The pirate who had been alive and formidable just monts ago was now a lifeless corpse sprawled on the floorboards. He had ant to slice in half with all his strength, and that very power had driven his sword deep into the wood of the doorfra. It now hung there firmly above him despite its weight.
"You have just killed a panglima..."
I quickly shifted my gaze upward from the corpse to the man standing across the doorway. He was older than I was, which made his injuries all the more pitiful. His lips were busted, his cheeks swollen, his eyes blackened, and his body bore many more wounds that made him walk with a limp and a slight hunch.
His white casita was torn and stained with blood.
"Panglima... what is that exactly?" I asked.
"The captain of these pirates... I heard his n refer to him as that," the man said, examining the hanging sword between us.
That explained the jewelry and ornate garnts he wore—as well as the athleticism and aggressiveness. "You seem familiar with them... is this not the first ti this barrio has been attacked?"
He looked back at . "This is the first ti for Kasily... but a few years ago, they raided Buyabod, not too far from here. The villagers saw them coming and managed to flee with their belongings. The pirates only grabbed a few things before reinforcents from the pueblo scared them off."
As if rembering sothing, the man’s unswollen eye widened. He took a few painful steps toward . "My daughter... have you seen her?"
I briskly approached the man, who looked as if he might collapse. I took one of his hands and wrapped it around my shoulders.
"Yes... she’s safe. And the pirate who tried to lay hands on her is dead."
He sighed, and I had to help him down to the floor as his legs gave out. "Are you alright?"
The old man swallowed and nodded. Then he smiled. "Yes... thank you... thank you..."
We both flinched as the main doors of the house shook. Soone from outside was trying to break them open. The first hit sounded like a kick. What followed was a body slam.
"Is anyone inside? Co out with your hands up!" a soldier shouted.
I sighed and called back, "Stop that! It’s ... all the pirates inside are dead!"
After a brief pause, the soldier replied in a more polite tone, "Forgive , Heneral..."
I noticed that the gunfire outside had beco sporadic. No more Remington volleys, no more screams or squeals—just the distant shouts of my soldiers.
"Heneral?" the old man repeated. I stood up and was about to head for the door when he asked, "Why is... why is a Heneral here?"
I reloaded, bracing for more of the fighting that might be waiting outside the door. "I am Martin Lardizabal, Señor... your very own gobernador, and the Heneral appointed by the Republic to take charge of Marinduque."
---
The fight had barely lasted ten minutes.
Part of the reason I had led the Mauser-equipped soldiers to assault from another direction was that I didn’t trust the Remington-ard recruits to hold their ground alone. I feared that if they opened fire without my distraction, the pirates would charge at them, and in their inexperience, the recruits would flee at the sight.
After the fighting, eight pirates lay dead on the sands near the coconut trees where they had taken cover—all victims of the volleys. None of them appeared to have charged; they were killed where they stood or cut down while trying to flee.
The soldiers I brought with to flank around faced slightly fiercer resistance, fighting in the open streets of the barrio without cover. Still, they managed to kill five more pirates.
I personally killed three—including the chief.
Unbeknownst to us, we had faced a force far larger than we’d assud. We had believed the enemy to be roughly equal in number to us, but they had actually numbered fifty-two. Of the thirty-six survivors, most did not put up much of a fight. They threw down their weapons and surrendered.
Perhaps their fearso reputation had been overstated. Or perhaps they were smarter than people gave them credit for. Had they fought to the last, they likely would have been wiped out.
The once-feared n lost all their fierceness as they were rounded up like sheep in the center of the barrio. My soldiers stood guard, but they allowed the villagers to pelt the prisoners with mud and stones. I couldn’t bla them.
Our only casualty was minor: a soldier had sprained his ankle while retreating from a charging Moro.
All the looted property was recovered. We even managed to seize the Moro warship.
Unfortunately, five villagers perished in the raid. Three n—two of whom had been beheaded—and a mother had died trying to fight back.
Then there was the child—killed by a stray bullet. Sargento Guzman told they thought they were firing only at pirates fleeing to their ship with livestock and stolen goods. In the chaos and suddenness of the signaling gunshot, they hadn’t noticed the child in the pirate’s arms.
The bullet struck the child in the side, killing him instantly.
His mother had fallen to her knees in the sand, cradling his pale, lifeless body. It was her second loss—her husband had been one of the n killed earlier. She silently caressed her son’s face as tears stread down her cheeks.
No one blad us. Not even her.
"If they had managed to take him away... a terrible fate would have awaited him," she said, her voice trembling. "This is God’s rcy."
I doubt rciful is an apt word for any god who would sanction the death of a child.
But this was no fault of the divine.
Professionally speaking, this was an operational success. We have prevented a massacre, and either killed or captured all enemy combatants. The child was justified collateral damage.
But I knew we could have done better.
I could have done better.
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