"So… Gobernador? What is your answer?" Señor Apolinario Mabini pulled me out of my thoughts. I realized I hadn't given a verbal response.
"It would be an honor, Señor Presidente," I replied, my stunned lips finally curling into a smile.
The air in the room lightened as the three men chuckled at my answer. Apparently, my nervousness hadn't gone unnoticed.
"Congratulations, Don Lardizabal," said General Torres. The smile I had assumed was hostile turned out to be a friendly one after all.
"I knew you'd say yes, Gobernador… or should I say Heneral," said President Aguinaldo, pushing his chair away from the desk. I heard him open a drawer beneath it.
He produced a set of clothes and laid them carefully on the table. It didn't take long for me to realize they were no ordinary garments. From the grooves and the folds, I could tell it was a khaki military uniform.
On top of the neatly folded fabric were red shoulder bars, embroidered with a golden sun embraced by golden leaves. Beside them was a sealed envelope, the wax still wet.
"By the power vested in me by the Philippine Republic, I grant you the rank of General de Brigada," the President declared. "And appoint you as commander of the Military District of Marinduque, Mindoro, and Romblon," the president pronounced it while remaining seated, and it should have sounded unceremonious—but it did not.
The proclamation, simple as it might have seemed, gave me the authority I needed if I ever hoped to play a significant role in the looming conflict.
With excitement bubbling in my chest, I stood at attention and saluted.
The President returned the gesture and stood, extending a hand.
"A certain general told me I can expect much from you," he said as we shook hands. "I hope he's right."
I exited the President's office in silence. My thoughts raced. For the first time in a long while, I felt thrilled like a child.
I had come to Manila to sell abaca. I would return to Marinduque as a general—in command of three islands.
"Do I owe this to you, Heneral Isidoro?" I finally asked, deciding to voice the question that had taken root in my head.
General Torres walked alongside me as we made our way down the corridor. He looked genuinely pleased with my appointment, which made me feel guilty for misjudging him.
"I wish I could say that, Don Martín," he replied. "Though I didn't oppose it, I wasn't the one who suggested it."
I raised an eyebrow. I had only personally met two generals—and the other was Luna. And he couldn't possibly be the one—
"Heneral Luna pushed for it," Torres said, confirming the absurdity. "And although the two are more often at odds than in agreement, President Aguinaldo still respects the general's opinion—especially on military matters."
I huffed in disbelief. "I should thank him."
Torres chuckled. "That would not be wise, Gobernador."
---
I had run out of suits for Sunday service. I had packed light, expecting to stay in Luzon for no more than five days.
Left with no choice—and more hesitation than I cared to admit—I decided to wear the uniform the President had given me just the day before.
It wasn't until then that I realized I had received the uniform without even a fitting. In a more established army, especially for someone of my new rank, that would've been highly irregular. But in our fledgling Filipino military, it didn't surprise me. Even high-ranking officers had to make do with standardized releases.
To my surprise, the uniform fit me fairly well. A little tight, yes, but barely noticeable. If anything, it flattered my not-too-shabby figure.
I combed my hair, trimmed my beard and mustache, and before long, an impressive-looking gentleman stared back at me in the mirror. The buttons, the insignia, even my hair—all glistened under candlelight. There was something undeniably dignified about a military uniform.
At some point, I chuckled quietly to myself. The weight of the moment still hadn't quite settled in.
The uniform and that wax-sealed letter had made me an inseparable part of the war ahead. There would be no turning back now. The peaceful, blissful life of a simple hacendero was no longer an option. And this appointment was only the beginning of many difficult, dangerous decisions I would have to make.
I hope you're not making a mistake, John.
---
When I stepped out of my room, the waiting Tiongsons were visibly impressed.
"You're making me feel nationalistic just looking at you," said Don Antonio Tiongson, circling around me like I was a commissioned statue.
"You're a widower, you said, Don Martín?" Agapita added with a teasing grin. "If you ever decide to remarry, I'd recommend a Bulaceña."
If I hadn't known she was married, I might've thought she was flirting.
Then I noticed her nudge Paz playfully. The younger Tiongson—unmarried, if I wasn't mistaken—was in her late twenties, a bit late for most women in that era, though it probably didn't apply to someone like her.
In her baro't saya, she was undeniably stunning. I had no doubt that later at Mass, she'd cause quite a few men to forget the Lord's Prayer.
"Speaking of which," said Don Antonio, "there's going to be a banquet at the Casa Real this evening. You should attend wearing that attire, Don Lardizabal."
"Is everyone going?" I asked, my eyes betraying me with a glance at Paz.
"Of course!" Don Antonio beamed, before wrapping an arm around his daughter's waist. "And for Paz here, it'll be her first public gathering in a long time. I'm putting this little flower back on the market."
Paz groaned in protest. "Do I really have to?"
"Come now," her father insisted. "You're already helping out Señora Agoncillo at the convent. Why not attend this?"
"That was different. That was for the country," she argued.
"And you think attending a banquet to celebrate the Republic's proclamation tomorrow isn't?" he countered.
"If you're nervous, I'm sure our newly appointed general here would be happy to escort you," Agapita chimed in.
I raised an eyebrow at the sudden mention of my name. All eyes turned to me. Paz's expression held a question.
"It… it would be my honor," I said, the words stumbling out of my mouth.