It had been a long time since I stayed up late writing. And the last time wasn’t with a quill and ink. All I could hear were the crickets outside, and the partially opened window showed only a glimpse of darkness.
I raised the parchment up against the candlelight. My cursive had been cursed back when I was John. But as Martin, my handwriting was immaculate—honed by years of writing ledgers and letters as a businessman.
That night, I wasn’t writing anything about the hacienda. The task had seemed impossible at first. But once I started, ideas and memories I thought were long forgotten returned, begging to be written down.
I let the ink dry for a few moments, then placed the sheet of paper on the small pile. I had just finished writing the final draft of the training regimen that would be undertaken by all recruits under my command. Tomorrow, it would be implemented.
I leaned on the table and mopped my face with my hands, massaging my weary old eyes with my fingers.
The 20th-century military doctrine I was taught in ROTC and in the field was far more sophisticated than the military knowledge current armies in this timeline operated on. But things were never that simple... sophisticated didn’t always mean better.
What if there were things I had learned that weren’t applicable or compatible with the 19th-century context? I wasn’t even particularly good at military history. I had little idea how wars were fought back then.
And even if the doctrine was superior—what if I wasn’t qualified enough to take advantage of it? Sure, I had been a good ROTC cadet, diligently taking notes during lessons and eagerly applying them. When the Korean War erupted, I was commissioned as a 2nd Lieutenant, and in the field, I observed with interest how our commanding officers led and strategized. Eventually, I became a commanding officer myself—planning and leading attacks on my own. At the end of the Vietnam War, I was a Major.
But I was still only one man. How could I possibly remember every important detail?
Ever since I received the appointment, the doubt that I had bitten off more than I could chew had unceasingly gnawed at me. And that night... its voice was the loudest. Not that any of it mattered. It was too late to back down now.
I scooted away from the table and pulled open the drawer underneath my desk. I took out Paz’s handkerchief.
The sampaguita scent was almost gone, and yet the memories were still vivid in my mind. The sound of strings, the buzz of the crowd, the way her dangling earrings swayed... her scent, her deep brown eyes that seemed to contain a world inside them.
That dance—the night before the day of the republic’s promulgation—just as I had thought then, was a comforting memory.
I heard a knock on the door of my bedroom. It could only be Isabela, Rodrigo, or Vicente.
"Papa, gising ka pa ba?" she asked, asking if I was still awake.
"Oo, hija... what’s wrong?" I placed the handkerchief back in the drawer and shut it before standing up from the chair.
"Can you open the door?" she asked, her voice a little raspy.
I was a bit worried, but there was no urgency in her tone. She just sounded really sleepy. So, I settled on being simply confused.
I opened the door, and there she was in her camisón, hair disheveled, hugging a pillow. Her eyes lazily glanced at me before she walked straight to the bed.
"What’s the matter?" I asked again.
"I can’t sleep in my room," she said as she made herself comfortable, placing her pillow on one side of the bed and tucking herself in with my blanket.
I chuckled. The last time she slept in her father’s room was two years ago, when she was fifteen. Then, perhaps thinking she was too old to share a bed with her parents, she had asked for her own room.
"You really did miss me, didn’t you?" I said.
She only grunted as she rolled over to her side, her back turned to me.
Seeing her on the bed summoned a yawn from me. I would be needed early tomorrow.
I blew out the candle and made my way to the bed beside Isabela. In the darkness, I glanced at my daughter’s silhouette—she was still and silent.
But she wasn’t yet asleep. "Papa?" she asked just as my eyes were closing.
"Yes?" I croaked.
"Earlier... Señor Lim brought crates of stuff. Hats, boots, and other leather things. He said... you bought them." She was merely stating it, but I heard the question in her tone.
She was talking about the big purchase I arranged with Francisco last Friday. I had been worried it wouldn’t arrive in time, but thankfully, he found that the cobblers in Mindoro had plenty of products in stock. Unlike Marinduque, the neighboring island had a sizeable flatland for herding and, as such, a modest leather production capability.
"Yes... it’s for tomorrow—for the recruits," I answered.
What followed was silence. Long enough that I thought she had fallen asleep.
But then she spoke again, this time her voice much lower and softer. "Can’t believe you’ve become a general."
She didn’t say it like Pedro did. Maybe because she was sleepy, there was no enthusiasm in her voice—but her words sounded almost like an accusation.
Maybe because I was guilty. I had made a big decision, one that would directly affect her and the entire world she had grown up in, without even asking for her opinion.
I was reminded that there could have been a completely different path I could have taken. I could have stayed away from all of this. I could have stuck with my initial plan—let others fight this doomed war while I watched from the sidelines, away from the bullets and the shells, waiting for the storm to pass.
"Are you worried?" I asked, turning and hugging her, kissing the back of her head.
"A little bit," she said as she snuggled closer to me. "But you’re smart, Papa. I know you’ll figure it out."