Love Beyond: Walang Hanggang Pagmamahal

by Grant Leishman

  Spain had been slowly losing its Empire over the course of the Nineteenth Century, but by the time Hernando joined the army there were still plenty of exciting, exotic places in North Africa as well as Puerto Rico, Cuba, Guam, plus other Pacific Islands, and of course The Philippines, he could have been appointed to. When he’d discovered his posting he’d immediately hunted through his father’s extensive library seeking out information about this exotic Asian outpost. It had come as a shock when he realised Spain had controlled The Philippines for over three hundred years. He assumed there would be solid, administrative procedures and command structures in place. Genuinely, he felt a great anticipation for his new adventure. Finally, he felt, he would be out from under the shadow of his twin brother and his success or otherwise in the world was fairly and squarely on his own shoulders. Oh, the naiveté and hollow idealism of youth.

  He had always been at odds with his father, politically. Hernando genuinely believed that the job of the Spanish colonialists and indeed, all European colonialists were to educate and civilise the native populations of the world. He felt it was the duty of all Europeans to bring them up to the same cultural, political, and social levels as Europe, before returning self-determination to them. Although this was a common thread of liberal thought in Europe, in the second half of the nineteenth century, it was not a policy or a direction proclaimed by most European politicians and countries. For most, they believed their colonies were inhabited by sub-human species, akin to children, who would always require the dominating and overarching hand of the civilised world to survive. The policy, in general, was to convert the heathens to Christianity and then utilise their labour to plunder the country’s resources for the Fatherland. This was certainly the prevailing attitude of most of the Spanish aristocracy.

  He would have long and sometimes bitter arguments with his father about the purpose of civilisation and the equality of all men. His father would have no truck with his ideas, which he constantly referred to as that “horrible French heresy about liberty, equality, and brotherhood”. Hernando would argue that the natives were exactly the same as them, simply human beings, capable of being educated and trained to self-govern. “Human beings!” the Marquis would splutter, “Human beings, Hernando! No... no... no... they simply are not the same as us at all. They are put there, by God, to be our servants, nothing more, nothing less.” This intractable racism and supposed superiority of the Spanish aristocracy, more than anything had made Hernando determined to make a difference once he arrived in the Philippines.

  He began to wonder about the wisdom of his posting within minutes of stepping off the boat, after the long and arduous journey from Spain to Manila. The recent opening of the Suez Canal had made the trip faster, without the necessity for ships to travel all the way down the coast of Africa to round the Cape of Good Hope to get to the Indian Ocean and ultimately up to the Pacific and The Philippines. Nevertheless, it still took about six weeks, depending on the weather and by the time the ship docked, he, his men and their horses were suffering from severe “cabin fever”. He likened his first taste of the tropics to walking into a large, stone-oven. He felt the heat, so moist and so overly oppressive. Every afternoon the sky would open in a down-pouring of rain the likes of which he’d never witnessed before. The rain was so heavy at times you literally couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. It was like standing underneath a giant waterfall and being drenched in seconds. When you added the constant assault, on your person, from the ever-present flies and the more sneaky attacks on your skin from the virus-carrying mosquitoes, it definitely wasn’t the most welcoming place in the world.

  His introduction to the military and administrative command, based inside the walled city of Intramuros was no less depressing. Perhaps it was the length of time the Spanish had ruled the Philippines, or perhaps it was the nature of the officers and administrators themselves, but there seemed just a total lack of urgency, a total lack of order, structure, and discipline that he had come to expect from his military background. More than once was he reminded, “relax, young man, this is The Philippines. Things run slower here. All things… in their good time.” He was thrilled to finally be posted outside of the Capital, after spending a month sitting around doing practically nothing. He was looking forward to his posting to Santa Maria, Bulacan, not that he had any idea what the military camp there was like, or indeed how to get there.

  Fortunately, he and his men were given two local soldiers from the Guardia Civilia (Civil Guard) to escort them to Bulacan. The Guardia Civilia was formed in 1868 and comprised of local Filipino’s under the command of regular Spanish Officers. During the trip to Santa Maria, which took them three days, Hernando was constantly amazed at the knowledge, understanding, and discipline of these local troops. It was the first time he had been exposed to real, Filipino men and it confirmed his idealistic beliefs that these men were no different to him and his soldiers. They were intelligent, friendly, quick to learn, and most of all they displayed a humour and enjoyment of life that quickly endeared them to his heart. He found himself, in the evenings, when they camped, seeking out their company rather than that of his own men. They all spoke excellent Spanish and were more than willing to share with him their stories and those of their country. By the time they reached the barracks at Santa Maria, he felt he could genuinely call these two soldiers, Sergeant Ernesto Canales and Private Salvador de la Paz, friends. So enjoyable did these two men make the long and difficult journey, Hernando was genuinely saddened to farewell them on arrival at Santa Maria.

  As in Manila, his first impression of the barracks was that of slackness, a lack of military protocol and a general attitude of laziness. His first great shock came when he witnessed how his two new friends Ernesto and Salvador were treated by the soldiers at the camp. On their arrival they were ordered to join the rest of the local Guardia Civilia, outside of the main camp, to have a quick meal and to head back to Manila. The Spanish soldiers spoke to their two allies as if they were the scum floating on top of the pond, dismissing them with a cursive wave of their arms and much shouting. For their part, the pair appeared to take their dismissal, in good humour and in their stride. After shaking hands with Hernando and giving him a snappy, military salute they headed out of the main camp to join their comrades, in a tatty tent village on the eastern wall. Hernando was livid at the cavalier treatment dished out to the two and was about to launch into a tirade at the soldiers when a voice boomed out behind him.

  “Ahhhh... Captain de Abreu, I presume. So, you’ve finally deigned to grace us with your presence have you? About damn time too! I’ve been way too long without a good Captain to take the load off my shoulders.”

  Hernando spun around to face the man who was clearly Commandante de la Page. Snapping to attention, he saluted the Commandante crisply before shouting. “Sir, Captain Hernando Alvarez de Abreu, reporting for duty, Sir!”

  The Commandante waved his arm about airily. “No need for all that sort of thing, Captain. We’re pretty informal here.” He looked around him at the makeshift military camp. “It’s not like we’re going to see any Generals out here; now is it?” He gave a huge sigh, before adding, “We really are in the middle of nowhere out here, Captain.”

  Taken aback, Hernando just dropped his arm from his salute and muttered, “as you say, Sir, as you say.”

  “Now get your horses stabled Abreu and get your men settled into the barracks. My soldiers will show you all where to go. Then, when you’re settled into your own quarters come and join me in my office. I’ve been saving a rather nice Madeira for your arrival and I’ll go over what’s expected of you, here.” Mistaking Hernando’s look for one of concern, rather than the shock and dismay, it really was, he quickly added, “don’t worry you won’t have much to do. We have it all pretty easy here.” With that, he spun on his heels and marched back toward what Hernando assumed was his office.

  ***

  It had indeed been a top-quality Madeira and Hernando
had enjoyed the opportunity to relax and chat, for the first time since his arrival in the country. He found the Commandante to be excellent company and realised early on that the somewhat carefree manner and flippant speech actually hid a man who was weary of his colonial service and just longed to return home to his beloved Spain.

  “Not long now, de Abreu,” the Commandante had confided in him. “I’m glad you’re here because now that I have my ready-made replacement, I can start thinking again about my wife and our lovely seaside cottage near Villa Real on the Mediterranean coast.” As the Madeira loosened his tongue he’d begun to wax quite lyrical about his home. “Ahhhh, young Hernando,” he’d sighed sadly, “until you’ve seen a sunrise over the Mediterranean, you really haven’t experienced heaven.”

  Hernando had contributed little to the conversation, as the old commanding officer had been keen to reminisce, so he just listened politely and, of course, continued to savour the glorious taste of the rich Madeira. He was excited to hear Francisco assure him that he had been hand-picked as his replacement. “My boy,” he had slurred drunkenly as the evening drew to a close, “you are of the right blood, young man. Do well here and the opportunities will open up.” He’d leant close to Hernando, in the two side-by-side armchairs, until he could smell the Commandante’s hot, alcohol-infused breath and placing a finger beside his nose, he’d whispered. “I still have many contacts back in the Army hierarchy in Spain, lad. Do well here and you will not only succeed me, you will have my recommendation for future promotion.” The Commandante had then slouched in his chair, his head lolling back and proceeded to snore loudly.

  Laughing softly, under his breath, Hernando had staggered to his own feet, before heading to his quarters and an all too brief four hours sleep.

  His reverie was broken by the strident calls of the morning bugler, as the calls to awaken and prepare for a new day rang out across the parade ground. He snapped himself back to reality and headed for a quick breakfast, before rounding up his troop and heading out on his first ever patrol in The Philippines. He was secretly excited to be heading out into what was the unknown for him. The Commandante had informed him that they had been hearing persistent rumours, for some weeks now, about a new, secret organisation of natives, who were clandestinely plotting to overthrow the Government. He’d told Hernando not much was known about these revolutionaries, even in Manila, but several informants in the local town had hinted there were a group of young men who were meeting regularly and planning to ambush and kill garrison patrols. He wanted Hernando and a large column of troops to ride through Santa Maria in a display of force designed to intimidate the townspeople. “Put the fear of God into these would-be rebels,” he’d told Hernando.

  After a quick breakfast of soft rice and salted meat, Hernando went out to the parade ground to address his troops, prior to their departure. The native grooms had already prepared and readied his horse, but his initial worries were the troops he would be taking with him. Gazing around the assembled soldiers, some ten cavalry, with horse and a further thirty infantrymen, he could clearly delineate two distinct groups. Those soldiers, who had travelled up from Manila with him, were on parade, standing to attention, their uniforms immaculate and their eyes pointed straight to the front, awaiting orders. By comparison, the troops of the garrison were a sloppy lot, to say the least. They were slouching around, leaning on their rifles and talking animatedly. He even spotted two soldiers at the rear of the squad, squatting on the ground, playing cards and clearly gambling.

  Right, he thought, time things changed around here. Time to show these layabouts there’s a new Captain in town and one who won’t tolerate non-adherence to Army procedure and discipline. Cracking his riding crop, like a whip, against the shoulder of one private, who was arguing with his comrade, he bellowed, “ATTENTION!”

  The soldier, he’d cracked on the shoulder had spun around, fists raised, ready to fight back. When he saw the red thunder written on Hernando’s face, he stepped back, dropped his arms to his side, threw his rifle over his shoulder and shuffled into line, muttering incoherently under his breath. Slowly, all the soldiers began to follow suit and formed three ragged lines of infantry, with the Cavalry in front. Some of the horses were spooked by Hernando’s loud voice and were shying away from their riders, neighing and tossing their heads.

  “Get those horses under control, NOW!” Hernando bellowed. “Good God men, are you soldiers or some sort of undisciplined rabble thrown out of Spain to endlessly roam its colonies? Now get into three perfectly straight lines, face-off and tidy up your uniforms. Most of you are a disgrace to the Spanish Colonial Service and you should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  Despite many of the men still muttering under their breaths, they gradually complied with Hernando’s order and formed up into three straight lines. “AND STOP BLOODY TALKING!” he yelled, the exasperation clear in his voice. He looked up and down the lines of men. “So, where is the Sargento Primero (First Sergeant)? Why is he not here? Why is he not organising you rabble? My God, this is such a mess.”

  A small, dumpy man, at the end of the front rank of infantry, squeaked tentatively, “Ah, Sir, we haven’t had a Sergeant since Sergeant Cavallero died of the fever a few months ago.”

  Hernando stroked his chin thoughtfully and looked at the men in front of him. Spotting one of the soldiers who had accompanied him to Santa Maria, he gestured with his finger for the man to step forward. “Right, Cabo (Corporal) Molinero, you are hereby promoted to Sargento Primero from this moment forward. You will take control of this rabble and when we assemble here tomorrow morning, they will on time, they will be dressed correctly, they will be formed up properly and they WILL NOT be talking, do I make myself clear Sergeant?”

  Gulping, but proud of his new promotion, Sergeant Molinero threw his Captain a smart salute, spun on his heels and proceeded to adjust and straighten the infantry lines. Hernando smiled softly to himself. Well, that’s well and truly told them, he thought.

  Striding to his horse, he turned and addressed his men. “Right, today, we are aiming for a show of force. It is just a little display to remind the townspeople that we are in charge and we are the law in this Country.” Stroking his neatly trimmed goatee beard, he added, “under no circumstances are you to threaten the population, draw your swords, or point your rifles, without an express order from me or your Sergeant. This is about showing them what proud, aristocratic, powerful, wise and fair leaders they have. I do not want any bullying tactics. Am I understood?”

  He allowed himself a gentle smile as a perfectly unison and loud, “Yes Sir,” chorused back from the squad.

  “Ah, now, that’s so much better,” he chuckled. Throwing his leg over his beautiful, Andalusian, white stallion, Geraldo, he turned and signalled the troops to follow him, as he led his column out from the garrison. This was it. He was finally in command of his own unit. He would make Spain proud of him, he thought, as his horse trotted through the garrison gates.

  ***

  LUZVIMINDA:

  Finally, the interminable droning of the priest, in Latin, was finished and the Mass was over. Minda had more than once fallen asleep during the Father’s homily. She couldn’t help but wonder what was the point of a Spanish Priest, speaking in Latin, to a congregation who didn’t understand a word of it? Oh sure, they knew all the correct responses to the calls and they dutifully parroted them back on cue, but really, did anyone understand it? She knew both her devout and pious mother and father would be horrified if they knew the extent of her blasphemous thoughts, but Minda had long ago learnt to keep her opinions about religion and indeed politics to herself. During the Mass, every time she had glanced across the aisle at that fat, smug face of Arturo, she had caught him staring at her. She determined it was time to put the boy straight on a few things and decided to corner him next week, after school and make him understand that nothing in this world was ever going to possess her to marry him. After all, she reasoned, if I can get Arturo on my side a
nd telling his mother he didn’t want to marry me, either, then half the battle was already won. Sneaking a sly look at him, as the Mass closed, she realised that might not be as easy as she’d hoped. He was staring at her again, this time with large, doe-like eyes. She cringed and sighed heavily. Oh well, she thought with glee, perhaps a few short, sharp punches in that chubby face of his might make him change his mind about me. The thought of Arturo with blood pouring from his nose made her chuckle aloud, drawing a stern look from her mother and a gentle tap on the back of her head from her father. Oops, better settle down, for now, she decided.

  As the family queued to leave the Church and be blessed, by being allowed to hold the hand of the Father and curtsey to him, Minda hung back, looking for a way to sneak around the back of the line and slip outside without anyone noticing. No way did she want to touch that dirty, old man, with his rancid breath and his wandering fingers. She shuddered inwardly as she looked for an escape route. As Louis, the youngest passed the entrance to exit, she slid behind him, sideways and quickly ran into the wide forecourt in front of the church, where she stood quietly among the throngs of parishioners greeting each other and catching up on their weekly dose of gossip. Spotting her mother’s head, over the crowd, swivelling around looking for her, Minda casually strolled over to the family group feeling satisfied with herself.

  “Ah, there you are Minda. Where did you get to? Did you get your blessing from the Father?”

  Smiling slyly, she just nodded her head, before her mother continued. “Right then children, your Father and I have some important catching up to do, with some of our friends. You go and wait for us by the fence until we’re ready to go home.” As she spoke, she was scanning the crowd looking for the first conversation she could insert herself into. “Now, off you go and Minda, do keep an eye on them this time. No wandering off.” Before Minda could respond, her mother had turned on her heel and sailed over to chat with Senora Villaneuva, who ran a small bakery in the town and was always a great font of knowledge or tsismis (gossip – pronounced chis-mis).