I took Don Contreras’ information with a lot of salt. Even with Nestor’s realistic emotional distress, it could still have been so elaborate ploy.
But I imdiately moved my hand, just in case.
I had sent scouts to Buenavista and Torrijos to confirm the information. I dispatched Capitan Roque and Mario Nepomuceno with his platoon to reinforce Sargento Guzman in Gasan and to set up basic defenses. At ho, I tasked Pedro with posting sentries along the Boac River, which stretched toward Torrijos. Vicente, as always, was made commander of the Bulaqueño guards to secure the Casa Real.
I personally headed for Santa Cruz aboard the gunboat, accompanied by Colonel Abad, Dimalanta, and the remaining three platoons recently trained in Landi.
We were already tense before arriving. The thought of fighting Capitan Sadiwa—and more than a hundred recruits with rifles and basic training—was uncomfortable. They would be more formidable than pirates ard with nothing but machetes and bravado.
So it did not help when we found the port of Buyabod unusually quiet.
The usual hum of coastal life was gone. No boatn lounging about, no vendors hawking fruits or grilled fish by the docks. Even the fishern, who often waved or shouted greetings from their bancas, were nowhere in sight. It was unnerving.
"This doesn’t look good, Heneral," Colonel Abad murmured beside , arms folded as we watched our n disembark via the gangplanks. His tone was low, but the tightness in his jaw was unmistakable.
"It does not," I replied, my heartbeat already quickening.
From the pier, the terrain jutted forward into a narrow strip of land connecting to the mainland—dangerous ground. Advancing inland along that causeway would make us easy targets for any hidden sharpshooters. If an ambush lay in wait, we’d be encircled and slaughtered.
"Lorenzo!" I called out to the cadet officer already leading his platoon ashore. He turned swiftly, rifle slung over his shoulder. "Send a few n ahead to scout the approach. Quiet and low."
Without hesitation, he nodded, then gestured to Montiano—now an NCO candidate—and two other recruits. The trio slipped away, rifles in hand, moving with cautious, asured steps along the edge of the brush that bordered the trail ahead.
"The población looks peaceful to ," Dimalanta observed, squinting at the modest skyline of Santa Cruz—a clump of buildings, a church steeple, the recognizable red-tiled roofs of the municipal hall and schoolhouse. There were no signs of chaos. No smoke. No fleeing civilians. No panicked bells.
But sothing felt off.
Too quiet.
It took a second to realize what was wrong with what we were seeing.
"Soone’s coming," Colonel Abad said, pointing toward the coconut grove flanking the inland road. A lone figure on horseback had erged, galloping hard toward the docks.
Montiano and his scouts spotted the rider but didn’t raise their rifles.
As the rider ca closer, I recognized the face.
It was Don Suarez. His lip was swollen, and a fresh welt blood across his cheekbone. He looked worse for wear—and far from pleased to see .
"You looked more handso when I left you, Don Suarez," I called out as he neared.
His horse slowed to a jog, then a trot, before finally halting. "Capitan Sadiwa is not a very gentle man, I would say."
"And, uhmm... if I had to guess, he’s no longer in town, is he?" I asked, already grimacing at the ugly situation.
He nodded. "He left yesterday morning... with all your rifles."
---
It wasn’t just the gobernadorcillo who had taken a beating.
The whole scene in the town square was a testant to humiliation. Clusters of bruised recruits loitered near the presidencia municipal, many sitting with slumped shoulders and dull eyes. So had torn uniforms; others bore bandages hastily wrapped around arms or foreheads. The townsfolk watched us with guarded silence.
No cheers. No relief.
This failure was mine.
I had entrusted arms and authority to a man I did not truly know.
Inside Don Suarez’s, I found Adan Suarez seated in the mainsala, nursing a lump near his temple and a chipped tooth. Despite his injuries, he rose as I entered and gave a formal salute.
He briefed us imdiately. "He tried to convince others to join him, Heneral, but most of the recruits refused. So he beat them, one by one, and took their rifles anyway. Then he ransacked the barracks—smashed the doors, stripped the stores, even broke through the inner wall."
I nodded grimly. No refreshnts were offered even when we had been sitting there for minutes. A small detail—but a telling one. I had allowed Capitan Sadiwa to slap around the household staff during our last visit, and now we should not expect any warm hospitality.
"How many followed him?" Abad asked.
"No more than a platoon, Colonel. Most were from his barrio."
"They were so well-drilled, they didn’t even consider resisting," Dimalanta remarked, lips curled in irony.
That was true. We had trained them too well in obedience, but not yet in judgnt. Decentralized command wasn’t in their vocabulary. Not yet.
I turned to Don Suarez, who had been watching without blinking. When our eyes t, he finally snapped.
"You don’t look surprised at all, Heneral."
I shifted in my chair and cleared my throat. It was ti to trust Don Contreras’ report.
"There is currently an ard rebellion on the island, Don Suarez. The forr gobernadorcillo of Boac and his allies have allied with the Pulajanes. My nephew Isidro was abducted in Gasan. We’ve taken casualties."
The words landed like a hamr. For a mont, Don Suarez stared at in open shock.
Then his eyes narrowed.
"I wouldn’t be surprised, Heneral, if you’re here to falsely accuse us again—that I and my brother are not just thieves but rebels as well," he said, bitterness laced in every syllable. "All, of course, because I could not love my womanizer of a father, who abandoned my mother on her deathbed."
His voice cracked slightly at the end.
Now it was my turn to be stunned. I looked away, my eyes lingering on the fraying edge of the carpet.
"It is not good for a general to be quick to judge—" he began again, more forcefully.
"Watch your tone, gobernadorcillo," Dimalanta growled from behind the couch where I was sitting.
"It’s alright, Ronaldo," I said with a dry chuckle, raising my hand, "I actually deserve this."
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