Christmas, 1898

Padre Saturnino Trinidad was a great preacher for a priest. He had the energy and passion rarely seen from a man of the cloth. Perhaps it was because he was in an obscure province that he felt comfortable being more than just a by-the-book priest. He almost sounded like a Protestant preacher.

But what I liked more was his message: to pray for peace, as Christ was the Prince of Peace, and to denounce war and warmongering.

I appreciated the anti-war sentiment. Some might call him a coward or even go so far as to accuse him of being anti-revolutionary. But as someone who had actually been in a war and participated in bloody encounters, I applauded the wisdom of anyone who advised caution.

That was something the young ones, like Lieutenant Triviño, would not understand. To them, ideals reigned supreme, and they would gladly exchange a boring and simple, albeit peaceful, life for a chance at glory. He sat beside me, arms crossed, in silent defiance.

Fortunately for him, the Misa de Aguinaldo did not last forever. Soon, the Mass ended, and we proceeded to another purpose of attending church. All the prominent families were there, easily identifiable by their crisp white barong Tagalog and baro't saya. As we streamed out of the pews, we shook hands and had our little conversations.

I was constantly distracted by young men approaching my dear Isabela. Many of them were promising candidates, but somehow, all I could see were younger versions of myself, insincere suitors simply wanting to appease their raging hormones. Teniente Triviño hurried out of the church, rejecting advances with a polite smile.

"Ah, Martín…" Florentino Paras shook my hand and went in for a hug when it was our turn to greet each other. "I have hired a good rondalla from Mogpog, and I plan to hold a dance in the town plaza. It would be my honor to have you there and, of course, Isabela."

"I will try, Florentino. Would you join us for Noche Buena?" I asked this because we were basically housemates. As the town mayor, he resided in the other wing of the Casa Real.

"Thank you, Martín, but we have planned our own..." Florentino replied.

Capitan Abad was next. He was wearing his uniform for the first time in months. There was a smile beneath his impressive mustache.

"Capitan…"

"No… I am a Teniente Coronel now, Don Martín," he corrected me as humbly as he could, though it was obvious he was pleased to break the news.

"A double promotion? When?" I asked.

It reminded me that the Philippine Revolutionary Army, like other revolutionary armies in history, had an irregular military structure. And rank-skipping promotions, like captain to lieutenant colonel, should not be a surprise.

"Just a few days ago. I learned that Heneral Diokno had been made Governor of Capiz in August, and I had been transferred to the command of Heneral Mariano Trías. The news included my promotion to the rank," he explained.

"Well… congratulations, Coronel," I said, offering him the happiest expression I could muster. "But that also means they expect you to have a battalion-sized unit."

"Sí," he nodded, his smile finally fading. "Although with only 250 rifles, I wonder how that will be possible."

I had the same question. But that was a problem for another time and perhaps not even my problem.

I greeted a few more elites and some of the employees from my estates before we finally left the church.

The way home was lively and bright. Children continued caroling, their joyful voices filling the air. Mixing with their music were the sounds of horns and bamboo cannons, gleefully operated by the more obnoxious children.

The town streets were well-lit by parols, star-shaped decorations made of bamboo and Japanese paper, with candles inside for illumination. Oil lamps had been placed around the town plaza, and we arrived just in time to see the townspeople light a bonfire at its center.

Awaiting us at home was a feast that could feed an entire village but was meant for no more than ten people. My sister and my two nieces had come by earlier to help Isabela prepare for the meal. Now, they had returned to join us for Noche Buena, along with my brother-in-law, Pedro Madrigal. Isidro was also present, as well as Teniente Triviño, who remained a guest in my house.

The feast included a whole roasted pig, along with other meat dishes: beef, chicken, and fish. There were also several rice delicacies and pastries. For dessert, we had sweet leche flan, chocolate, and all manner of rice cakes.

Of course, no feast would be complete without liquor. Isidro pulled out bottles of coconut wine, sugarcane liquor, and rum from Pampanga.

After giving grace, we hungrily dug in, having eaten little until then. All the dishes were pleasant to the palate, but none were as tasty as the caldereta, especially after I learned that Isabela had prepared it all by herself. The others, however, had a different opinion. They flocked to the lechón, stripping it of every inch of crispy skin as fast as they could.

It didn't take long before the overwhelming abundance of food became too much for us. But nothing would go to waste. My sister María and Isabela planned to give a serving of leftovers to every caroler who sang in front of the window, no matter how much they butchered the tune and lyrics.

Before long, our stomachs were filled to the brim, and our attention shifted from the plates to each other. I sat at the head of the table, reveling in the conversations and laughter around me. Isabela sat to my right, in the same row with her nieces and her aunt. Isidro sat to my left with Pedro and Vicente, the lieutenant now enjoying the festivities like everyone else.

I was the happiest I had been in the longest time. The cold breeze occasionally blew through the window, bothering the candle flames and eliciting shivers, but I only felt the warmth.

We talked about every topic that came to mind- except for the prospect of war.