In the hatred of war, there lied a few key truths that were held dearly by every general worth his weight. The wiser chose to honor it, and God did help them in the battlefield. Those who did not, died.
Fernando Marcos learned them from his father. Born, christened, and bred in the Simaycon countryside, the elder Marcos taught his son well. He forwent with mathematics and sciences, and instead focused his son on the trade of the working man. The hammer and nail were his pen and paper. The flintlock gun, his paintbrush. With a mind filled with old stories of war heroes that come and pass, and a heart deeply set to a sleeping nation and her God, the boy became his father's pride.
As he grew older, the elder Marcos brushed his son's hair, and gave him a gun. In time, he knew, it will come to serve him.
"General Fernando! Ruiz's crew is under attack by enemy forces to the Northeast! He says that they have run out of supplies and ammunition!" The young emissary screamed absurdly point blank at Fernando.
"Gino-o..., at ease, Emmanuel!" The annoyed man sitting at the desk commanded.
"Sir."
Marcos looked at the dog-eared map taped to his desk, noting the knife stabbed at the city at the upper part of the map. Ruiz's encampment was supposed to be the advance force, exacting a surprise attack on the Western gate to lure the defenders away from the Eastern flank. Now that it was obvious that Ruiz failed in keeping his forces a secret, the invasion was in boiling water.
All of the revolution was deployed everywhere else. Bantayan, Iloc, Tanggapan. He couldn't spare any force to assist. That would also mean that the gobernadire had the prompt to launch a counter-attack at his forward base.
Cursing himself, he drew his gun and fired at the photograph of Governor-President Elisei Aguinaldo.
The general paused, and thought about the war. How would he divert the defenses now? How would he defend himself and his own men?
The emissary made his way outside by now at the general's order. Marcos was alone, and afraid.
Perhaps it is not too late for a surrender. Against his own mind, Marcos thought, But I will be taken with a bomb to my chest. I will take more with me.
Marcos cleaned the barrel of his gun with a wet rag, and inspected the chamber, noting the single bullet.
---
"General! New word from Turon Field, sir! Very good word!" Another emissary shouted, as he slammed the door open. He yelled celebration for only a moment before noticing that the General's pistol was trained at him.
"Pardon, sir." The emissary spoke, at a much softer level.
"What, in the name of God, is it, private? Tell me." His words were irate, but excited.
"The skirmish at Ormoc is won, sir! The defending forces are retreating, and we have liberated thousands of enemy hardware and supplies. The people are thanking us, sir, and the war effort had been bolstered by new recruits in the area."
Ormoc. A few miles away from Ruiz's camp. I can get them there in a few hours.
The general faced the messenger, and requested. "Patch me to Commander Castro."
Castor came as fast as he could. The balding ex-artillery specialist panted in the warm sunshine coming from Marcos' windowsill. He was still recovering from a cold, but the cold never had anything to do with his obviously failing physical fitness.
"What... what is it, sir?" Panting.
"Who's your best man?" Marcos asked, very authority-like. His flintlock was on his hand like it was part of him. The scabbard to his sword was visible, as well.
"Sir, I am not in the right mind to be thinking this. I have just recovered from cold, and have been drinking excessively for two hours, like reasonable commander." More panting.
Marcos spat on the floor.
"Sige. I will try to recall. His name is Antony, from 1st regiment. He is on reserve force, just in the barracks near here. If you want, I could take you there. Your horse is still well, yes? Yes! We... we can get there in two minutes. Just grab anything you need, I will prepare the mules. Antonio is good soldier. Farmer boy from Mansilingan turned warrior. He has very good aim, very nice shooting. Also knows how to ride a horse, fast. We can get there quick. Very quick. No need to worry many, sir, I ca-"
"Just get on with it, Commander." Marcos quipped.
"Yes sir."
Antonio woke up pissed at the world, for no particular reason. All he knew was that there was shouting and yelling, and said shouting and yelling sounded suspiciously similar to his name.
"Tony! Tony, haul your ass to the main hall. Boss wants to see you."
Castor, that fat fuck
Groggily, he put on his dress uniform and his rifle, not bothering to wash his face before reporting to the Commander and who's-his-name. He made his way down the hall. "What in fuck's name is--" he managed to get out, before having a good look at who exactly was in front of him, beside Castor.
"General Fernando! G-good afternoon, sir!"
"Wash your goddamn face before showing up, Mr. Antonio. Parade rest."
Antonio did so.
Castor spoke. "It's Corporal Antonio, sir." He turned to the corporal. "General Marcos here needs you on an operation. You will be deployed to Pasahero to assist covertly with Lieutenant Ruiz's forces as they drive off the enemy forces. Your horse and supplies have already been parked outside, along with a five-man tactical team. Learn their fucking names, and maybe they won't kill you."
"Sir, yes, sir!"
"Good. Very nice. Very snappy, corporal. At ease."
Antonio did so.
"Now, move it, Corporal. Don't waste another second here." Castor ordered.
"Hold on there, Castor." Marcos interrupted, loading his flintlock.
"I'm coming with them."
