Ghosts of the Insurrection: a novel

Prologue

Basey, Samar, the Philippines, sometime in the late 1950’s.

More than fifty years have passed. The old town of Basey has not changed much since Major Littleton Waller and the Marines from the Sixth Separate Brigade left. The convent of the massive church on the hilltop and the tribunal building down the road where they garrisoned still remain. The abandoned hospital across the rear of the tribunal building was converted back into the schoolhouse it had once been. While many residents have long been gone, some to their graves, others to greener pastures, those who chose to stay must live with a painful past.

The burden of guilt or shame tends to cloud our recollection. We try to put unfortunate events behind us and move on. But these memories are thrown back at us again and again by forces beyond our power and will. We have little understanding of their reality, for they become supernatural. We tremble in fear.

The residents of Basey are as superstitious as they are deeply religious. The town is rife with ghost stories and hauntings. On moonlit nights, a young man, hardly recognizable, is said to walk in the shadows at the center of the town amidst the howling of dogs. Many swear to have seen him, eyes gouged out like a rotting corpse left in the open, quickly swarmed by crows picking at its eyeballs and entrails. Some even hear rifles popping out from nowhere, recreating a ghostly drama. Passing by the schoolhouse that was once an American hospital and witnessing so much suffering and dying is apt to raise goosebumps. Even at noontime, many students and teachers have seen forlorn spirits hobbling in the hallway and corridors.

In the neighboring town of Balangiga, where these unfortunate events began, the haunting comes in the form of a headless soldier roaming in the town square, perhaps an apparition of the captain of the massacred Yanqui troops garrisoned there.

Enlightened people no doubt dismiss these stories as figments of the imagination. I live in the Sulod district, a few blocks from where these sightings are said to take place. Never having experienced them, even in the brightest of moonlights, I still know that things did happen here and in Balangiga—more sickening and cruel than these fleeting glimpses of the past.

Historians try to piece together what is left of our collective experience. They print oral histories of witnesses and their descendants, trying to shed light on an obscure and controversial past. First-person accounts are hard to come by nowadays; the memories of those still living are clouded by old age and disease.

I will tell you my story, as much as I can remember, and however painful and sad.

One

I was born in this old town more than seventy years ago. Though crumbling and ancient, the house I inherited from my grandfather made life more comfortable. I have lived here for most of my adult life. Most evenings, I sit on a rocking chair on the second-floor balcony outside my bedroom, a perfect spot to unwind. A cool, gentle breeze rustles the surrounding palm trees, a soothing reprieve from a grueling day at the farm. Here, mosquitoes do not pester anyone. The smoke from my cigar kills them instantly, I suppose. Or perhaps they are used to seeing me here every night like the barandillas and the rocking chair. I am not worth a bite. I meditate freely under a moonless sky. Like many my age, I string together memories— very few happy to recall. When the muse pays a visit, I pen down the past in verses that at times rush like a cascade of rosy Spanish words.

I watch smoke from my cigar dissipate into thin air, pondering how much they resemble our lives and dreams. A puff, thick and dense, slowly drifts away, leaving no trace. That has happened to many of us—our lives and dreams, easily forgotten, so unimportant, so inconsequential. I wonder what life would have been had it played out differently.

Life, some say, is a prelude to eternal happiness or damnation. Live recklessly, and in the afterlife, you rot in Hell. Live the teachings of organized religion: Heaven, Nirvana, or Allah awaits you. But what if, like a puff from my cigar, there is nothing there after all? Would I err living life with a purpose?

It is too painful to think much about the past, one tragedy after another. Everyone in my family is gone, except for my grandson, whose parents died young. I should have gone before them. But that was not for me to decide. When many of your friends and family have gone, you have lived long enough. The old folks believe that each of us has his own lighted candle in a deep, dark cave in a parallel world. At birth, when the Caretaker lights your candle, it is equal in length to everybody else’s. But at any time, it could be snuffed out by wind or water. If you are lucky, you might live until it runs out. In my case, I am near burning up my wick.

I find company with George, whom I named after the first American president. He makes it a habit to join me for storytelling after supper. A captive listener can make my musings and past storybook a pleasure to share.

On a balcony awash in moonlight, I watch enthusiasm transform George’s childish demeanor. My thirteen-year-old grandson asks more questions than many of his peers about ghosts and martyrs. He has heard so many ghost stories, especially around here. What is it about these apparitions that so appeal to young minds? There are more gruesome and grotesque realities to tell. But child fantasy and imagination do not end here. George also likes stories about local people and their noble deeds, an invaluable oral history many adults, unfortunately, would find boring. Most remarkable during our storytelling nights is his eagerness to absorb. I am convinced it doesn’t matter to him which stories are true, which imagined. So, I tell him all sorts of stories, inventing plots and characters when I am short on facts. Endless. Well, at least until my captive listener falls asleep.

Sometimes I read him my poems. Poetry, I remind him, is like a song—but not quite. There is no need to sing it when it has rhythm and rhyme. Were I to write historical facts and critiques in verse, perhaps history would become more interesting? In no time, my grandson might be an enthusiastic history student. When I read him poems about our history, he becomes more insightful—at times critical. I hope he realizes that our rich history cannot be swept under the rug of shame and half-truths; it must be exposed for free discourse.

Yesterday he found a copy of a poem I had written about war and the coming of the Americans. He took it, with great interest, to read to his class. His teacher and classmates were surprised to read history in a poem, and they liked it. Maybe that’s how history should be taught in the classroom, complete with footnotes and the required bibliography. But that would be rather inappropriate at this time; some might even think it’s gibberish.

Two

We would prefer to forget hurtful, shameful experiences and find it difficult to admit to the skeletons in our closets. But I felt guilty about keeping the facts from my grandson. Deep in his big brown eyes, I saw a mature thinker, capable of handling the painful reality of what had happened. I would instead tell him the whole story; tomorrow, I might be gone. Then who would know the truth were I alone to die with it? This way, I could die in peace.

He once told me that his teacher and classmates had said bad things about what had happened in Balangiga—that we were the bad guys. He had trouble believing that and said to them, I will believe all that you said if my grandfather says the same.

"Apoy Felipe, what happened in Balangiga?" he asks.

His question awakens feelings of guilt and reproach; his reasons for asking are unsettling. Balangiga is far more than a ghost story, far removed from enchanted places and supernatural beings. But like the ghost story it has become, it too is not free from exaggerations and half-truths. I cannot ignore my grandson nor dismiss him as being silly or stupid for asking. Perhaps he wants to hear my answer to arrest his doubts, to confirm what he was taught in school. He earnestly believes I was there when it happened because I once told him so.

The story about killing the entire Company C (well, almost the whole company) of American soldiers is true. The number of casualties depends pretty much on whom you ask. But nobody is quite sure of what happened except for the only surviving witness who can recite incontestably a first-person account of the unfortunate event. The testimonies of the descendants of witnesses are hearsay. They were not there when it happened.

Recalling those fateful days is painful. Many of us relived them because it gave us some sense of patriotic pride, a badly needed victory in a lopsided war. If that didn’t inspire our patriotic calling, what would? But frankly, we did not win because of our capabilities. Our enemy fired Krag-Jorgensen rifles at us; we wielded only bolos or sundang and would have been dead before we could get within slashing distance of them. We could never have matched their weapons, however well-honed ours were—that we should admit. Our only hope was to attack by surprise, overwhelming them with such great numbers, their escape would have been nearly impossible. And that’s what we did. The attack strengthened the Americans’ resolve to fight back. But we were most affected by what happened next. The folks in the towns and barrios, especially here in Basey, were beset by duplicity, indecision, and ambivalence. Our lack of resolve and direction was deplorable.

How did the Americans get involved in the Philippines? my grandson asks.

The answer to that question takes a long, hard look into our country’s history, but I feel compelled to mention short narratives in the following pages as they become relevant. I should begin with my poem about the battle of Manila Bay.

Battle of Manila Bay

The Civil War— its aftermath would breed self-isolationists,

Still, the hawks beat drums of war, for jingoists, imperialists;

Subdued a continent, America looks cockily far west,

Beyond cities of granite and steel, ventured the capitalist.

Mahan’s teaching would seek, ironic for these former colonies,

To rule the world in war and peace, whoever, must control the seas?

Go; heed the Anglo-Saxon’s call for righteous belligerence,

White man’s burden it is, to civilize worlds of indifference.

America looks out forthwith, listens with sense of foreboding,

The Cuban plight, deplorable, yellow press so unforgiving,

For Weyler, butcher of reconcentrados, his atrocity,

McKinley sends warily his battleship, his diplomacy.

The American man-of-war, Stars and Stripes flying high its peaks

Drops anchor and fires salute at Havana, so courtesy bespeaks;

The Spanish welcome the U.S.S. Maine with frigid propriety,

Sigsbee’s monstrous battleship menacingly looked friendly.

February the twenty-fifth, a tranquil night stirs in mild breeze

As the reveille echoes the eerie silence of tropical seas;

A sudden Boom! Light flashes, then dire mayhem and chaos let loose,

Sigsbee’s Maine explodes, and wrecks, and sinks amidst contemptible cause.

A mine blew, freak accident, or sabotage, still unfortunate

For Spain must bear the blame, hateful cries for revenge reverberate;

Awesome gunship sunk, perished souls of two hundred sixty men,

A horrific cost that must "Remember the Maine, to hell with Spain."

War looms, America goes global, beckoned to the greater sea,

To fight Spain’s war America must strike half the world away,

Where a detached monarch this last holding had her least of desire,

A mere show of force would crumble her dwindling, once glorious empire.

Dewey’s fleet is dispatched for battle from its moorings at Mirs Bay,

The flagship Olympia leads cruisers the Baltimore, Boston, and Raleigh,

The Petrel and the Concord gunboats, and the McCulloch cutter;

Trailing behind, the unarmed Zafiro, and Nanshan the collier.

These mighty ironclad monsters, power-driven by steam engines,

Eight-inch rifling guns that spit explosive shells in roaring spins;

From mounted turrets belching, any line of fire revolving,

High and mighty Old Glory, meets destiny, comes bravely flapping.

As night fell the lookouts keep watch of what distant horizons make,

Ships in single file trail light astern in the phosphorescent, foaming wake;

Tall pillars of clouds conceal the moon in this hardly a drizzly night,

Streaks of lightning give away a glimpse of seething American might.

Lights flash and rockets soar into the sky, signals from miles away,

Seen by the enemy, but no dash of torpedo come their way;

Then guns flash from the fortified rocks of El Fraile in the dark,

Artillery round from the Boston whistled back and hit its mark.

The Asiatic squadron enters Manila Bay it’s first of May,

Dewey’s warships and collier run the gauntlet of Boca Grande,

The minefields off Corregidor, the silenced guns of El Fraile,

Remember the Maine, this vengeful cry echoes half the globe away.

The moon sets, the squadron creeps toward the distant white glow northeast,

Manila’s silhouette of domes and spires is rising from the morning mist;

Spain asleep belies nervous stance in this besieged protectorate,

These enslaved, treasured lands, her stewards nary a hint to abdicate.

Daylight breaks behind lofty spars and black hulls at the waterfront,

The fleet finds no men-of-war, no gunboats to the rear, or the front,

Then down south, its binoculars scan the thick early morning fog,

There, flying high atop tall masts the flame-colored Spanish flag.

Sangley Point gives sanctuary cuddling the entire flotilla,

In shallow waters moors battle-ready, the Spanish armada;

Montojo in hours of agonizing wait gears up his fleet,

His flagship Reina Cristina and all but old and decrepit.

Batteries along with the waterfront lob shells seven miles away,

But Dewey’ squadron is but a mile the eyes could clearly see;

The crew belies the nervousness, still could banter raillery,

Then the calm Commodore commands You may fire when ready, Gridley.

The three armored cruisers position to broadside the Spanish fleet,

Artilleries roar as projectiles rapidly fill the air with smoke and heat,

Olympia’s guns by forward turrets fire slow and deliberate,

Strikes Cristina’s forecastle knocks down cannons, arms decimate.

From Cavite’s shores, a torpedo boat steams out to attack

But a ready barrage of quick and crippling defense holds it back.

Olympia steams eastward, turns and passes the Spanish ships once more,

Swung around its gun turrets from port to starboard and starts to roar.

Rain of rapid-fire projectiles brings merciless death and destruction,

Thunder of shells splash geysers and flash utter conflagration;

Amid billows of thick, black smoke, belching guns, erupting geyser,

Burning Spanish ships drift out to the bay, but no sign of surrender.

The red and yellow flag flies above shattered, burning hulks still,

Their broadsides flashed back remaining shells with a defiant fighting will;

From the Spanish line limps out into the bay the Reina Cristina,

To surprise Dewey’s squadron and square off the Olympia?

Drawn for a duel, Cristina bares the target herself, cleared

The fire of many broadsides is lobbed at her; Montojo erred,

From bow to stern dark clouds of smoke, steam sputtering, shells bring distress,

Guns shot away; she turns backshore, retreats in pitiable duress.

The ship’s beyond control, riddled with shots, the mast, the smokestack, and hull,

Amidst the cries of the wounded, scuttle the crew and their admiral;

To abandon the sinking ship before the magazines explode,

Spanish ships rush to save the crew as many as they possibly could.

The pride of the Spanish armada withdraws in humbling defeat,

Hundred fifty dead, ninety wounded, the Cristina meets her fate;

With eighty wounded, helpless souls in the sickbay could not be saved

Let die heroes in her bosom her noble sons, their glory retrieved.

Three

I am sure my grandson learns many things about America in school. But I have to tell him how the Balangiga story fits into the history of our country and America.

As I narrate historical facts, he interrupts and sometimes corrects me, especially when I bungle dates and places. But the teachers probably don’t ask their students to discuss events or criticize accepted facts, a far more challenging task than just memory work. On the other hand, hindsight, the cliché goes, is twenty-twenty. For historians, second-guessing protagonists in history or criticizing their actions is easier to deal with than what those protagonists faced at the moment.

Ordinary men don’t make history, I said to George, it’s how men respond to events that make them remarkable people, influenced partly by self-determination and partly by luck.

America and war seem to come in a package. Justifiably, a powerful nation must invest much of its resources in securing the values and principles it holds so dearly, so no other country can mess around, whether within its boundaries or beyond. To become powerful, though, means to be drawn into every conflict around the world.

America is a nation on the North American continent, more than eight thousand miles from here. It is called the Estados Unidos de America, and its people are the Americanos; sometimes we call an Americano here Yanqui. The country is relatively young but ambitious. It is so big and wealthy. It does not have enough people to consume the products its people make. So America wants to go beyond its boundaries to influence the world. Its leaders believe in the doctrine that whoever controlled the seas ruled the world. This doctrine was like a mantra that echoed the ambitions of the Europeans like the British, the Spanish, the Portuguese, the Dutch, the French, and others. Colonizing remote places was the rite of passage for an empire. When Cuba rebelled against the Spanish colonizers, America was drawn into its war for Independence. The battleship Maine was sunk in the Havana harbor. The Americans were quick to blame the Spanish for what it claimed was sabotage.

When the Spanish-American war started, an Asiatic fleet in Hong Kong was ready for dispatch to another Spanish colony in Asia, the Philippines. The Americans under Commodore Dewey—he became Admiral later—took our country from the Spaniards after a short but fierce battle in Manila Bay on the First of May 1898.

Many of us Filipinos were jubilant, almost euphoric. Some proud and preening even celebrated the villainous Spanish defeat. We thought the Americans helped General Aguinaldo in our fight for Independence from Spain. The hope and anticipation came in a hurried declaration of our Independence led by the generalissimo in less than two months. It was the 12th of June 1898, in his hometown of Kawit, Cavite. We were free at last. Or so we thought.

Why? What happened? my grandson asks.

It was not meant to be. The Spanish surrendered the whole country to the Americans, who could not pass up the opportunity to become a new world power. Because of its location at the doorstep of China and Japan, our country was too enticing as a trading post. In the treaty of Paris, the Americans bought our islands for $20 million from Spain. So clearly, the Americans would not pay that much money if they were just to let us go free.

Why should America pay that much money to Spain when Spain surrendered? he asks.

Well, maybe some sort of reparations, since the Spanish lost many lives and properties, and the Americans didn’t lose anything except for one soldier from heatstroke.

Doesn’t the loser pay reparations to compensate loses of the victor? he retorts smugly.

Ergo, America bought the Philippines from Spain.

Did Aguinaldo know about what was going on?

Maybe, not. Why would he declare Independence?

Maybe, he was given assurances by the Commodore, and his President later rebuked the Commodore.

It is a matter of speculation now. Anyway, in short order, Aguinaldo became a fugitive. Our revolutionaries became ‘insurrectos’. The Americans were after us. We were obliged to pledge loyalty to them. Whoever defied the rule could be shot without question. That was what they called General Order One Hundred of 1863.

How could you fight the Americans? You could not defeat the Spaniards who lost to the Americans.

"That’s true. Let me tell you. I had misgivings about Aguinaldo. After receiving his end of the deal from the Pact of Biak-na-Bato, he left with thirty-four of his close associates for exile in Hong Kong. He turned over more than a thousand firearms to the Spanish Governor De Rivera. Yes, they were rusty, old, and obsolete. Some said the rifles were tied together so they wouldn’t come apart. Others who knew how to use them didn’t because they were dangerous. Firing them would kill the shooter, not the target. But these firearms at best represented some sort of military equipment, if