Before the Storm
Isabelo de la Cruz had been fighting since he was sixteen. He had seen the Spaniards retreat, heard the cannons fall silent when Aguinaldo declared independence in Kawit, and watched the Philippine flag rise for the first time with it's tricolor pattern blue at the top red below and the white on the side, where the three stars that symbolize Luzon Visayas and Mindanao and the golden sun with eight rays that symbolize each province (Manila, Cavite, Bulacan, Pampanga, Nueva Ecija, Laguna, Batangas, and Tarlac.)that stand together to revolt against spanish rule. For a brief, golden season, he had believed that the nation would achieve freedom and independence.
But then the Americans came. They spoke of friendship, of liberty, of "little brown brothers." Then came the trenches, the Gatling guns, the villages burned as "collateral."
By 1900, Isabelo was a man worn thin — his frame lean, his face hard, his hands calloused by a thousand days gripping steel. His only softness was for his son Rafael, seven years old, who lived with relatives in a safer barrio. Isabelo had promised his wife on her deathbed that he would keep the boy away from war.
Now, crouching under the dripping canopy, he wondered if Rafael would even remember his face.
The Encampment
The guerrilla camp in Bulacan was no more than a cluster of bamboo huts and lean-tos, hidden beneath the canopy of towering trees (bamboos, acacia, narra, mahogany). Smoke from cookfires mixed with damp fog. Men sat sharpening bolos, whispering prayers, or staring blankly into the rain.
Tomas Santiago, the youngest of them all, barely nineteen, chewed nervously on a piece of sugarcane. He had joined because his father was executed by Americans during the Massacres and scorched-earth policies due to the Balangiga Massacre: (After a surprise attack by Filipino forces killed more than 40 American soldiers in Samar, General Jacob H. Smith ordered his troops to turn the island into a "howling wilderness" by killing every male over the age of ten.)
His boyish cheeks and wide eyes made him look out of place among hardened veterans.
Isabelo rested against a post, watching Tomas.
Isabelo (gently): "Your hands shake when you clean your rifle. Fear is no shame, iho. Only forgetting why you fight is Shame."
Tomas (hesitant): "Why do we fight still, Ka Isabelo? The others say Aguinaldo has fled. Some say he hides like a rat in the mountains."
Isabelo: "A man may flee. But the idea cannot be as long as the fire continues to burn in our hearts, even when we are gone, there will always be someone to stand up against the cruelty and desire for freedom."
The rain thickened. A scout arrived, panting.
Scout: "They're close. Americans — two platoons, maybe more. Coming from the river."
The men looked to Isabelo. Though wounded, his presence carries gravity. He nodded, slow, grim.
Isabelo: "Then tonight, brothers, we plant our bones in the soil. Let the roots remember us."
III. Flashback — The Oath
That night, before the clash, Isabelo dreamed.
He saw himself at sixteen, in the glow of torchlight, kneeling beside Bonifacio's men. He remembered the taste of lambanog, the smell of sweat and gunpowder. He remembered raising his bolo and swearing an oath before the Katipunan:
"To shed my blood for the Motherland. To free thy Nation. To never betray. For freedom!"
He remembered the first time he saw blood on his blade — and how he wept afterward, from guilt, and awe that he had lived.
The memory faded as thunder shook the ground. He woke up with Tomas shaking him.
Tomas (urgent): "They're here."
The Enemy
Through the sheets of rain, they came.
Dozens of American soldiers moved in formation, boots sinking into mud, rifles held with precision. At their head rode Captain William Harrington, a tall Virginian with eyes like cold iron. He had served in Cuba, then was sent here, believing he brought "civilization."
Beside him trudged Private Daniel O'Rourke, an Irish immigrant. Unlike Harrington, O'Rourke's face was lined with doubt. He had seen too many villages burn, too many women cry.
O'Rourke (quietly, to a comrade): "They look like farmers, not soldiers. Christ, forgive us."
Comrade: "Shut your mouth, Danny. Orders are orders."
Harrington raised his hand.
Harrington: "Surround them. Take prisoners if they yield. If not — no mercy."
The Battle
Isabelo(whisper to his comrades):
"If our bones must feed the soil of our homeland, then let them sprout freedom in the hearts of our children."
The first shots cracked through the night. Leaves exploded into shreds. Traps are being undone and snapping. Men screamed.
Isabelo rose, firing his Mauser until it clicked empty, then drew his bolo.
Isabelo (yelling): "Stand! Even if your blood feeds the trees, stand!"
BACKGROUND:Para sa Kalayaan!,SUGOD!
AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!
WE'RE UNDER AMBUSH! BEWARE OF TRAPS! AAARRGHHHH!
The jungle turned to chaos — shouts in English and Tagalog, flashes of muzzle fire, the clash of steel. Tomas shot wildly, his ears ringing. A bullet grazed his cheek, hot as fire.
One revolutionary fell, clutching his stomach, blood bubbling at his lips. Another swung his bolo, splitting an American's helmet open.
BACKGROUND: COUGH….COUGH
CRACK!
Harrington advanced with cold efficiency, pistol in hand.
Harrington: "These savages never learn."
He shot a fighter square in the chest.
Isabelo, bleeding already from his side, saw him. Their eyes locked.
The Last Stand
The rain poured harder, drowning the world. Isabelo staggered, yet still moved forward. His bolo gleamed. He clashed with an American soldier, slashing through his arm. Another blow — another body down.
But then Harrington raised his pistol.
The shot tore through Isabelo's shoulder. Another ripped through his thigh. He dropped to his knees, mud splashing.
Harrington (calm): "Yield. It's over."
Isabelo (bloodied smile): "Over? Not while one heart still burns."
He lunged with his last strength. Harrington fired point-blank into his chest.
Isabelo collapsed, face half-buried in mud, but with eyes still burning like coals.
He musters all the strength he has left to write a letter for his son, drawing near his end.
While writing his final letter to Rafael.
Dialogue (soft voice as he writes):
"I do not leave you wealth, hijo, but I leave you a fire that no empire can extinguish.
VII. The Escape
Tomas, screaming, dragged himself away, clutching the letter Isabelo had given him. He crawled through roots, mud soaking his clothes. Bullets whistled overhead. Branches whipped his face.
Behind him, he heard Americans bayonet the wounded, finishing them with brutal efficiency.
He did not look back. He could not.
VIII. The Letter
At dawn, Tomas stumbled into a thicket and collapsed. His body shook with exhaustion and terror. With trembling hands, he unfolded the letter.
"Rafael, my son. If these words reach you, I am gone. Remember that freedom is bought not by speeches but by sacrifice. A man may lose his body, but never his dignity, unless he surrenders it. The day will come when you, too, must decide whether to bow or to rise. When that day comes — remember me, and rise."
Tomas pressed the paper to his chest. He swore, through cracked lips:
Tomas: "I'll find you, Rafael. I'll keep this safe."
The Shadow of Destiny
Far away, in a quiet barrio, seven-year-old Rafael de la Cruz played by a riverbank, chasing dragonflies. He did not yet know that his father lay dead beneath the Bulacan trees, or that a letter soaked in blood was crawling its way toward him.
The sun rose. The river glimmered. For a moment, innocence still held.