Steam Train

The fastest mode of travel to Malolos was by steam train, built just a few years back in 1892.

We rode in the first-class coach, enjoying its comfortable leg space and the presence of very few passengers. Seated in the rows of two-facing-two seats, we were just another pair of men in Western-style suits.

Triviño sat in front of me, dozing off, his face pressed against the glass pane. The kid wasn't lying when he said he was exhausted.

With nothing to read and no one to talk to, something worse than boredom threatened to set in. As my reflection faintly appeared on the foggy pane, I saw the eyes of the girl from earlier—they seemed to stab me in the chest. The regret of having done nothing more ate at me painfully.

It was cowardice, I realized.

This was my second life, and I was afraid that further confrontation with the soldiers would endanger it. Unlike that fateful day in the Appalachian woods, I now dreaded the face of death.

My life had value now—all thanks to Isabela and the others.

With the rumbling of the train in the background, my thoughts threatened to derail.

I was able to snap out of it when we approached Caloocan.

Until then, I had only seen the usual: the untouched countryside outside the train's windows. But these were not usual times. There were two armies in Luzon, serving two different masters.

I saw the first Filipino units in the shallow trenches and dugouts, carved into the otherwise beautiful and pristine green fields outside the town. The soldiers were a mixed crowd, with some wearing faded rayadillo uniforms and others dressed in plain white, similar to what Abad's men wore. As I expected, most of them carried Remington rifles.

Just a bit further on, I saw a pair of carabaos pulling a smoothbore cannon along the dirt path towards the earthworks. Smoothbore cannons were practically antiques, even in the 19th century.

I stroked my chin and shook my head, trying not to be overly dismayed by how ill-equipped the Filipino army was.

The train stopped at Caloocan station. In the distance stood the huts and buildings of the town. The Filipino tricolor hung proudly on the church's bell tower.

As in Marinduque, the young men here could not be accused of lacking patriotic fervor. Among the new passengers was a large number of Filipino recruits. The same sight repeated at Polo station, where lads, some as young as 15, entered the train cars in droves alongside their uniformed recruiters.

Most of them disembarked at the next station, in the town of Meycauayan. I caught glimpses of what looked like military barracks.

I resisted the temptation to wake Triviño and ask him about what I was seeing. He was deep in sleep, drool pooling on the smooth glass and trickling downward.

That was until we arrived at Marilao station.

For the first time on our journey, the Filipino Army conducted an inspection. Sharp-looking soldiers in newly pressed rayadillo uniforms and polished boots entered the train cars—some forcibly—to check passengers and cargo.

The soldiers swarming the station were a different breed from those manning the trenches in Caloocan. Aside from their impressive uniforms, they carried an even more impressive rifle—one of the best of its time, second only to its German derivative.

The Spanish Mauser.

Most likely looted by the Filipinos from modernized Spanish units during the revolution, the Mauser was superior to the Krag-Jørgensen in accuracy, stopping power, and reload speed. In the hands of a trained unit, it could go toe-to-toe with the Americans.

The soldier who entered our cabin was an officer, flanked by two riflemen. I recognized the shoulder straps—he was a lieutenant, like Triviño.

The soldiers didn't ask for papers, relying instead on facial recognition and verbal inquiries. Some passengers, whom they seemed to recognize, received only a smile and a greeting. Others were questioned about their identity, origins, and purpose for traveling.

I must have been a very unfamiliar face because the officer had been eyeing me from the moment he stepped inside. I kicked Triviño in the shin as the officer started walking toward us.

Because we had come through the Port of Manila, Vicente couldn't wear his uniform. But I hoped he could at least provide a familiar face to save me from a lengthy interrogation. And in that, I would not be disappointed.

"Put—putik…" Triviño jolted awake, rubbing his chin. "Why would you do that?"

I pointed with my lips. His eyebrows knitted together. Seated opposite me with his back to the entrance, he had to stand up to look over the chair.

When he popped up, the officer's attention immediately shifted to him, his face lighting up.

"Vicente! How pleasant is this!" the officer exclaimed, quickening his pace.

"Ha! What are you doing in that uniform? When did you enlist?" Triviño stepped into the aisle to greet him.

"Last month… when the news of the treaty arrived," the officer replied.

Triviño chuckled and clapped the young man's shoulders, standing half a head taller than him. "How did you convince Señorita Teresita?"

"I didn't. I snuck out. Patriotism is above filial piety, after all."

Then the officer's gaze turned toward me. "Is he with you?"

"Ah," Vicente exclaimed, as if only now remembering my presence. "Don Martín Lardizábal… Gobernador Político-Militar de Marinduque."

The officer's eyes widened, and I heard his boots click together as he stood at attention. He gave me a British-style salute, palm outward. I awkwardly returned it.

"This is Ronaldo Dimalanta," Vicente continued, "a childhood friend of mine and a…" He paused to check the shoulder straps. "A lieutenant."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Teniente Dimalanta," I said.

"The pleasure is mine, Gobernador." The lieutenant remained rigid, his hands clasped behind his back. "You must be here for the inauguration?"

I glanced at Vicente, who only shrugged.

"Inauguration?" I asked. "I wasn't aware."

Lieutenant Dimalanta raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. "Is that so? Marinduque is quite far… so I wouldn't be surprised if you hadn't heard. But you have arrived at the right time, Gobernador. You may as well attend the momentous event on the 23rd."

"Inauguration of what, exactly?" I asked.

"The inauguration of the Philippine Republic, Gobernador," Dimalanta announced with pride.

January 23 was next Monday, a week away. I had promised Isabela I'd return within the week.

But the inauguration of the Philippine Republic? T

hat was too momentous an event to refuse. And the days leading up to it would give me ample time to accomplish what I had come for.

"It would be an honor to witness it," I remarked.

"Well then… may I offer you a military escort, Gobernador?" Lieutenant Dimalanta asked.

"That would be unnecessary—"

"But very much appreciated," Vicente very quickly interrupted.