Heneral Isidoro Torres was already preparing to leave the barracks when Don Tiongson brought me over for an introduction. Befitting a military man, the general started his day early. We found him and his officers in front of the barracks' gates with their horses.
"Señor Antonio… buenos días," the thirty-year-old-looking general greeted, stepping his foot back down from the stirrup as his gaze turned to me. He had a round face and deeply set round eyes.
"Isidoro… we have a guest, the Gobernador of Marinduque," Don Tiongson said as we approached.
The general raised his eyebrows, apparently surprised. He smiled and walked around his horse to shake my hand.
"Heneral Isidoro Torres, at your service."
"Martin Lardizabal."
"How can I help you?" the general asked, briefly glancing behind me when the gate squeaked as Trivino joined us.
It was Don Antonio who answered. "He wants to meet Heneral Luna and see the Academia Militar. I said you could help."
"Well, I am going there now," Heneral Torres' smile widened. "Do you know how to ride a horse, Don Lardizabal?"
Both I and Martin knew how to ride a horse. Martin had learned at the late age of twenty during his first years in Manila. Marinduque did not have riding horses, so he had to learn from a college classmate. I, on the other hand, was the son of a rancher and had known how to ride before I even entered middle school.
One of his lieutenants gave up his mount for me—a fine chestnut brown mare, a European import. Trivino, on the other hand, not as important as myself, had to walk behind along with the same lieutenant and the privates.
Fortunately for him, he did not need to go faster than a walk, as the general and I proceeded to ride at an escort pace to accommodate conversation. The waking town was yet to get busy that sunny morning, and we were able to talk comfortably in low voices.
The general asked me about Marinduque, my occupation, and how I had ended up in the revolutionary movement. He listened intently, and I answered with the aim of impressing him, hoping he would report back to the president and help my request get approved.
All the small talk finally stumbled upon the purpose of my visit. I answered honestly.
He did not reply immediately, nodding thoughtfully. His response was just as honest:
"I am not saying your request will be declined, but Marinduque is quite small and underdeveloped. It doesn't have the resources or the manpower to support an independent military command."
"Is that so?" I tried to hide the disappointment in my voice.
Just like that, the budding hope I had gotten from my breakfast conversation with Don Antonio was dashed.
I did not completely agree with his assessment. Marinduque had five towns and more than a hundred villages, and recruiting one or two thousand men was not impossible. It had an economy that, while small, could support a sizable military force once fully directed toward the war effort.
But, of course, that would be a difficult undertaking. It would require me to assume dictator-like powers—a challenge I wasn't even sure I could pull off. And if I wasn't sure of myself, how much more the president, to whom I was nothing but a stranger?
"We're here, Don Lardizabal."
Before I knew it, we were in front of the convent again. A small group of soldiers was drilling in the plaza—not a Kawit unit, since they wore the regular trousers. The officer's voice echoed in the relative silence of the early morning, and his soldiers responded with precise movements.
I was surprised when we proceeded to ride toward the convent's doors, dismounted, and headed inside. Confirming a suspicion, the Academia Militar turned out to be housed in the same building as the Malolos Government.
Luna's Academia Militar was a dining hall in the left wing of the convent, repurposed into a classroom. The long tables and benches once used by monk diners were now occupied by officers of the republic in their crisp rayadillo uniforms.
A large fireplace in the corner was now rid of flames, inhabited instead by sacks and wooden crates. Instead of wooden planks common in classrooms, the floor remained tiled, originally designed for easy cleaning of food spills.
I was underwhelmed—until I heard the instructor speak.
It was a young officer, with well-combed hair and a dignified handlebar mustache. He spoke Spanish the way Spaniards would speak it, and he spoke as confidently as a military instructor should.
The instructing officer paused when he noticed us by the doorway. He promptly resumed at a nod from Heneral Torres.
The topic for the day was on the chalkboard. Formaciones de Infantería—Infantry Formations, one of the first things an officer learns even in the modern day. The instructor had illustrated each of the formations using small circles that represented the soldiers.
There was the column formation, illustrated by a single vertical line of circles. The line formation was illustrated as a horizontal line of circles. The skirmish formation was drawn as a loose arrangement of circles. Then there were the square, wedge, and circle formations, with the circles arranged accordingly.
The instructor taught well, waving his stick with the fluidity of a fencer, successfully holding the students' attention at the front.
It was then that I realized that the impressive drills I had seen in the plaza might have been the product of the academy.
"Major Jose Bugallón, a former second lieutenant in the Spanish Army, a graduate of the Academia Militar de Toledo in Spain," Heneral Torres informed me in a low voice.
I immediately glanced at Trivino upon hearing the name. He proudly grinned.
However, as impressive as the instructor was, the glaring flaws of 19th-century military theory were revealed as the lecture progressed.
The static nature of formations, the lack of integration of firepower and support, and the absence of flexibility and mobility—flaws that the First World War would brutally expose.