A day after his graduation, Andres found himself standing before the Cuartel de España, the military headquarters in Intramuros where young officers received their first postings.
His polished shoes clicked softly as he stepped inside, saluting the guard at the entrance.
Andres was directed to a side wing where offices lined a long corridor. The wooden floor creaked under his stride until he reached a door marked Comandante de la Plaza.
A voice inside called, "Entre."
Andres pushed the door open and entered. Behind a heavy desk sat a broad-shouldered officer in his forties, his hair peppered with gray, his uniform marked with the insignia of a capitán de fragata assigned to land command. Papers were neatly arranged before him, along with a map of Luzon dotted with pins.
The officer looked up. "Lieutenant Novales."
Andres saluted crisply. "At your service, Señor."
The officer leaned back slightly, studying him. And then he scoffed.
He slid a folder across the desk. Andres stepped forward and picked it up. Inside were sealed documents—orders stamped with the royal crest.
"Your first assignment will not take you far," the officer began, his lip curling ever so slightly. "The Crown insists its fledgling lieutenants cut their teeth on garrison duty before daring to think themselves fit for real campaigns. You will report to Fort Santiago. There, you'll be given a company of Indio conscripts—field hands and fishermen who can barely tell their left foot from their right. Raw, undisciplined… little better than animals dressed in uniforms."
They'll test your patience more than your skill, I assure you. But perhaps that suits you, Novales. After all, you are a Criollo. Not quite one of us, yet not one of them either. Consider it fitting that you should begin with half-men who need a whip to remember their place."
Andres listened without a flicker of emotion, though the officer wasn't finished.
"Do not delude yourself," the man pressed, his gaze hard. "Spain entrusts her walls to us—those of true blood. If Fort Santiago falls, this colony falls with it. Your role, then, is simple: beat obedience into your rabble and make them stand in line long enough to die where we point them. Do that well, and perhaps Madrid will one day pretend to forget where you were born."
Andres didn't reply, rather he observed how this Spanish officer treated him. The only difference between a Criollo and the Peninsulares was that the former was born in the Philippines while the latter in Spain. Both were Spaniards by blood, yet in the eyes of men like this comandante, one would forever be second-class.
Well, his mother was a mestiza—half-Spanish, half-Indio. That alone made him even easier to scorn.
Andres held the folder firmly in hand and drew a measured breath. Then, with the same calmness that had carried him through years of ridicule at the academy, he snapped to attention and saluted.
"Understood, Señor. I will see to it that the garrison fulfills its duties."
The officer smirked faintly, as though amused at his composure. "We'll see how long that confidence lasts, Lieutenant. Many a Criollo has found their pride broken once saddled with Indios. They are stubborn, lazy, and quick to flee the moment their courage is tested. You would do well not to put too much faith in them."
Andres bowed his head slightly. "Discipline will be maintained, Señor."
"Hmph. Spoken like a proper cadet." The officer waved a hand, dismissing him as though he were little more than a clerk. "Go, then. Report to the fort by dawn tomorrow. The plaza mayor will send the quartermaster's lists. Try not to shame your family name."
Andres saluted once more. "By your leave."
He turned sharply and marched out.
***
A day later.
Andres marched through the gates of Fort Santiago, the Crown's most prized stronghold in the colony. Its stone walls loomed over the riverbank.
The drawbridge creaked under the weight of wagons bringing supplies, while sentries in worn uniforms leaned on their muskets, watching without much vigor.
Andres presented his orders to the gate officer, who gave him a skeptical glance before waving him through. Inside, the parade ground spread wide, but what caught his eye was the so-called "company" he had been assigned.
A cluster of Indio conscripts stood in the heat, their muskets crooked against their shoulders, uniforms hanging loose and half-buttoned. Some whispered among themselves, others scratched their heads, one even yawned as though it were too early to stand at attention. Their boots were mismatched, their belts frayed, their posture sloppy at best.
The Spanish sergeant in charge, a wiry man with a thick accent from Cádiz, barked half-heartedly at them in broken Tagalog.
"Firmes, carajo! Stand straight, you lazy dogs! Do you want the lieutenant to see you like this?"
The men shuffled into a crooked line, still uneven.
Andres walked forward, his boots echoing across the stone yard. The sergeant snapped a salute, though his eyes carried the same disdain the comandante had shown.
"Lieutenant Novales. Your men, as ordered."
Andres's gaze swept across the company. Farmers, fishermen, and dockhands, calloused hands, tired faces, yet strong bodies hardened by labor. To the Spaniards, they were animals in uniforms. To Andres, they were potential.
"Leave us," Andres said calmly.
The sergeant blinked, then gave a mocking little smile. "As you wish, Señor. Best of luck. You'll need it." He spat to the side before sauntering off, leaving the line of Indios staring at Andres uncertainly.
Silence stretched between them. Some avoided his gaze, others watched him with faint suspicion.
"My name is Lieutenant Andres Novales. From this day forward, I am your commanding officer. You may think yourselves farmers, fishermen, laborers—but here, within these walls, you are soldiers of Fort Santiago. And a soldier does not cower, does not slouch, does not break rank. A soldier protects. A soldier endures.
Spain may see you as tools to be used and discarded. But if you follow me, if you give your sweat and strength, I will see to it that you are forged into more than they believe. Into men worthy of respect, even if I must drag it from the mouths of those who mock you."
The conscripts exchanged uneasy glances. None spoke, but a few straightened instinctively, as though his tone alone commanded them.
Andres nodded once, sharply. "Good. Then we begin. No man will eat until you stand in line as one, until you march as one, until you carry yourselves not as slaves in uniform, but as soldiers."
He stepped back, voice cutting across the yard.
"Form ranks! Shoulder arms! March!"
The day's training began.