The province of Marinduque had six towns—Boac, Mogpog, Sta. Cruz, Torrijos, Gasan, and Buenavista. But only three of these were major settlements; the rest were remote and of relatively low value, though still useful.
Boac was the provincial capital and the administrative heart of the island. It was the seat of the Casa Real, and housed the governor and the majority of the island’s elite families. Its central location also provided easy access to the other settlements. Keeping it as the cabecera and designating it as the logistical headquarters would be wise.
Sta. Cruz, on the other hand, was the agricultural hub of the province. It was home to vast rice fields and the largest labor pool in Marinduque, making it ideal both for requisitioning food and conscripting men for the war effort. Additionally, the expansive flatlands that allowed for large-scale farming also made it ideal for constructing training camps and drill fields. Therefore, the town could serve as our main source of supplies, as well as the recruitment and training center.
The third town was Mogpog, the most defensible among the three. Unlike Boac and Sta. Cruz, which sat near the coast, Mogpog was farther inland—making it less vulnerable to naval landings and out of reach of American warships. Its rugged, mountainous terrain further strengthened its defensive value. It was the most ideal site to fortify and build a military headquarters.
I discussed this ambitious plan in the conference room immediately after the morning march.
By the end of the presentation, the chalkboard was covered in scribbles, and the audience was abuzz with energy. All of them enthusiastically approved.
But planning was the easiest part. For the plan to come to life, I would need to enforce martial law in all three towns. As it stood, I had only around a hundred barely trained men and a political mandate that was more symbolic than solid.
I had subconsciously—and unwisely—assumed that the war would not break out until I had at least two or three hundred trained soldiers under my command. But alas, war had come early.
And now, I had to make do with what I had.
"Colonel Abad... how many of the young men I trained last month are currently in our pool of recruits?" I asked, my throat dry from the exhausting presentation.
He answered quickly, "All fifty of them, Heneral."
"And they’re scattered across all four platoons?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"Yes, I believe so, Heneral," Colonel Abad replied.
I scratched my head and sighed. It felt improper—almost cruel—to break up platoons just as they were beginning to form bonds and a sense of identity. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
"Well then, Colonel, I want you to identify those fifty and separate them from the rest. I’ve already trained them in basic marksmanship, and I believe they can skip this week’s drills," I said.
Then I turned to the captains. "They will be reorganized into two platoons, and the captains will each take command of one. Capitan Roque and his platoon will head for Mogpog, while Capitan Madrigal will go farther out to Santa Cruz."
"Your task is to declare martial law and ensure the cooperation of the gobernadorcillos. Arrange a meeting for me with the principalia, and remain in town until I arrive. Be firm—do not let yourselves be intimidated. You will be carrying sufficient ammunition should your safety be threatened, but if you can, do not fire a single shot."
Both officers stood at attention and saluted.
Neither Roque nor Madrigal were seasoned commanders. They had only recently learned the basics of leading men. But I wasn’t sending them because of tactical brilliance—I was counting on familiarity. Roque had relatives in Mogpog. Pedro’s mother hailed from Santa Cruz.
I was relying on familial ties to smooth the operation. While patriotism might stir the common folk, the elite were more easily swayed by clan-based loyalties.
And so, even though assigning a cadet under a relative’s command didn’t sit well with me, I knew it would increase the chance of success.
"Tomas, you will go with Capitan Roque. Lorenzo, you’re with Capitan Madrigal," I said to the cadets. "You’ll act as second-in-command—consider yourselves tenientes. See to it that the recruits maintain their daily drills."
The two cadets stood and saluted, wide smiles spreading across their faces.
"What about the rest of us, Heneral?" Teniente Dimalanta raised his hand.
"You’ll stay here, but don’t worry, you’ll be just as busy."
---
"Where are you headed, Señor Paras?" I asked, intercepting the gobernadorcillo and his family as they exited the Casa Real. This was shortly after I had dispatched the two captains to Mogpog and Sta. Cruz. They were carrying their possessions in sacks and bags, handled by their servants.
They had been living in the other wing of the Casa Real since his appointment as gobernadorcillo a year ago. It had been a peaceful cohabitation—largely because we kept to ourselves.
It was his toddler son who noticed me first. The boy smiled and tried to wave, but his mother quickly pushed his hand down upon seeing me. Dimalanta stepped forward, ready to help the servants with their luggage, but Señora Paras’ glare stopped him in his tracks.
Señor Paras slowly turned around and shook his head slightly at the sight of me.
"I misjudged you, Don Martín," he said. "I thought you were a simple, practical man who only wanted to tend to his hacienda and raise his lovely daughter. I never once imagined you were this thirsty for power."
His words stung. Not long ago, he had been one of my closest friends. I removed my hat and said, "We both misjudged each other, Señor Paras. I thought your heart was with your country."
"It was—and still is," he replied through gritted teeth as he turned fully to face me.
"No... I know exactly what changed," I said, resting my hands on my hips. What I was about to say wasn’t fact—it was a hunch, shaped by experience. "The moment you realized I intended to assert authority, your attitude changed. Because if I do, your position as mayor of Boac becomes irrelevant. This small town isn’t big enough for the both of us."
"Exactamente, Gobernador," he scoffed bitterly. "You’re only governor because of your money. In other words, you bought your title. I, on the other hand, worked for mine. I deserve to be gobernadorcillo... Yours was always meant to be symbolic."
I returned my hat to my head. I had heard enough. I had hoped to be wrong. But now I was certain—I had lost him. Any more words would be wasted.
"Is this a resignation, then?" I asked calmly.
The question caught him off guard. "No... no way. I cannot simply live under one roof with a—"
"Then you are dismissed from your post," I said, turning back toward the door, ignoring his sputtering protests and rising voice.
I felt a pang of guilt... because, in truth, I was relieved.
Now, at last, I had the Casa Real to myself—like a proper governor.