The next day was January 23, 1899.
A momentous occasion—and the weather agreed. The endless blue of the open skies was dotted with only a few puffs of white here and there.
Beneath it, the town of Malolos was in a festive spirit. Banderitas crisscrossed all over town, and Philippine flags were at every door and in every child's hand. Townsfolk lined the streets, cheering and blowing horns as the president's long parade passed by.
Spearheading the joyous procession was the marching band, playing proudly and loudly the anthem of the republic-to-be—Lupang Hinirang. I heard it for the first time then and thought it a decent arrangement. I would only fully appreciate it once I heard the lyrics much later on.
Following behind was the largest group in the parade. Heneral Isidoro Torres led in front, garbed in his bright white military uniform. Behind him marched his 6,000-strong contingent of Bulaceño soldiers, clad in rayadillo uniforms and carrying Spanish Mausers. The sight of this well-drilled, division-sized unit was intimidating—even to me—and I was forced to take heart. Still, I wondered how many among them were truly battle-worthy.
After the Bulacan army came the generals and colonels of the Republic on their fine horses. Heneral Antonio Luna, Heneral Artemio Ricarte, Heneral Mariano Llanera, and one Heneral Luciano San Miguel—who, apparently, had been at our table last night though his presence barely registered—led our formation. I was in the second row, riding beside Heneral Gregorio del Pilar, his friend Heneral Manuel Tinio, and another quiet general with a peculiar moustache—Heneral Pantaleon Garcia.
To his credit, General Gregorio del Pilar apologized again for what happened last night. I was quick to forgive him, especially with how well the evening had turned out for me. After dancing to three full scores, we returned to the table, where I enjoyed her undivided attention until it was time to go home.
I gave out a sigh. It had been a night far too short. Her laughter and giggles still lingered, echoing in the walls of my mind.
Heneral del Pilar and Heneral Tinio tried to converse with me during the parade, but the noise of the fanfare made that nearly impossible. So, for most of the journey, we kept to ourselves—silently enjoying the thrill of the occasion while enduring the increasing heat of the sun.
The colonels rode behind us—ten times as many as the generals—and among them was Colonel Jose Torres Bugallón himself. I had spoken with him before the parade began, and for some reason we conversed entirely in Spanish, which in turn emptied years' worth of my vocabulary.
After the high-ranking military officers came the heart of the parade—the president himself, in his grand carriage, accompanied by his aide-de-camps. At the sight of him, the townsfolk's cheering grew louder, and they threw flower petals in his direction.
More carriages followed, carrying members of the Malolos Cabinet, local government officials, and other prominent figures in the area. Finally, at the tail end, was the crowd who had spontaneously joined the parade.
As we neared our destination, we passed by the Tiongson house. Like its neighbors, Don Antonio's little mansion was decorated for the occasion, with strings of banderitas hanging over the yard and a large Philippine flag draped above the main doors. The latter was arranged because the house was my 'official residence' in Malolos.
My eyes quickly sought Paz and found her peering out the window, right where we had talked alone for the first time. She gave me a little wave and a smile. Her sisters were leaning out the other windows, just as excited and thrilled to catch a glimpse of me.
Standing outside the gate was Don Antonio, with a proud smile and his hands behind his back. Vicente Triviño stood beside him, clearly not as thrilled—having not been allowed to join the parade, since he was technically no longer with the Bulacan army. Even more so was the third person present.
I chuckled at the sight of him and his unreadable expression. Isidro stared at me, mouth half open in an awkward smile, looking both horrified and disbelieving. I had thought I'd see him again in Manila, but it was better that he had come to Bulacan. This way, I wouldn't need to explain what I had just done with the risk of someone overhearing.
It got me wondering how people back home would react—especially Isabela. I missed that busybody already.
The procession, which had started mid-morning, concluded by midday. We finally arrived at Barásoain Church, where the fanfare slowly died down. As we entered the doors of the cathedral, the marching band fell silent, and the crowd's cheering faded into a hum of excited murmurs.
Inside the church, a solemn silence fell. Only those who had been part of the parade were allowed in—excluding the common soldiers. I was seated at the third pew, right beside Heneral Torres.
It didn't take long for me to realize that I was about to witness a legislative session of the Malolos Congress. Don Pedro Paterno, the president of the Congress, opened the proceedings.
One Father Gregorio Aglipay was asked to offer a prayer.
The Malolos Constitution—or at least a summarized version—was then presented and read aloud before the assembly.
Then the Philippine Republic was formally declared, and Emilio Aguinaldo was officially appointed president.
The Acta de la Proclamación de la Independencia del Pueblo Filipino was recited. I sat on the edge of my seat, excitement bubbling over as I listened intently to the strongly worded declaration.
It was not lost on me—the great significance and preciousness of the moment. A people—my adopted people—subservient to foreign powers for hundreds of years, were now declaring to the world that they were free and would decide for themselves.
As soon as the last word was spoken, we jumped to our feet and burst into loud applause.
The church bells tolled. The crowd outside roared and jumped in joy.
The Philippine Republic was born—the first constitutional republic in the whole of Asia.