The soldiers stole glances at me as Teniente Medina continued to drone on in Spanish. If Vicente were here, then I wouldn’t be the only one who understood what the officer was talking about.
Your typical Filipino—even some in the principalia—only knows rudimentary Spanish. Madrid had no quarrel about giving the natives an education. The local Spanish authorities, perhaps to consolidate their power, made sure only a select few could afford it.
They might catch every third or fourth word in the conversation but would likely not understand it as a whole.
Although I think they were picking up clues from the scribbles the lieutenant was making in the dirt with his knife.
On the ground was a square drawn in the dust, surrounded by a circle. A small cross had been marked at the left curve of the circle to show our position—to the western flank of the presidencia building.
He drew another cross directly opposite, near his knee. "El flanco oriental de los pulajanes is busy with your hombres behind the treeline across the field," he said, tapping it with the tip of his blade.
The Spaniard proceeded to mark the bottom and top of the circle with additional crosses. "That means we’ll only have to worry about the pulajanes fighters manning the norte and the sur. They also need to be busy to take some attention away from the soldados who will assault the presidencia."
Like a painter adding the final stroke to his canvas, he slashed an X through the square. "Once the presidencia is taken... todo es más fácil from there."
Whether it was a sound or terrible plan depended on several factors. Chief among them was how heavily guarded the presidencia actually was. After all, we’d be storming a central position deep in enemy-held ground. If we couldn’t secure it within minutes, then we’d risk becoming sitting ducks—trapped and exposed to fire from all directions.
"How many pulajanes fighters are inside the presidencia?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at the crude map.
"Very few. Maybe four or five... personal guards of their commandante," the lieutenant replied. "The pulajanes fighters are stretched thin."
The hair on my neck stood up as I suddenly remembered something I had forgotten in the chaos of the firefight. "Is Señor Paras inside the presidencia?"
"He is not."
I turned to Ortega, who was the one to answer. "He’s holed up in Torrijos. He went there a few days ago. It’s the larger, better town."
"How about Sadiwa?" I asked. I had noticed that the pulajanes were also equipped with rolling block rifles—most of them looked relatively new. I wondered if they were among the stolen crates from Santa Cruz, and if these men had been personally armed by the turncoat kapitan.
I asked the question in Tagalog, but Teniente Medina still understood it. He shook his head. "Sadiwa is not here. He’s with Paras... and your ciento cincuenta rifles."
I cleared my throat, cringing at the reminder of that spectacular failure. That bastard must have bragged about it nonstop. I stood up from my knees and brushed the dirt from my trousers. The teniente followed suit, straightening his posture.
"We must act quickly... they’ve likely already noticed how it’s gone silent here," Teniente Medina reminded.
I turned to Sargento Guzman. "Send someone to Teniente Dimalanta, to Roque and Mario. Have them increase the pressure. Tell them not to save bullets—keep the defenders busy and engaged."
I added another instruction. "Also send someone to the church. Take a squad from the reserves to relieve our position here."
Sargento Guzman saluted. The way he did it raised brows from the Cazadores—crisp, proper, and formal... just like in a regular army.
When I glanced back at Medina, curiosity was plastered all over his face. "How many... men did you bring?" he asked.
"A hundred," I replied.
"And how much of the town have you taken control of?" he followed up.
"All of it—save for the presidencia compound."
Medina raised his eyebrows. "Casualties?"
"Five men dead, two wounded... and we’ve killed more than forty pulajanes fighters," I said. It sounded impressive coming out of my mouth—but less so when weighed against the fact that I had hoped for a bloodless victory on our side, no matter how impossible that had seemed in hindsight.
My men, after all, were more valuable lives. Most of these cultists were throwaways. People who had no bright future, and thus could give up their lives so readily.
The Spaniard looked visibly impressed. I thought he might challenge the number, but he didn’t. Perhaps he had seen enough to figure out that we weren’t just some ragtag militia.
"I think it would be best if we send some of my men with your messengers—to guide your soldiers on where to strike," Medina offered instead. "And I’ll go with the ones who will assault the presidencia."
"That would be very much appreciated, Teniente," I replied with a nod.
---
Medina was visibly pleased when I handed him a Mauser rifle for the assault—stripped from a Bulakeño soldier who had been sent earlier as a messenger. It was the firearm he had trained with for years. He had lost his while being pursued by revolutionaries further inland.
The assault team would consist of him, myself, Guzman, and the six soldiers from the escolta. The other four had already been dispatched as runners. Meanwhile, the lone Cazador who wasn’t sent out as a guide assisted the injured Ortega to the safety of the church, accompanied by the soldier sent to fetch the reserve squad.
A few minutes later, our request for increased firepower was answered. Gunshots from our side rang out in successive, thunderous volleys—liberally poured onto the pulajanes defenders.
The deafening noise shook the ground. It thrilled and terrified me in equal measure.
That was our signal.
Teniente Medina chambered a round into his Mauser with practiced confidence, and he seemed to relish the mechanical click of the action.
"Shall we, caballeros?"