CHAPTER 136: BOTTOM OF THE BARREL

In light of the bleak news from Luzon, the training in Landi resumed in earnest. It started as soon as the first Monday of April. The fear that I wouldn’t be fast enough to make a dent in this war was resurfacing, and I spent my nights haunted by doubts.

While enemy prisoners were being executed in Boac, 215 new recruits were gathered for their first day in the training fields. It was a significantly smaller number than I would have liked. But it would have been playing with fire to entirely withdraw the garrisons from the southern towns. Even a temporary absence could invite disorder or opportunistic Pulajanes remnants.

So, for the second batch of advanced training in Landi, I chose the remaining one hundred recruits garrisoned in Boac, and another one hundred from the Santa Cruz recruits temporarily under the command of Capitan Mendez.

Don Contreras had managed to build a well-organized civilian peacekeeping force to keep Boac somewhat secure, even without a garrison. Meanwhile, the Santa Cruz recruits needed to be trained, as they would soon be accompanying Don Suarez—now Major Suarez—to Romblon. The reason why it wasn’t squarely two hundred was that the additional fifteen were intended to replace the fifteen KIAs suffered by the first batch.

For this task, I would assign fifty soldiers from the first batch as the training cadre in Landi. The remaining thirty-five soldiers would help the escolta in Boac facilitate the training of new recruits—who, for the sake of conserving manpower, would now all be funneled to the cabecera.

Still, we were approaching the bottom of the barrel. With around 550 men already recruited from the province and 264 new enlistments pending, our manpower pool was visibly thinning. Entire barangays had already given all their able-bodied men. Recruitment officers were starting to receive more teenagers and older men with questionable fitness.

It was part of the reason I so readily accepted Don Suarez’s offer to venture into Romblon. We would soon need the full contribution of the other provinces in my military district. And after that, I was planning to make the trip to Mindoro myself.

But I couldn’t leave just yet. There was still unfinished business in Marinduque. One pressing matter was the return of Señor Lim.

We had recaptured most of the 150 rifles stolen by Sadiwa, and an additional 89 rifles had been seized from the Pulajanes. It wouldn’t be enough. Even arming our current pool of recruits was a stretch. If I were to raise more men in Romblon and Mindoro, I would need more rifles. Ammunition, too, was becoming a growing concern.

At least a one-month wait was to be expected. The voyage from Marinduque to Hong Kong and back alone would take no less than twenty days. On top of that, Señor Lim would need time to find the right person. Even if he did, and everything went smoothly, the transaction would realistically take at least a week.

Still, I couldn’t help but be clouded with doubts. I knew Señor Lim well enough to believe he wouldn’t betray me. But I constantly feared that he had been captured by the Americans, or that he had failed to find a gunrunner.

I knew I didn’t have much time, but I was ready to wait until the second week of April.

It was early Thursday morning, the sixth of April, when I joined the morning march of the new recruits. Vicente, once again, saw something on the horizon—just as he had seen Señor Alcantara’s steamship a couple of months ago.

"Heneral..." he said, riding beside me and pointing at the sea in front of Boac, "I don’t suppose that’s Señor Lim’s junk, is it?"

I followed his gaze. There, slicing through the glinting waters off Boac, was a familiar silhouette—a large junk with sails shaped like dragon wings. Dozens of junks had come and gone through our shores in the past months, but I recognized this one instantly. It was the one we’d been waiting for.

In my excitement, I did not wait for Señor Lim to come ashore. I immediately called for Eduardo to bring me to the junk aboard the Garay. I had requested Isabela and my sister to continue producing Philippine flags, and I had earlier instructed for one of their handiworks to be hoisted onto the main beams of the two ships.

We were immediately recognized.

"You have a new ship?" Señor Lim called out with an amused smirk as the gangway was being let down. The last time he had seen the Garay, it had just been pried away from the pirates.

"A lot of things are new, Señor Lim..." I replied. "How did it go?"

I regretted asking the question so soon. Doing a cumbersome task such as boarding a ship should not be done while dejected.

"It went well... I think..." Señor Lim answered.

Minutes later, I was below deck in the cargo hold, eyes wide as I took in the haul.

There were crates upon crates of military goods: ammo pouches, leather belts, canvas haversacks, and several dozen bolts of rayadillo cloth—the same rare fabric used to make our uniforms. I spotted crates of revolvers, sabers, and, to my amazement, a pair of bicycles. Most valuable of all were the reloading kits—tools that would allow us to produce ammunition locally.

"I was pretty sure we couldn’t afford all this," I said, still smiling as I stepped from crate to crate. Vicente, meanwhile, was completely absorbed in examining one of the bikes, turning the pedals and inspecting the chain.

Señor Lim laughed. "No... You know me, Don Lardizabal. I’m supportive of your cause—but not supportive enough to bankrupt myself."

"Then how?" I asked, genuinely puzzled.

"It’s a small world," he said, wiping sweat from his brow. "While searching for a gunrunner, I met some Filipino revolutionaries exiled in Hong Kong—part of Aguinaldo’s circle from the earlier revolution. They arranged everything and pooled resources to help fund the purchase."

I knew nothing about those revolutionaries. In fact, most provincial hacienderos knew little about the figures of the central government in Luzon. But they were already my best friends. I would have a lot of thanking to do if I ever met them someday.

Still, my focus returned to the far corner of the hold, where a stack of long crates caught my attention.

I had told Señor Lim to prioritize repeating rifles if he could find them—any model, any origin. If not, I asked him to settle for solid single-shots like the Remington rolling-blocks. But in my heart, I pinned my hopes on something more ambitious. Without repeaters, I feared we’d be swallowed by the superior firepower of the Americans.

He saw me staring at the rifle crates and went ahead of me, grinning like a child.

When I reached him, he pried open the lid of the top crate. Inside, arranged in clean rows, were rifles with dark wood stocks and long, blued barrels.

For a second, I thought I was looking at Gewehr 88s. My heart skipped a beat—then logic caught up. It couldn’t be. Those were far too modern and expensive.

Señor Lim lifted one of the rifles with both hands, cradling it like treasure.

"Behold," he announced, "the Hanyang 88."