Days turned to weeks.
At dawn, the walls of Fort Santiago echoed with the sound of boots stamping in rhythm, muskets slapping against shoulders, and voices raised in cadence. Under Andres's orders, the conscripts were drilled relentlessly. Marching until their steps fell as one, running until sweat poured from their backs, and sparring with bayonets until their arms trembled.
The men grumbled at first, muttering in Tagalog under their breath.
"Too young… he's just a boy."
"A lieutenant at fourteen? What kind of army is this?"
"I've worked the fields longer than he's been alive, yet I'm meant to salute him?"
Andres heard it all but he didn't mind it.
One afternoon, the defiance finally broke into the open.
They had been ordered to march around the yard with full kit under the blazing sun. Andres watched from the front, his eyes sharp as a hawk's. The line wavered. One conscript. Broad-shouldered, at least twenty-five years old—slipped out of rank and let his musket droop to the ground.
He muttered loud enough for others to hear, "Why should we break our backs for a child?"
Several heads turned. A few even chuckled under their breath.
Andres's eyes narrowed.
"Step forward," he ordered.
The man hesitated, then smirked and stepped out. He stood a head taller than Andres, his chest broad, his arms corded with years of farm work. He sneered down at the boy-officer.
"You can't order me like some dog," the man spat in Tagalog. "You're no older than my youngest brother."
The murmurs spread through the ranks, whispers swelling like the tide. All eyes turned to Andres.
Andres didn't blink. "Name."
The man jutted his chin. "Diego."
"Diego," Andres repeated evenly. "You have disobeyed orders in front of your comrades. For that, you will be punished."
The man barked a laugh. "Punished? By you?" He spread his arms wide, daring. "Do your worst, niño. What can a boy do?"
Andres stepped forward. In one swift motion, he struck the man across the face with the flat of his officer's cane. The crack echoed across the yard. Diego staggered back, stunned, as silence fell over the conscripts.
"This uniform does not care for age. This rank does not care for your pride. You will march until your legs collapse, or I will see you flogged at the post until your back is torn raw. Those are your choices," Andres warned coldly.
He turned to the rest of the company, his voice rising. "I do not care if you are older than me. I do not care if you hate me. I am your lieutenant. While you wear that uniform, you will obey, or you will suffer."
Diego clenched his jaw, fists trembling at his sides. But the fire in his eyes met the cold certainty in Andres's, and at last, he lowered his gaze.
"Yes, Señor," he muttered.
"Louder."
"Yes, Señor!"
"Back in line!"
Diego returned to the ranks, his cheek red and swollen, his pride bruised worse. Not another word of rebellion left his lips that day.
The conscripts stared at Andres with new eyes, not with respect, but with something closer to fear.
From then on, discipline hardened. Mistakes were met with extra drills. Defiance was crushed with swift punishment. Yet Andres was not cruel without cause, when a man stumbled but pushed himself back up, he acknowledged it with a sharp nod. When a soldier executed a drill correctly, he gave praise.
Slowly, the men began to understand.
This boy was no ordinary officer.
He did not laugh with them, nor share their jokes, but he endured with them. He trained alongside them at times, his small frame driving through push-ups until his arms shook, his voice hoarse from calling cadence. He showed them that his will was iron, and in time, they bent to it.
By the end of the month, the crooked lines had straightened. Their boots struck the ground as one. Their muskets rose in unison.
The lazy stares and mocking whispers faded.
Andres watched them march, his jaw set, his eyes calm. Inside, he thought only one thing.
If I can forge these men into soldiers, then one day, I can forge an army.
***
Another month had passed since Andres first stood before the ragged line of farmers and fishermen dressed in uniforms.
"At attention! Shoulder arms!"
The Indio conscripts obeyed without hesitation.
"March!"
The company moved as one.
It was at that moment that the gates creaked open. A carriage rolled in, flanked by mounted guards. At its center strode the very man who had given Andres his orders—the comandante of the plaza, Capitán de Fragata Ortega.
His gaze swept across the yard with casual disdain, clearly expecting to find chaos. Behind him trailed two Peninsular officers. Smirks tugging at their lips as if the outcome of this visit was already assured.
"Ah, our Criollo lieutenant," Ortega muttered with a scornful chuckle as Andres saluted sharply. "I thought I'd find you drowning in the sweat and filth of your Indios. Let us see what you've managed."
Andres stepped aside. "Company—present arms!"
In flawless unison, a hundred muskets snapped to attention, the steel ringing out as one. The sound reverberated against the stone walls, sharp and disciplined.
The visiting officers blinked. One of them leaned toward Ortega. "Caramba… they move cleaner than half the militia companies in Cavite."
But Ortega's face remained stony. He paced in front of the line, his cane tapping against the ground. He stopped suddenly in front of a soldier, staring hard into the man's eyes. The Indio didn't flinch.
He barked, "Your name, peasant!"
The soldier, no older than twenty, answered firmly in Spanish. "Juan Santiago, Señor. Private of Fort Santiago."
Not a stammer. Not a slouch.
Ortega's eyes narrowed. He stepped back, scanning the company again. Then he turned his gaze to Andres.
"You've whipped them into shape, it seems," he said, his tone grudging. "But tell me, boy, how long can this illusion last? A Criollo child leading animals. They will turn back into beasts the moment fear grips them."
Andres met his gaze steadily. "Señor, discipline is not an illusion. It is forged. These men have been broken of their weakness, and they will not falter."
One of the Peninsular officers scoffed. "Hah! Listen to him. Fourteen years old and speaking like a general."
Ortega gave a cold chuckle, his eyes lingering on Andres with a mix of scorn and reluctant acknowledgment.
"Perhaps you are not as fragile as I thought, Lieutenant Novales. Still, remember this: your men may march, they may salute, but to Madrid they are nothing more than expendable flesh. Do not forget your place, Criollo. Whatever glory you think you earn here, it will not change your blood."
Andres saluted crisply. "Understood, Señor."
Ortega sighed irritatingly. "I have something to discuss with you. Let's talk in your quarters."