I wanted to reply. Dozens of explanations crossed my mind—of duty, of sacrifice, of how someone had to do it—but none would make sense to her. To Isabela, no cause was more important than my life. In her mind, she’d rather have me safe and cowardly than brave and buried.

So instead, I simply kissed her forehead and held her a little longer.

"It’s good to see you again, Señorita," Vicente remarked cheerfully, waving as he headed toward the Casa Real. Dimalanta was already by the door, talking quietly with Alicia. I spared a moment of pity for the two tenientes and the Bulakeño soldiers. They had endured the same hell but were hundreds of kilometers from any comforting embrace.

Isabela groaned at Vicente’s teasing and wiped her nose. "You can go ahead... greet him..." I teased.

She shook her head and held my arm tightly. "No... maybe later."

I chuckled. "That was a test—and you passed. I’m your father, and you’re only mine."

She didn’t respond. She just squeezed my hand tighter as we walked toward the Casa Real together.

I rested my hand on the back of her head, gently brushing her hair. That’s when I noticed the faded bloodstain still clinging to my index finger. I hadn’t even realized it was still there.

Would she still cling to me if she knew how many I had killed—in this life and the former?

---

Fifteen coffins were reverently laid out in front of the cathedral’s altar. Each was draped in white cloth, adorned with fresh flowers and lit candles. The scent of wax and sampaguita mingled with the faint odor of the sea breeze creeping in through the tall windows.

These weren’t just soldiers of the Republic. They were sons of Boac—young men whose faces we recognized from the marketplace, from fishing boats, from the rice paddies and sugarcane fields.

Now they were heroes.

Padre Trinidad, who had once been vocal in his criticism of me and the Republic, had scrambled to make room for them in the cathedral as soon as Señor Alcantara brought news of the returning dead. These boys had not only died for the nation, but also for the faith. And whether by duty or genuine conviction, the priest now stood firmly on our side.

That Sunday, he delivered a sermon that moved even the most hardened faces in the crowd. He quoted Scripture with the full weight of his voice.

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends..."

He paused as sobs rippled through the pews.

"They have fought the good fight. They have finished the race. They have kept the faith..."

The words echoed through the cathedral’s arches.

I had arranged for the grieving families to be seated in the front row, alongside the principalia and myself. Mothers clutched their rosaries tightly, their fingers shaking as they mouthed silent prayers. Wives dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs. Children sat still and confused, unsure what had happened but sensing the weight in the air.

Isabela was among them, her sobs muffled by her sleeves. She had eventually learned of Isidro’s fate—or at least the version I told her. She had been close to him, and I could see the cracks forming in her composure. If she ever found out the truth... the real, disgraceful end he met... I wasn’t sure what that would do to her.

I spent the next few days visiting the homes of the grieving families. I came with a sizeable purse—fifty pesos for each household—and the formal declaration of tax exemption. I expected cold receptions, perhaps even veiled curses. Instead, I found gratitude.

These families were poor. The fifty pesos I brought was more than a gesture—it was enough to buy land, a carabao, or start a small enterprise. To them, it was life-changing. The tax exemption too was no small relief. It meant fewer worries about the next harvest or forced contributions to government coffers.

Word spread quickly about my visits, and before long, my reputation grew. Colonel Abad reported an influx of new recruits—young men who saw in my army a path toward honor, or at least a path out of poverty.

By the end of the month, Pulajan resistance in Buenavista and Torrijos was virtually gone. What pockets remained were scattered and disorganized.

Still, after the bloodshed, I considered postponing the next training cycle in Landi for at least two weeks. My training cadre—those same hardened recruits—deserved some rest away from the sight of bayonets and boots.

But that was before news from Luzon arrived.

Malolos had fallen.

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