First Grade

A bright spot on the façade of the old warehouse was the bright lettering on the wooden board that said, "Anderson and Co. Import and Export." Adjacent to it, an American flag limply responded to the sea breeze on a makeshift pole.

The door was open, revealing a dimly lit room and letting out the scents of oil and a myriad of cargo. I spotted my target behind a small desk in the corner. Even from outside the door, I could hear the clacking of his typewriter as he bit on a cigarette. When he took a break, he leaned back in the chair, let out a puff of smoke, and stared at the pile of papers and ledgers around him with a sigh.

My heart almost jumped out of my chest when a pair of Filipino workers emerged from the door carrying a crate. I stepped out of their way, but not out of their notice.

"Señor!" one of them hollered to the agent before scurrying towards the docks.

Left with no choice, I fixed my coat and walked in.

What the door did not let me see from the outside were the stacks of crates, piles of sacks, and barrels stored on the other side of the room. Another man, burlier and older than the agent, was talking loudly with a Chinese merchant, a clipboard in hand. Both communicated in broken English and seemed to think that increasing their volume would somehow help translate English to Chinese.

The dock agent's eyes lazily went up to greet me as he leaned on the table to use the ashtray.

He muttered beneath his breath, "What am I going to do with you? We don't have translators. Merchants should come accompanied by a translator. Of course, you don't even understand me, do you?"

He smiled at me. "Do you reckon we should use their method? Talk as loudly as we can until we understand each other?"

"No need for that, kid." It sounded more fluent in my mind, but when it came out, the f turned into a p, and the th turned into a d. How did I get an accent?

Nonetheless, the agent's face lit up, and he laughed. I thought he was mocking my accent, but it turned out he was just glad.

"Well… you just made my day, mister. Do you know you are the first native I've met who speaks English?" The agent stood up and extended a hand. "Mason Reed. How can I help you, sir?"

"Martin Lardizabad. I was told you buy hemp… well, I have 500 piculs of first-grade hemp waiting in the steamer." I replied, still disbelieving how I pronounced have as hab, five as payb, and waiting as witting.

"First-grade, you say? With all due respect, many have sold us 'first-grade' that turned out to be rat-ass quality," he chuckled. "We will need to inspect it."

"You are welcome to do so." I replied, no longer minding the odd accent because of how well things were going.

"Donovan is still preoccupied…" He glanced at the man still talking with the Chinese trader, who was likely the cargo inspector.

He smiled at me. "You know what? I might as well take a break from rotting inside this warehouse. I'll go with you, Mr. Larsibedal."

---

"I did not know you could speak English," Señor Alcantara whispered to me as we watched the American go from bale to bale, inspecting the goods by hand. By the way the agent was smiling, I would soon be hearing some good news.

"I am fifty years old, Señor Alcantara. I have been to many places, met many people, and learned many things," I said to him.

The captain raised his eyebrows and silently chuckled. "Is it true you have been made governor of Marinduque?"

I glanced at him. I would call him a friend, but not close enough that I could trust him. He was a regular in Manila, and the Americans could have easily paid him. But my identity as governor was hard to deny.

"The whole of Luzon, as far as Cagayan, is preparing for war. I know you have realized it by now, but the Americans are not here in peace. More soldiers are pouring in by the month. Why would you need more if you intend to only temporarily hold Manila?" he said.

That was true. Now that I had seen it firsthand, I could only conclude that the Americans were preparing for an invasion. And it did not help in any way to motivate me to get further involved in the war. In fact, I was more convinced now that this was a war that would be very difficult to win.

The only reasonable recourse was diplomacy, avoiding war at all costs, even at the expense of some painful concessions at the negotiating table.

But I could not say that to the captain. If he was not a spy for the Americans, he could be a spy from Aguinaldo's camp.

"We are making preparations. But you know… Marinduque, it's small and rugged, not really the place to build an army," I answered.

"You do know that the Americans do not pay upfront. If you'll be staying in Manila for a while, why not visit the President in Malolos? Ask for guidance or… resources?" he said to me.

That was not something I had thought about. Malolos was only 40 kilometers north of Manila. Perhaps I could try to influence the negotiations that were going on.

"It was as you said, Mr. Larbidesal. This is fine-grade—the best quality of abaca I've seen in a while," the agent walked toward me with a bright smile on his face.

"Glad it meets your expectations, Mr. Reed. The Chinese are actually willing to pay ten pesos per picul, and in cash." I said, slightly inflating the price the Chinese would have offered, which would likely be around eight pesos per picul.

He nodded. "I understand. Your abaca is high quality, no surprise it would be sought after. We need hemp urgently… but I cannot pay you in full upfront."

"What is your offer, then?" I asked him.

"Twelve pesos per picul… and I pay you 50% upfront." The young American said after moments of serious deliberation. "The other 50%… I will make sure it comes to you before the end of the month."